Love and Yellow Teeth

My wife left me recently, and took my daughter with her. It was an emotional time all round. I had not long since arrived back from my holiday in Morocco when we received a phone call that left my wife with no other option but to go.

Her mum died suddenly after suffering a massive stroke. She hadn't been well, but at 66 was still young. Zimbabwe, the land of wife's birth, though, is currently a difficult enough place to live in, far less be ill in, never mind have to die in.

Within 24 hours of getting the call Toni and Kumali were off to Zimbabwe. Kumali was very philosophical, as only a child can be, when she was told she was going to Zimbabwe with her Mama.

"Are we going to see Ya-ya*? *Granny in Ndebele

"No, sweetheart. Ya-ya has gone to the angels and we're going to say good-bye."

"Oh, do you mean she's died?"

"Yes, that's right. Ya-ya has died."

"I love Ya-ya. I'll miss her."

Despite the multiple difficulties involved in trying to navigate everyday life in Zimbabwe the funeral took place without a hitch. It was a sombre affair for the few surviving members of Toni's family who attended. Many have long since gone to other countries as part of the economic diaspora; many others have gone the same way as Daphne.

Toni and Kumali spent 3 weeks in Bulawayo in total. Kumali was in her element. She loved playing with her 2 big cousins, Kimberley and Russell, and their 2 dogs, as well as being (weather and space) able to play outdoors for hours on end in the garden. She also met many other people who first met her 4 years ago as a 10 month-old baby, and did lots of other wonderful things, like see lions being fed and help feed monkeys and deer at Chipangali Wildlife Orphange.

Toni helped her brother, Conrad, start the process of going through their mother's affairs and estate. She also found time to chill out, taking stock of Zimbabwe and the passing of her mother, following her father's death just over 7 years ago.

One of the most philosophical of people I know when it comes to death, Toni felt at ease at her mother's passing. That was no surprise, what was a surprise was to hear her say she nearly phoned and told me to pack up and come over and join them.

She has spent 6 years out of Africa, ten out of Zimbabwe, 4 of those years having being spent in Scotland and England. 85+% unemployment, inflation out of control (£1 worth Z$15m on arrival and Z$35m on departure - and they've already taken 3 '0's off the currency), food, power and petrol as scarce as gold, disease, violence and intimidation ... the negatives go on. And all that going on hand-in-hand with the complete collapse of around 10 million people into desperation. Despite all that Toni'd rather be there than in the 'United Kingdom.' Food for thought.

Kumali would love to live in Zimbabwe. She loved her time there. As always when we are apart for more than 2 0r 3 days she has 'changed' during our absence from one another. A new development, edge, side, complexity, character trait, et al.

She's come back noticing my physical failings more than before, or not being afraid to mention them. The best line of all to remind me of my own gradual demise?

"Papa, you've got yellow teeth. But I still love you."

Dogs on heat, cats on pizza and bees back in town

I have just returned from a holiday to Morocco, via Spain. The idea was to drive through Spain and into Morocco, then head for the Atlas mountains. The VW Syncro camper van my friend Andrew and I were travelling in had other ideas. It broke down outside Granada, leaving us no option but to be towed to Malaga where we spent 4 days trying to get the engine fixed. On day 5 the prognosis was that a new engine was required. Arrangements were made and we then set off for Morocco on foot, time and Atlas mountain plans severely hampered.

Bummer. But it wasn't all bad.

Being stuck in the heart of the Costa del Sol coastline comes a close second to my idea of ultimate hell - being stuck in Las Vegas. But by taking the attitude that we were determined to make the most of the situation and stay positive, all was not lost.

As two British men with mixed race African partners, our partners are cousins, and each with a mixed race daughter, also cousins, we felt relaxed about observing and commenting on the many wonderful mixed race combinations that thrive in harmony in southern Spain. Being fathers to ladies in waiting, we were particularly interested in the many female beauties of mixed race that proliferate in the region. All research strictly from a father/daughter perspective!

The other bonus in Spain was the warmth and kindness bestowed on us by the locals. We were aided by Fedde, an aeroplane mechanic with good English who has a passion for VW camper vans. He took us to the workshop where he spends his free time rebuilding cars, and the owners, Paco sen and Paco jnr, made us feel like family. They catered for our every need with grace and courtesy and went out of their way to help get the engine fixed. Paco jnr also introduced us to his 15 cats and let us help him feed them their daily dose of pizza.

I've never spent time in Spain with Spanish people before, or needed their help and assistance. I can't fault them. The Spaniards we encountered were kind, witty and caring. What a marvellous race of people. I love Spain and Spaniards.

Not having the camper van, and with less time, options to explore Morocco were reduced. We opted to stay in Chefchaouen, on the edge of the Rif mountains, and explored the countryside around and about every day. The Rif seem to get overlooked as the Atlas mountains dwarf them, and because it is the region where all of Morocco's cannabis is grown. Sure, we saw plenty 'kif' growing boldly yet privately, and got a tour of a farm by the owner, a former French teacher. But we also walked and drove through endless beautiful scenery of hills, rivers and valleys and could easily have stayed for much longer without leaving the region.

Thanks to the openness of the Moroccans we learned a lot about the country, too. While being slowly surrounded by what I though were wasps as I sipped on my sweet mint tea and tried to remain calm, I was relieved to the point of spraying my mouthful of tea all over the place when I was told they were actually bees. I had been at the point of dropping my tea and bolting as Moroccan bees look just like British wasps and my nerve was cracking. Of all the many things I learned, that was the most personally satisfying facts.

The bees had been killed off by a tree spraying regime a few years ago, but they were making a comeback and that was something for all Moroccans to rejoice. Bees are important to all humans for their ability to pollinate, but especially important to Moroccans as honey is a staple of their diet.

I also witnessed the 5 times a day call to prayer for the first time, and experienced watching a football match (Champions League Final) in a bar full of men of all ages without a drop of alcohol being consumed. A far less intimidating experience, and, ironically enough, a very sobering one.

And the food! Tangines, keftas, cous-cous, yogurt, honey, fresh orange juice .... all of it wonderful, wonderful food.

I've heard places like Fez and Marakesh can be a hustle and hassle too far, and while I'd like to visit them when I return to Morocco, as I surely will, I'm glad to have missed out this time round. I got an easy, gentle introduction into life Morocco style where basically everyone is happy so long as they are huckling you and getting you to part with your money. A little for everyone makes life far less complex! Yet I still got stung several times, every time I made a purchase probably.

And why not? Moroccans are fascinating, Moroccan men anyway, I never spoke to one Moroccan female. They are bold and brassy, proud and sure. They and their country captivated me, charmed me and convinced me to return again one day.

Food Shortages Make Me Sick

The media is full of stories of rising food prices and the possibility of tens, if not hundreds, of millions of people around the world facing severe hunger and possible starvation as a result.

The reason given for the rising prices is food shortages. Food shortages? Who is anyone kidding? Does anyone genuinely believe that there is a shortage of food on planet earth?

In the last house they lived in, my parents had a small apple tree. Every year they would make apple jam, jelly, pies, cakes, tarts, juice: anything they could think of to use up the apples. They gave apples away, took them to the local donkey sanctuary for feed. No matter what they made and did with the apples, they could never use them all up. From one small tree.

In the little village I called home when I lived in Portugal every garden had half a dozen orange trees. Everyone who lived in the village was overdosing on vitamin c, yet the ground around the trees were littered with fallen, rotting oranges that no-one could use. It was the same in every village I visited.

Nature is abundant and naturally provides vast quantities of all kinds of foods.

Then there is the grotesque wastage of food from cafes, bars, restaurants, supermarkets and homes throughout the more than plentiful world, where the only thing that is scarce is a sense of decency and morality.

Of course you can't parcel up all the wasted food from those that have far too much and post it to those who are starving to death. But you can be under no illusion that the only reason people go hungry is because of politics and economics: it's got nothing to do with scarcity.

It all smacks of a global agenda to push the unreal food industry that make genetically modified seeds and plants, etc. If a few million of the world's poorest people have to suffer and die, so be it. The planet is awash with humans like never before, life is cheap and the poor are easily expendable. Nothing stands in the way of global corporations and their agendas.

It's enough to make me sick?

Saints Alive

Last week, on Wednesday 23 April, the nation of England celebrated St George's Day. At Kumali's nursery the children were all asked to come in wearing red and white clothing, and they spent the day drawing and learning about castles, dragons and knights in shiny armour atop horses.

Now, despite being born and bred up the road in Scotland, I had no real objection to this show of Englishness. After all my parents are both London born and bred, and I like to think I am more mature these days when it comes to issues of nationality. As the Scots would say, "We're a' Jock Tamson's bairns." Loosely translated: one race, the human race.

But I decided to do a bit of checking into St George, and the other saints of the British Isles.

It turns out St George may not even have existed at all, and he almost certainly never slayed any dragon . If he was real, he was at best Turkish and was brought to England's attention by the Crusaders. Bottom line is he had nothing whatsoever to do with England.

I don't gloat writing that. St Andrew, Scotland's patron saint, had no links with Scotland. He was, allegedly, one of Jesus's apostles and his death inspired the national flag of Scotland, the Saltire, as he felt unworthy being crucified in the same way as Jesus so asked for a diagonal cross.

Ireland's saint, Patrick, was born in Scotland, lived in England and was imprisoned by the Irish! Only my own favourite, Saint David, the Welsh patron saint had any real connection with Wales. A man after my own heart, St David's last words were apparently, "Do the little things in life."

So what are all these saints about, why are they celebrated and isn't about time they, in line with all else in the world today, were updated and modernised? A Dr Ian Bradley, reader in practical theology and church history at St Andrew's University, thinks so. He is campaigning for the adoption of a new saint to unite the British Isles, and the man he has in line is St Aidan, Apostle of Northumbria.

Aidan was born in Ireland, educated in Scotland and lived in England, goes the argument, so he is representative of Britain. Except Wales!

None of it makes much sense to me, and in multi-cultural Britain, and bearing in mind the chances of us all being either Muslims or Taoists in the next 50 years, it seems we all need to be thinking a bit further out the box.

Tears For Zimbabwe

Having been fortunate enough to have lived in Zimbabwe, and even more fortunate to have married a beautiful Zimbabwean, I have more cause than most white British people to follow the fortunes of that amazing southern African country.

All too sadly the fortunes of Zimbabwe have been almost entirely trampled into the ground by the man who has presided over the country for the last 28 years. There was much that was wrong with the regime that Mugabe and his political party, Zanu PF, replaced back in 1980. But economically the country that was Rhodesia and became Zimbabwe was vibrant. One Zimbabwean dollar was worth one British pound and the country was able to feed it's people and export food to other African countries. And various other agricultural based products, most notably tobacco and flowers, also had a plentiful world market.

By the mid-90s you needed 20 Zim dollars to equal the value of one British pound. Fast forward to now and nobody really knows how many dollars make a pound. A loaf of bread alone, if you're lucky enough to be able to buy one, costs hundreds of thousands of dollars. Over 80% of the population don't have a job, life expectancy is pegged around 40, and every associated ill that comes with abject poverty is rife.

In the surreal parallel world of sickness that we currently inhabit, you can however dine on lobster, or any delicacy you fancy, in the five star hotels and restaurants in the capital Harare - providing you have the foreign currency to pay for it.

One man, and one man alone is responsible for the situation that Zimbabwe finds itself in. He blames white people with an all too familiar dogmatic, repetitive rhetoric. No question former colonial rulers have plenty to be ashamed of, but the ruin that is currently Zimbabwe is not of their making. The truth is clear, though.

You could talk for hours about the ills and woes of Robert Gabriel Mugabe and the way he 'rules', and I, and many others, have often in the past with family, friends and fellow Zimbabwe lovers. Suffice to say that I don't believe there are enough chemicals in existence that could be concocted into a drug strong enough to enable the 'president' to rest his weary, weary head at the end of each and every day. The greatest irony is that, aside from the fact he had long had no obvious issue with 'white people', Mugabe has become a caricuture of the worst embodiment of former white colonial rules in Africa.

The people of Zimbabwe have patiently and law abidingly used their electoral right to make it clear to Mugabe that his time is up over the last 3 or 4 elections going back 10 years. Most recently at the election 3 weeks ago that everyone is still waiting for clear results from. The man is not listening: he has made it clear, in words and actions, that as long as he is alive he doesn't intend to go anywhere or change anything.

Meanwhile the most vicious of Mugabe's tactics for maintaining power and control at all costs have long since been unleashed. Again, it is not worth pouring over it: it is all too familiar and predictable. Suffice it to say Mugabe is a man who has publicly stated many times that he has 'degrees in violence' and has no compunction about using them.

Until he dies, I can only see tears for 95% of the people of Zimbabwe and feel deep sadness for them, the countryside and the animals.

Planet, Or People, Facing Disaster?

I can't be the only one who is mystified to the point of cynical about the constant and plentiful written and spoken references to impending 'disaster for the planet' and the urgent need to 'save the planet.' It's not that I don't think, feel and know that the human race appears to be 'hell' bent on a one race race to do as much damage as possible to the planet in the shortest amount of time since our time began. Is anybody in any doubt about that?

It's just that the idea of 'planetary disaster' and the need to 'save the planet' seems to be missing the (very obvious) point. It's not only factually inaccurate, as far as I can tell, it's actually the greatest fallacy of modern times. And if that ain''t enough, the messages are largely falling on deaf ears and closed minds anyway.

Ultimately I'm an optimist (actually I'm more of a hopeful idealist) and I've lived long enough to have started to learn that nobody really knows much about anything at all - including, or especially, what will or won't happen in the future. But that's not my point. My point is: assuming the worst case scenario, who is actually facing disaster and therefore needing saved, the planet or the people on the planet?

I'm not a betting man, merely an occasional and amateur flutterer, but my money would be on planet earth to be around longer than the human race. As far as I can tell, the worst we can do is damage the planet up to the point where it is at least in danger of no longer being able to sustain human life. If or when that were to happen, commonsense, rather than scientific theory, tells me that it would then be the human race that was facing 'disaster' and not the planet.

Call me a naive old hippy. Tell me we're the human 'race', and the race may be about to end. Tell me anything in between. But don't try and tell me that the human race today are any less inclined to want to ensure the 'survival of the species' that at any other time in our existence. As far as I'm aware, the human race can't survive in isolation from the very thing that keeps us alive: planet earth and the atmosphere.

If that's the truth, then what's with the government and the media?

Meaning In The Message

I was sitting in a train station last week, minding my own business while waiting for a train.

There were two young teenage girls sitting across from me and an elderly man sitting two seats away from me. After a couple of minutes the two girls walked passed myself and the older man. As soon as they had passed, the man lent into my space and said, "Young girls today are asking for trouble, aren't they?"

In the second or two it took to turn and face this accuser I thought to myself, "No, why would he say that and what sort of sick bastard is he?" As I looked into his eyes, ready for a confrontation, he struck me as being a very gentle, caring person. I adjusted my frown to a sympathetic smile and my planned response to a far more accommodating, "I guess you could think that."

I hoped he would leave it at that, but he leaned back into my space, touched my arm and said, "I was accused of rape three years ago, you know." My shackles were back up. I decided I had been duped and the man must be bad news. Two questions came to mind: why had he chosen to engage with me on this topic and what was I going to do? I looked at him again. Again he looked kind and gentle, nonthreatening. "What happened?" I asked, drawing myself in.

"I was driving to Truro and a young girl stopped me and asked for a lift. I didn't see the harm in it, but next day the police were at my door because the girl had reported me for rape." As he recounted the story he didn't seem bitter or angry, sad if anything. I really felt he was a decent human being, but his opening gambit, aimed at two innocuous enough young girls, and now this revelation had me concerned that he was using me to offload his guilt on.

Even though I was expecting some sort of story of how the girl he gave a lift to was wearing a short skirt and low cut top so was practically gagging for it, I couldn't help but ask again, "What happened?" I added, to try and avoid the expected unsavoury detail, "Did it go to court?"

The old guy looked at me, smiled a wry smile and said, "No. I'm DSO"

He must have known what I was going to say next, he had drawn me in fine style so far, and I didn't disappoint him. "What's DSO?"

"I was in the army, fought in the war. DSO. It's an army term."

"What does it mean?"

"Dick Shot Off. I don't mean to embarrass you, but that's what happened. I couldn't have raped that lass if I'd wanted to. I've not got the equipment; haven't had since I was 23, I'm 88 now."

I was reeling a bit. It was a lot to take in in less than a minute worth of conversation with a total stranger. Accused of rape at 85 years of age after doing a kindly deed, having your dick shot off at the age of 23 while fighting in WWII ... the ramifications were stretching my mind.

"That's terrible.", was the best I could offer. Feeling the need, as I always do, to fill the silence I followed it up with, "So I take it you never married or had a family?"

The little, 88 year old man sitting before me smiled wryly again, then said, "No, I had a wife and child before that happened." What compelled me I don't know, perhaps the way he said the word 'had', but I asked if they were still alive. You just couldn't make it up.

"No, son. They died during the war. Our house was bombed by the Germans. My wife and son were inside it at the time. I was never told; only found out when I went back home on leave."

I think I was starting to go into a bit of mild shock. "I'm so sorry. That must have been devastating. What did you do, how did you cope?", I asked while imaging how I'd feel if I lost my wife and daughter in circumstances like that: in any circumstances.

"It's alright son.", he calmly assured me, "It was a long time ago now. I went back to war to fight the Germans with ferocity, then ended up DSO. My parents looked after me for a long time, then I looked after them. Now it's just me."

People tell me I wear my heart of my sleeve, I think I wear it on my face. As I tried to take in what had happened to this man as a youngster, to comprehend how he had coped with it throughout his life, to imagine how broken I'd be, he must have seen the pain and anguish in my expression. He lent over again, squeezed my arm, smiled and said, "It's okay, son. Just make sure you have a good life." Then he got up and wandered off.

I sat for a good while after he'd gone: eyes bulging, head nodding, mind racing.

The Times They May Be A Changing

In amongst all the days of cold, wind and rain last week there was one warm, dry day. An ideal opportunity to take Kumali to the park after nursery to run around with exuberance and reconnect with the outside world after days indoors avoiding the weather. Always a good plan.

Not surprisingly a lot of other children and their parents had the same plan. The Bowly Park was jam packed with children, adults, bikes and balls. The only available play item was the slide to Kumali and I headed to that; not as good as the swings, but better than the see-saw.

Around the back of the slide, near the steps, a young boy of no more than four was lying on the grass, clutching a football, sobbing. His dad was near by, trying to coax him gently to get up and head for the car because it was time to go home. The wee lad was having none of it and he 'lost it' just as Kumali started to climb the steps on the slide.

He started telling his dad to 'get lost', 'shut up' and 'go away.' Then he screamed out, while he beat the ground with his clenched fists, "My life is boring. I never do anything. Watch telly, play on the computer. That's all I ever do. I WANT TO BE OUTSIDE."

Kumali nearly fell off the edge of the slide as she had reached the top step without looking, transfixed as she'd been by the little chaps outburst. I never noticed as I was staring at him too. But I couldn't help feeling better about the future of the human race afterwards.

If that wasn't enough positive affirmation for one day, I bought by weekly copy of The Big Issue and read an article in it about a youth court in one of the toughest neighbourhoods in Washington DC that started in 1996 and today deals with 70% of all non-violent crime committed by young first time offenders in the city.

The scheme's founder, Edgar Cahn, explains, "This is kids talking sense to kids ... every juror on the panel is a former offender who as part of their own sentence must spend 10 weeks on jury duty ... 'bad kids' are now doing more to reduce crime than the police, the prosecutors and the defence attorneys."

Now Cahn's an economist, so his scheme works because it's based on 'financial' reward. For every hour a child spends on jury they earn a 'time dollar.' When/if they build up enough they can trade them in for recycled computers, a gift certificate, etc. People, mainly, enjoy goals, challenges and something to aim for: a purpose and a reward.

It all sounds good, hopeful and uplifting to me!

If Less Is More, Why Is There More & More?

No-one seems to know for sure where the phrase 'less is more' originated. It doesn't really matter all that much. What matters is that it's a cheeky little number as far as phrases go: it gets you thinking. And the more you think about the concept of less being more, the more (not less) it makes sense on a number of levels. So it's not only short and sweet, it's also deep and meaningful.

It has become quite the trendy statement to apply to any and all manner of things, from make-up to aid to poverty stricken countries. I got a lovely example of the simplistic beauty and truth behind the statement, 'less is more' when I had a couple of puffs on a joint for the first time in over a month.

For the best part of 15 years I was a habitual, almost everyday smoker of cannabis. Sometimes from mornings through till night, sometimes just at night. Once the first one had been lit there would be a joint every couple of hours at least, and every hour or less at most.

Over the last six years or so I have smoked dope less often and, therefore, in less quantity to the point where these days it is an occasional treat. Yesterday was one such occasional treat. I think I had four draws on a natural (as opposed to skunk) grass joint. A lovely sensation came over me: I felt happy, chatty and at peace - all the best hallmarks of a cannabis 'hit'. The effects lasted for a good four hours. I didn't have any more than four puffs of the joint, that's less than a quarter of it.

I used to easily smoke two joints all myself, one after the other!! Less IS more. All things in moderation, is another way of saying it.

Of course the temptation is then there to have more. That's where self-control comes into the equation: discipline - of the mind and emotions, not of the body with a whip and lots of black latex! Discipline's the key.

It has to be, otherwise how do you explain that while almost everyone universally agrees that less is more, and can give at least one profound personal example to validate the point, we live in a world where the vast majority of people just want more and more?

Bikes, Gears, Action!

I own a mountain bike that I'm rather proud of. Well I'm happy with it, at least. I won it in a competition about eight years ago. I didn't use it all that much until I sold my car a year and more ago. It still looks new and works like new, too.

It's got 15 gears in all. That's enough for me. You can probably buy bikes with, oh, 4000 gears by now. Bikes with automatic gears that change constantly in relation to the speed you go at and the type of terrain you are cycling on. Well technology moves so faassst now, it wouldn't surprise me.

I'm no fan of technology. I don't see it as any kind of progress. I do use it though, although minimally compared to many/most people. But I'd appreciate a bike with automatic gears.

You see although it's quite simple to operate the gears on my bike, I can't seem to get it right. The gears are operated from the handlebars: left-hand down to operate the front three cogs and go faster (like revving up a motorbike), right-hand up to operate the back five cogs and go faster. The opposite process applies for slowing down and stopping, so the gears are in position to make it easy to start and speed up again.

Simple. Not for me. I keep losing momentum at crucial moments, and falling over from a standing position because I'm in 15th gear instead 1st! What an admission.

Come on the technologist who is working on automatic bikes: faster, faster!

The Great Recycling Myth

"I do recycling." Have you heard someone say that recently? Maybe you yourself have uttered the words, or ones similar. There always appears to be a mild tinge of righteous indignation in the tone. As if all is well in the world, at least their world, because some paper, tins and plastic bottles are not lumped in with all the other rubbish. They're separated and then put out for collection. Once collected they will then be sent for recycling. Job done, relax, feel good about yourself.

But it doesn't really constitute 'recycling', does it? And how many of those self-satisfied recyclers are aware that you ought to try to reduce and reuse your waste first, before even getting to recycling? Come to that, how many 'I'm doing my best to limit environmental destruction because I recycle' adherees have the first idea what happens to their recycle-able waste after it has been picked-up?

Hhhmmm! Tricky one. Why, it's recycled, of course!

But where, how, and at what further cost to a fragile planet already groaning loudly under the strain of human pimping, pillaging and prostituting of its resources?

Over 90% of all waste collected for recycling is bought by commodity brokers, packed into empty storage containers and then shipped all the way out to China. Why China? Wouldn't it make more, most, sense to carry out the recycling process locally? Well, erm, yes. But nothing is recycled for reasons of sense: only for reasons of business. That's why commodity brokers buy the paper, tin and plastic: it's a commodity. And it's sent to China to fill the hundreds of empty cargo ships that are returning there after unloading all the Chinese made goods the West seemingly can't get enough of. It's business. Ships returning empty cost more to business than ships returning full.

Okay, so it's hardly environmentally sound to ship all that paper, plastic and tin out to China, then ship it all back to Britain, (especially as the shipping industry is the only unregulated transport industry, so the cheapest, most polluting fuel can be, and is, used) but at least it's all being recycled. Right? Wrong.

Less than 10% of the waste sent to China for recycling is actually processed into a usable product. The vast majority of it is stored in massive warehouses awaiting some uncertain future: a bit like the wealthy masses in cities.

Happy recycling. Glad you're doing your bit.

You're Having A Laugh, Aren't You?

It was only a few short blogs ago I wrote of blue skies and a sun that could burn your skin. It was true, I didn't imagine it. But it didn't last long!

The winter clothes are back at the front of the wardrobe and the sandals have remained unworn. My daughter's beautiful paint job on my toe nails is only being admired by me, her and Toni (the wife/mother).

Still, I have no doubt the blue skies and hot sun will be back for a prolonged period sooner rather than later. They both still make intermittent appearances just now ... but not for long enough to be able to claim "Here comes summer."

Ah well, you've got to laugh ... and hopefully audiences will be this coming Thursday, Friday and Saturday when I am part of a live comedy showcase. Now that all the performers are getting to know each other better, as well as the scripts, it is shaping up to be a very funny show.

Spit Roasted Heart

Any ceremony has the potential to positively affect the recipient who is the focus of the ceremonial proceedings. A birth day party is effectively a 'ceremony', and it is a perfect example of such an occasion.

Kumali had a 4th birth day party in Berwick-Upon-Tweed last Sunday. With her British grandparents, and several cousins and aunties, British and African, Kumali was celebrated with love and devotion by all in attendance.

It was a magical day, topping off a superb five day trip up north catching up with some family, friends and former work mates.

On the long drive back to Falmouth, I was sitting in the back with Kumali. The girl was wide awake, despite the holiday schedule, and I was attempting to engage with her in order to quell her rising frustration at being stuck in a car. She had an air about her, a sense of approval. She was no longer 3: now she is 4.

"What did you enjoy most about your whole trip?", I proffered.

"Cousin Josef's computer game," she replied without missing a beat.

"And why?"

"Because the man says," she then paused, composed herself, turned to look at me with her best menacing stare, before booming out in an equally menacing voice, "I'm going to roast your heart on a spit."

Her face burst into one of delighted surprise and mischief as quickly as she computed the, albeit disguised, look of initial shock on my face.

Welcome to the world of my now 4 year old!!

Here Comes The Summer

Aahhhh ...

Skies that are cloudless and blue, a sun that could burn your skin.

Windows open, washing hung outside dry in an afternoon.

T-shirts to the front of the wardrobe, jumpers to the back.

Sandals polished ready for wearing, Kumali deciding what colour she's going to paint my toenails.

Okay, there's still a chill crisp to the air ... but ... a smile on my face and scarcely a care in the world.

Happy daze in Falmouth is back again ... aahhhh!

Do Be So Sensitive!

And all these years I thought it was because I'm a Virgo! You know the traits: particular; critical; precise, et cetera, et cetera.

Now I know different. I'm what's known as a highly sensitive person. It isn't a case of 'don't be so sensitive' anymore. I can't help being sensitive. I'm actually hotwired to be sensitive.

If I had a pound for every time someone has said to me in the past, "Don't be so sensitive.", I'd be too busy sailing round the world in my luxury yacht to write this blog. So yes, I knew I was 'sensitive'. But I never really understood what that actually meant. Until now.

Being a highly sensitive person means having a nervous system that is more finely tuned to the subtleties of the senses. Basically, your brain processes information far more acutely and reflects on it far more deeply and for a far longer period than non-highly sensitive people.

Anywhere between 15-20% of the population are estimated to be highly sensitive: there's a self test that you can do. And there are degrees of high sensitivity, as there are with most all things. So you could be moderately highly sensitive, or extremely, and anything in between. I think I'm somewhere in between!

Being highly sensitive means you are more likely to get ovestimulated, stressed out and overwhelmed. Often mistaken for being 'touchy', 'tempremental', or simply a 'pain in the f*cking *rse', actually highly sensitive people are nothing of the kind! And it doesn't mean you are introverted or inhibited. You can be, and I am, extroverted and uninhibted.

What it does mean is that you are highly tuned in to ALL that is going on around and about you, and you think about it more and for longer. Not surprisingly, it can all get a bit much at times. Hence getting overstimulated, stressed out and overwhelmed.

It is said being highly sensitive is NOT a curse. The biggest problem is realising and then accepting that you are highly sensitive. Then you have to understand what that means and make allowances for it in your life. That's where I'm at: early days, but I'm a fast learner!

It's not all bad: highly sensitive poeple are "often unusually creative and productive workers, attentive and thoughtful partners, and intellectually gifted individuals." (Elaine Aron).

It's not bad at all. I'd prefer not to be highly sensitive. But it's a large part of who I am, so I'm embracing it. It would, though, have been good to discover and understand all this at 13 rather than 43 - especially as I was born the youngest of 12! Overstimulating, overwhelming, stressing? Not much!

Ah, well: better late than never, eh?!

Ah, The Joy Of The Modern World

My broadband internet connection was down for just over two weeks. No one at BT could tell me why, but they did keep apologising. Is that the latest in ultimate customer care? No matter how sh*t the service, how irate the customer, or how clueless the service provider is, keep apologising. And make every apology more profound and heartfelt than the last.

Anyway, it's been refreshing going into the local library for 30 minutes of free internet access, and also disturbing to realise how dependent on an internet connection I've become. We've all become!

The modern world, eh. Progress. Advancement. Last week I heard this snippet of a gem of a revealation masquerading as some idle chit-chat between two friends in WH Smith.

Woman A: "Oh, can you believe it's February already?"

Woman B: "No, and it Shrove Tuesday next week. Easter's going to be early."

Woman A: "I can't be bothered with that Shrove Tuesday. I've no time to be making pancakes."

Woman B: "I know what you mean. But listen, you can buy a pack of ready made ones from Tesco; all you have to do is stick them in the microwave. That's what I'm doing."

Woman A: "Really? Oh well, I could do the same. I might celebrate it after all. Thank God for Tesco. I wouldn't have the time otherwise."

And there was me thinking pancake mix takes minutes to make, pancakes take seconds to a cook, and Shrove Tuesday's about using up your rich ingredients before starting a diet of simple foods out of respect for some guy called Jesus who fasted completely for 40 days and nights!!

Candy, Shellby, or Cat?

I love cats. I love dogs, too. In fact I have a great love of many, many animals. Mainly mammals, it has to be said. Not that I've got anything against any other type of animal. I just prefer mammals.

Cats, though, I love more than all other animals. Not just 'domesticated' cats, (a term I would use loosely in relation to cats) all cats: small, medium and big. I admire, respect, and even revere, cats. I have done so from a very young age, and I have inculcated my daughter from an even younger age to also love cats.

We don't 'have' a cat, and I use that term, 'have', even more loosely. As I would the term 'own' when it comes to cats. I think most people know cats are not like dogs. Dogs you can own, cats you can't. Anyone in any doubt about that, in fact anyone in any doubt about cats full-stop, and there are lots of people who just don't understand cats, wants to read 'The Cat That Walked By Himself' by Rudyard Kipling.

The next door neighbours 'have' two cats. They've had them since they were kittens, the cats not the neighbours. Kumali and I have communed with both cats since we first met them. Felix has shown no great interest in us; Candy has.

Candy has taken to coming into our house at every available opportunity. We've taken to calling Candy 'Shellby'. The next door neighbours son can often be heard calling for Candy. We can often be heard saying to each other, 'We better wake her up and put her outside.'

We rarely do, and it is getting to the stage where Candy/Shellby spends most of it's time in our house. Candy/Shellby? She's a cat who walks by herself.

I think I might buy a copy of the Kipling's story for the boy who lives next door, before I break the news to him!

Poplitical Idol

What is with Americans and their presidential candidates? Do they really believe that by investing their utmost faith, hope and belief in one person that that one person will make everything okay in America and the rest of the world?

Am I the only person who squirms uncomfortably in front of the television, while trying to keep the vomit from hurtling up my throat and out of my mouth, as I watch footage of the 'race for the presidency'?

Aside from the millions of dollars being wasted to convince people to vote for 'Clinton', 'Obama', 'McCain', et al, what disturbs me most is the blind, unstinting faith that the American public appear to have for their chosen one.

How can anyone become so pop star fixated with people who are politicians? By the very nature of the beast, politicians need to be distrusted, suspected and treated with suspicion at all times. It is a grave error of judgement (and sanity) to fawn all over them, praise them, idolise them and worship them.

Anybody standing for any political office, or any position of power, ought to be interrogated, questioned exhaustively and tested over and over again to ensure that they have the integrity, intelligence and insight required for that office/position. And the more money they have to spend to convince you they are the person for the job the more they need to be interrogated, questioned and tested.