OH SHEET! I DIDN'T KNOW MY HEADS FROM MY BOTTOMS.

This letter is to warn unsuspecting Landlubbers about the pitfalls of going yachting.

Being nautically challenged I was dazzled by Ron's passion for ocean going yachts when I met him fourteen years ago. It all seemed so dashing and romantic. That is until a tanned man in R1000.00 Docksiders and a gleam in his eye proudly asked us to accompany him on his yacht's maiden jaunt in case anything went wrong because “Ron knows all the ropes”. It wasn't only the boat's first time and I was horrified. Having survived an hour of pure terror let me pass on my valuable experiences:

1.    The yacht is supposed to tilt at a crazy angle with one side rail often under the water. This is not due to a structural fault and you are probably not about to die (except maybe of fright).

2.    Yachties (both the wealthy “Snotty Yachties” and the struggling “Grotty Yachties”) have a secret language to make outsiders feel inferior. They have artfully swapped normal English words around:

            * Sheets: Not a swear word, nor found on the beds. They are not even the sails, but refer       

              to the confusing mess of  ropes  that control the sails.

            * Shrouds: Don't panic. People are seldom buried at sea from a yacht. Not sails either!    
             These are the thin, inadequate steel string things that hold up the masts and are 
              essential to your survival. (One of these snapped and they all laughed their heads off).

            * Galley is not a hold full of despairing, sweating slaves chained to their benches     
              who row in time to a bare chested he-man who beats a drum. It's just a teeny tiny    
              excuse for a kitchen.

            * Bottoms is not the term for the loo (which also tilts at 45 degrees so don't drink       
              anything for a day before your trip). Can you believe they call it the heads??!

            * Poopdeck is not the loo either, and they didn't have to roar with laughter like that.     
              How was I supposed to know?

*Port is not a blessed place to land at last. Nor is it a much needed drink to bolster your courage. Starboard has nothing to do with Hollywood, celestial bodies or navigation. These two plus Lee have some mysterious directional meaning. (My dyslexic man doesn't know which “left” you mean when driving but never confuses his nautical directions????)

3.    Seasickness is a terrible malady that makes you wish you were dead before the trip is over. Unsympathetic Yachties think it's a big laugh and joke about the uninitiated calling “Hugh”, “Norah” and “Ralf” over the side.

4.    If a monstrously huge tanker hoots five times at you, you are in BIG dwang. You are also about to be run down ….  to disappear into the annals of those Missing At Sea, Dave Jones Locker and just plain DEAD.

5.    When, weeping with relief, you at last jump onto dry land be forewarned! Mother Earth will betray you by heaving and churning under your spaghetti legs for hours after the cursed vessel has left you life. Even your bed will roll and float.

6.    Snotty Yachties can be identified by their huge overdrafts, the pristine appearance of their yachts, and the matching suitably boatish uniforms of their crew. They can be found drinking G&Ts while safely moored and they seldom get to go to sea.

7.    Grotty Yachties live on their half built boats in the boat builders' yard, sharing a truly awful  ablution block. They dutifully urinate on any half built steel hulls because this causes them to rust and that is a GOOD THING. They wear dirty cut-off jeans and bare their manly chests. They sit on their hulls and drink beer. They seldom get to go to sea.

What a relief when my man turned his back on the call of the ocean and took to playing the mandolin professionally. He now lead the sensible conventional life of a deaf musician who plays by ear, files the tips of his fingers down with sandpaper and sings Finiculi Finicula in his sleep.

NEW USHAKA AIRPORT

The airport is open! After all the controversy between the conservationists and the developers we are now living with these huge machines thundering overhead at regular intervals. Some people are rubbing their hands gleefully and counting unhatched chickens. Others are talking about moving out of the area. 

Back at Parkesville the cup runneth over. Every time a jet roars over our pondokkie, my man rushes out to gaze, enraptured. This has led to taps being left on, cats being kicked and dogs being tripped over. Unfortunately, he expects me to drop all to enjoy the magic with him. Apologies to the neighbours if they see this old lady cavorting around in nighty and bare feet. His husbandship saw the first huge plane's trial run the other day and has been excitedly telling everyone that he experienced  A Moment In History.

His idea of fun is to take me to dawdle (hours!) over a cuppa at the airport while he waxes poetic about each and every plane, burbling up all kinds of highly suspect technical details. He misinterprets my glassy-eyed stare as awestruck admiration. Actually, I know that I know that I know that those huge hotels with wings cannot possibly take off and fly -  or land without plummeting into the new runway and leaving a gigantic crater. When, with a surge of tremendous energy, they soar into the air, I start doubting my grasp of reality. I feel compelled to say a prayer for each planeload of passengers and am afraid to miss one and thereby be responsible for a catastrophe. Hence the glassy-eyes.

So while my man thoroughly enjoys every hour of our (cold) cuppa, I stress and carry a huge weight of responsibility on my shoulders. (I have a similar problem with bikers. Every time we see one I ask for an angel to be sent to protect him. By now a large squadron of angels have become bikers. I wonder if they don leathers and helmets?)

Oh well, if you can't beat them, join them. however, I absolutely refuse to wear those aviators' goggles!

SHOCKING NEWS OF DANGEROUS DRUG EASILY AVAILABLE LOCALLY

Acting on the advice of cat lovers, I bought a Catnip plant at my favourite plant centre.

In my defence I must stress that I was told it makes cats “feel good” if one  sprinkles some leaves on their bed. I plead ignorance and mitigating circumstances.  I really did not know I was experimenting with such a dangerous, mind altering substance.

The first inmate to investigate the new plant was Toffee, a placid, benign marshmallow of a cat. He pensively nibbled a leaf, sighed blissfully and sat with his face buried in the bush. So far so good!

Next to arrive on the scene of crime was Gentleman Jim, a comparatively sane and dignified (pompous?) feline. After a thorough investigation he swatted Toffee out of the way and proceeded to rub his face all over the bush.

The infamous Mammakat soon got rid of Jim and stood guard over the herb, not allowing animal or human near. So far - not too bad.

Mad Bad Leroy Black (the baddest cat in the whole damn shack) made his usual dramatic entrance, loudly announcing, “You lucky people, I have arrived. Feeeeed me!” He froze as he caught a whiff of the animal cannabis. He stalked over on stiff legs, scattering cats left right and centre, and dived in. He threw four legs around the bag and rolled all over the garden, gleefully kicking the bag to pieces. The hapless plant shed leaves wherever it went and the other four cats (including shy Jet Black) started writhing on their backs in the scattered debris.

Insanity is not a pretty sight. With much courageous help from my man who was armed with a broom, I eventually managed to wrestle the plant away from Mad Bad without losing too many digits. All five continued to wriggle in the war zone while I planted the sad remains of my new plant.

The last I saw was a dismal twig bravely trying to grow while five cats sat around it daring each other to take one teeny step nearer.

I now live in fear: have caught my man eyeing the Catnip thoughtfully. If he splashes out in a red Speedo, starts wriggling his hips, smashing mandolins and  playing heavy metal music at his gigs I will dig that blasted plant up and burn it!

ROACH HORROR

Not being an hysterical type I have often caught live poisonous snakes to prevent their being killed, and am regularly called upon to pick up hopping frogs or hissing chameleons etc.  I do this with panache and style. I have never been guilty of jumping on the table and screaming at the sight of a mouse.

The one exception to the rule is the dreaded cockroach.  It's the way they scuttle and scurry. For some reason they strike me speechless with terror.

Having had an extensive private library in his youth, my man has a lot of well loved books that  he has  lugged from pillar to post for years. When we  bought our pondokkie the first thing he did was to build three walls of floor to ceiling bookcases. Out came the by now yellowed and worm-eaten books and they were lovingly placed on the shelves, classified according to size rather than subject. And there they stayed undisturbed for six years while we read library books.

This week, all unsuspecting, I innocently took down a book. Horror upon horrors: there was a huge cockroach wriggling under my hand. Keeping my mouth shut I screamed through my nose and stomped on the monster. Yuck!  After covering various cages and aquariums and catching six cats and throwing them outside I gleefully sprayed roach poison all along a row of books, muttering murderous incantations.

Stephen King is tame compared to what happened next. Dozens of roaches started to pour out from between Churchill and Shakespeare. They scuttled up Jane Austin and glared at me from behind Keats and Shelley. As they reached the top they started to fall (leap?) off as more and more of their revolting cousins kept appearing. Soon they were also scuttling all around the floor, and over my feet.

The hackneyed phrase “shivers up my back” is incorrect. Your whole skin crawls and shimmers up and down. I kept squealing with my mouth shut and jumping all over as they ran towards me. Thankfully, they started to flop over on their backs just before they managed to carry me off.

I badly needed to get to the kitchen to fetch the dust pan but was afraid to run the gauntlet to the door. Eventually I swept up many pans of corpses and tried to flush them down the loo. Big mistake! They float! No matter how many times you flush they stay. What's more they revived and started to crawl up the inside of the loo. I flushed frantically, humming shrilly.

Worse still, not having the bucks to call in Robbie, our local intrepid dragon slayer, I have another three walls of books to de-roach. I am so aware of what lurks behind the pages of history, drama and art.  Beatrix Potter would roll in her grave if she knew what un-cute little creatures were between the pages of her charming stories. Nightmare on Elm Street revisited!

Procrastination reigns: the flesh is willing but the spirit is terrified!

Now I jump and the shivers start at the slightest rustling sound. Hysteria lurks just under the surface.  I can't sleep and feel on the verge of a panic attack. Of course Ron keeps tickling me and saying, “Scuttle, scuttle!!”.

I am seriously contemplating taking to drink while I plan Ron's painful demise.

The Bonny Hills of Maidstone

Thirty years ago Ron learnt to play the bagpipes. Mercifully he had sold them before we met so I could quite safely commiserate with him when he longed to play Scotland the Brave. Imagine my man with his build (nickname was Rang because he was hairy and built like an Orang-utan) with his looooong hair, shaggy moustache and monocle (yes!) marching up and down in a kilt?!

Recently he met an old piper friend looking very dapper in his dashing Scottish outfit, and Ron's love for all that is Scottish has been rekindled. Out came the practice chanter he had kept hidden all these years.

He demanded a tot of gin (no whiskey in the house) to “blow through the pipe”. Does he think I was born yesterday?

The sound he produced defies description. The old joke that bagpipes sound like a cat being tortured doesn't half cover it. All six cats froze with looks of anguish on their faces: ears flat, eyes wide and hair on end. Gentleman Jim reversed into the kitchen and took refuge behind the fridge. Mad Bad Leroy Black (the baddest cat in the whole damn shack) attacked Jet who dived under the bed. Toffee walked in circles stressing and fussing, Mammakat gave Ron a long inscrutable look and CC the kitten wanted to play with this interesting new toy.

With watering eyes bulging, cheeks sucked in and sweat rolling in great drops down his red face, my hero struggled to remember his scales. Eventually, somewhere in the hazy mist of the cacophony, the ghost of Amazing Grace could be heard. Beaming with pride he asked me if I recognised it. Nastily I answered, “Yes, 'Happy Birthday' is it?” Wouldn't speak to me for hours.

In the evenings I love to sit in the garden and enjoy 'my' lake. Birds singing, sound of water running, my beloved cats playing at my feet, one purring on my lap. Peace reigns. Heaven.

Not any more! Ron now follows me out with his terrifying pipe to show me how well he has progressed. He happily assures me that the actual bagpipes (with bag) are much louder and more impressive.

Our kindly neighbour rushed over with a huge bag of litchis. I am not sure if it was a plea for mercy or a peace offering?

The six cats and I are seeking asylum. Anywhere bar Scotland!

PS. Come to think of it the old dear would look quite fetching in a kilt!