Mbare Market – located on the outskirts of Harare’s CBD, is the local One-Stop Shop where anything and everything can be bought, sold or exchanged. I have come with my money safely thrust into the pocket of my jeans. Although I have dressed down, I am decidedly out of my element here – absurdly suburban. No one seems to care or notice, except me, so I take a deep breath and push into the cacophony of chaos.

First are the piles of second hand clothes – donated for the needy, sold by the greedy. Next is the aptly named Jack Sparrow’s DVDs – on sale before the movie has even been released in the First World. I stop, astonished, in time to see that Jack Sparrow has a website and Facebook address too. For two dollars a DVD, I can purchase a fuzzy Brad Pitt.

Moving deeper into the heaving mass , I am engulfed by brand names like Nokie and Samtung, Guchi and Prado. I stumble upon exotic fish in tanks, perfectly incongruous next to car parts and plumbing wares. I imagine fish in porcelain toilet bowls, and move on before I lose myself in the sublimely ridiculous.

Next, I find superbly crafted Shona sculpture, intricate African beadwork, rich hues of polished wood, rustic pots and woven baskets, piles of bright batiks and toys made from empty coke tins and bits of wire – every piece has been lovingly crafted by hand. It is a recycling haven – discarded bottle tops are handbags, bits of old wire, toys.
Sadly, however, the crush of potential customers lingers around Jack Sparrow and the likes, and the craft market is deserted. The locals have no need of unnecessary trinkets, and the tourists are notable by their absence.

I wander through, followed by anxious artists who are clearly desperate to engage this sole customer of the day. “Let’s talk, Madam. I can give you a good deal, Madam. Buy two or three, Madam, and we can talk…” I wish I could buy something from all of them, but in the end, I buy nothing – confused by my own guilt.

I make my way slowly out through the final section – the food market. Here, small children wash vegetables in dirty puddles. Grain is sold by the tiny cupful out of large clay pots. I am embarrassed by the woman who smiles at me, gracefully balancing the small cup of grain on her head, as she rearranges the baby on her back and tugs at the hands of the other two toddlers at her side. No doubt this is dinner. Suddenly my deliberately dressed-down clothes feel too tight and I feel like a fish in a porcelain toilet bowl.

When people ask me about my home country, I am always deliberately positive.  I take great delight in pointing out that every country has its problems, and I take even more delight in dividing “What We’ve Heard” stories by about eleventy-seven and then putting them into context.  Nothing takes the wind out of sails as quickly as facts, presented clearly, with minimum hype or hysteria.

I get asked all the time about “How Things Really Are” in my country.  I get asked “Is It Safe?”, “Are The People Starving?”, “How Do You Even Live There?” etc.  It doesn’t stop there.  I also get told in no uncertain terms what they think about How Things Really Are.  I get told that It’s Not Safe and that I Am Crazy Staying Here.  And then I get the small sigh, the despondent shake of the head, the “It’s such a shame.  So sad.  Such a waste.  I feel sorry for you all.”  Most of those people pontificate safely from well beyond the borders of my country.  Vomit icon to the power of eleventy-seven.

There’s one group of people that doesn’t do this – American tourists.  (I know – I’m generalising.  I apologise in advance for any offense I may cause, but please take it in the spirit in which it is intended.)

American tourists on the whole (bless them) are spectacularly disinterested in the politics, history or current affairs of any country other than their own.  They are so refreshing, because they are simply here to Go On Safari, See The Big Five, Experience One of the Great Natural Wonders Of The Modern World.  They are not interested in Bond Dollars, or Potholes, or the Free-Falling Economy.  I’m not sure they even know which country they are actually in, because so many of them come to the Falls as part of a tour to South Africa, or Botswana, or Namibia.  What’s a border or two when you’re in Africa – it’s all basically the same place, right?

I love American tourists.  They are so enthusiastic, stopping the bus to admire each monkey, baboon and warthog they chance upon.  (They can never tell the difference between a monkey and a ba-boon, and anything they cannot identify is An Annelope.)  They exclaim loudly over every little bird, bug or beetle they see, and attribute human emotions and actions to everything.  “See that ele over there, Randy?  Isn’t he just the cutest?  Oh my goodness, Randy, he’s exposing himself, the naughty little guy.  That’s quite a dongle to dangle, I guess.  Hahaha – naughty little guy.”

They love everyone and talk (loudly) to everyone.  They call everyone by their first name, even when they can’t pronounce it.  “Sikhu-what?  Can I just call you Sikhu?  It sure is great to meet ya, Sikhu.”  And they simply assume that everyone speaks American.

Without a trace of guile or sarcasm, they ask questions like, “Does that come in pink?” as the poor curio vendor takes great pains to explain (in broken English) that elephants generally have black tail hairs, which is why the ele hair bangles most often come only in black, or perhaps a very dark brown.

American tourists listen intently and then they offer well-meaning advice on the fiscal advantages of having a range to choose from, and suggest the use of vegetable dyes and perhaps a touch of hemp seed or seaweed or oil of gibbetyflip, and recommend the latest Ted Talk they watched which was all about successful cottage-industries-gone-global in rural India.

The vendor nods enthusiastically, agrees to everything that is said, and convinces the delightful American tourist to buy a black one anyway.  He’ll have pink ones next time, he adds, helpfully.  The American tourist hands over real American Dollars, gives him a business card, writes down a link to the Ted Talk in question, and walks away with satisfaction evident across his face.  He’s happy, the vendor is happy, the world is a better place.

American tourists are wonderful.

If you don’t believe me, try being one for a day.  Take everything you see at absolute face value.  Enjoy the moment in this place we call home – that bird, this bug, that crazy ele with his dongle dangling out.  And when I say enjoy, I mean enter into it with every fibre of your being.  Be enthusiastic.  Laugh.  Be present in the moment.  Take photos.  Greet everyone by name, even if you have to make one up.  Shake hands with great gusto.  Repeat what people say for the benefit of others who may not have heard the first time.  “Did you hear that, Randy?  She’s a Blogger.  And she’s 4^th generation Zimbabwean, isn’t that fantastic?”

And it really is fantastic!  I love American tourists.

Thank you for coming to my country and not asking How Things Really Are.  Thank you for not telling me How They Really Are.  Thank you for just being here, and for bringing your American Dollars and your effervescent enthusiasm for everything you see.  Please come back, and bring more like you.  We need more like you, to help change The Way Things Really Are.  And I say that unreservedly, without a trace of sarcasm, or guile.

The vendor and I are going to start a range of Ele Hair Bangles in your honour.  With a choice of all the colours we can possibly find.  (Mostly black.  And dark brown.)  We’re going to call it Siyabonga.

(You won’t know what it means, but we do.)

Siyabonga, Randy.  It sure was great to meet ya!

A pothole here, a pothole there,
A pothole freakin’ everywhere.
Some are big, some are small
Some are barely there at all…
(Ok, ok, I see you’re tense,
I take it back – they’re all IMMENSE.)
They’re huge, gigantic and car-stopping,
They’re vast, colossal, simply whopping.
They lurk beneath the puddles and
Grab you with a sneaky hand,
They pull you in and bounce you out.
They make you swerve, they make you shout!
They sit there looking small and round
But they go miles and miles underground…
You see them coming, you dive and duck
You try not to, but Oh My Truck!
The language you suddenly spout
Really oughtn’t be bandied about.
It’s not polite, it’s said in heat
It simply isn’t at all discreet
In fact it’s pretty much X-rated
(I know, I know, you’re just frustrated.)
And then, kabong! – you hit your pip
And off you go again… blip blip.
And just as you are safely through,
A car comes swerving straight for you
You hoot, you glare, your shake your fist
You really are extremely…hissed.
And worst of all, the driver looming
Is shouting back and also fuming!
He’s looking mad, his temper’s hot
He’s also dodging a holey pot!
It really is desperately dire
We’re sunk, we’re doomed, we’re in the mire.
But wait! Hooray! Help’s on the way
I read it in the news today!
It has cheered me loads and loads
“The City mulls concrete roads”.
Hip hip hooray, calloo callay,
Concrete roads. What good luck!
No more to say but… Oh My Truck!

(http://www.herald.co.zw/bye-bye-to-potholes/)

People ask me What I Do, and I really don’t know how to answer that.

I write. But would I call myself a Writer? No way! A Writer makes a living out of writing. A Writer can throw a few ISBN numbers casually into conversations, or give you the name of their Publisher, or even give you a signed copy of their latest book. I could give you a signed copy of this, I suppose, but let’s face it, it would lack a certain…gravitas.

I run. Very slowly, and very haphazardly, and with little or no obvious signs of improvement year on year. But am I a Runner? Absolutely not! Runners are lithe, stringy creatures. They eat egg whites and talk about Fartleks without collapsing into a puerile fit of the giggles. They wear running shoes with names like Air Zoom Vomero. Mine may have been Air Zoom on the shelf, but now the only air zooming is through the holes where my big toes pop out, and Vomero is how I feel half way up Hogerty Hill.

I paint pictures. But I am so Not an Artist. Artists use something called Technique and Mixed Media. They know big words like Perspective and Vermillion. They too can give away signed works of art and casually mention their next Solo Exhibition. My pictures are more of the Pritt and Glitter persuasion. Nice, but not really Monet.

I cook. But am I a Cook? Definitely not. If a recipe is longer than 10 lines, I speed read through it, then make it up as I go along. Truffle Oil to me is something fat pink pigs extract from giant Lindt balls (keeps me amused for hours). Crudite is a foreign word for chopped carrot, and cilantro sounds like something dangerous and metallic. Don’t even get me started on Reductions and Coulis.

I am 44, married with 2 beautiful children, but does that mean I’m a Grown Up? Not even nearly! When people all around me are discussing Trump, and Brexit, and Bond Notes, I’m sitting there thinking, “How do they know all this stuff??” I keep waiting for that moment of elucidation when I’ll be a Real Grown Up and will know exactly what to say about Everything, including the really boring bits that I normally skip over in a paragraph, because, seriously, who needs details? And that moment never seems to come. Frankly, Grown Up conversation bores me. I’d rather be drawing fairies or visiting the Magic Faraway Tree. I’d rather be climbing out of a wardrobe into Narnia.

So, here’s what I learned in 2016:

I suffer from something called Imposter Syndrome. Wikipedia says:

Impostor syndrome (also known as impostor phenomenon or fraud syndrome) is a concept describing individuals who are marked by an inability to internalize their accomplishments and a persistent fear of being exposed as a “fraud”.

And, as 2017 begins to speed by, I finally know the answer to the question about What I Do. I commit fraud. Daily.

I knew you had perfect hearing way before you were born, because you used to jump inside my tummy at loud noises.

You got hiccups often (you still do) and sometimes they’d be so bad that holding a cup of tea was dangerous, as my tummy hiccupped with you.

When you smiled for the first time, I couldn’t imagine anything more beautiful, and when you giggled, it was as though a million tiny bells tinkled through the universe.

I lost whole hours just lying on the carpet with you, listening to those tiny bells.

You could run before you could walk! People think that’s just an old saying, but it had to come from somewhere. Patience has never been one of your things, so you used speed to propel yourself forward, and didn’t bother with the first bit – standing up, getting your balance, observing your environment, before you launched off into the great divide. You just went! (You still do.)

Do you remember the day we saw the fairies? Whirling and twirling high, high up in the sky. Magical. Perfect.

You were always active, brave, daring. There were times when I had to close my eyes because I was so scared you would fall, or hurt yourself, or that something terrible would happen. It never did, but I worried just the same.

Your first word wasn’t mum or dad, or anything predictable. Your first word was shouted at full volume across the garden, “THUG!!”. You were calling Thug, our little Jack Russell. Except you couldn’t say “th” yet – you said “f”, and you couldn’t say “g” – you said “c”. I have to say, it was an interesting first word…!!

You slept between us in our bed for nearly 4 whole years! (Terrible parenting. Setting an awful example.) But when your little hand snuggled into mine and we played the game where I pressed your hand, and you pressed mine back, we were in a world all of our own, communicating though no one could see it. Just as we did when you were still a hiccup inside my tummy. (I’d do it all over again – in spite of what the books say.)

And I know you don’t realise it, but you are still my baby. I still feel your little hand in mine, playing the pressing game. I still notice your hiccups – you still get them often.

I still catch a glimpse of that little face, especially when you’re sleeping. And every now and again I hear the universe tinkling when you forget yourself, and really laugh.

I still close my eyes when I am worried about you getting hurt. Not so much these days because of roller skates or jungle gyms, but because of all the other things I know lie in wait.

Love, and heart break, failure, losing friends, finding new ones, finding your way, becoming who you are meant to be, growing aware of a reality that is not perfect, realising that some things don’t just get better with a kiss and a plaster, fast cars and dangerous places, finding the strength to set boundaries, knowing you can say no…

I think of all those things and I just want to curl you up on the pillow beside me, I want to hold your hand and press away all those things, silently let you know that I am here, I will always be here, I will always worry and I will always love you.

I know you find me smothering and annoying. I know I’m not cool, and you’d rather be messaging. I know you think I don’t understand.

But I loved you when you were just a hiccup! I loved you even when your first word was a rude one! And I love you in the same way now.

So when you get into the car without saying hello, or grab your toast without saying thank you, or put your earphones in and pretend you don’t know that I am trying to have a conversation, or roll your eyes skywards when I frustrate you – I want you to know that I love you anyway.

I loved you first.

I’ll love you always.

And I will always believe in those fairies, even though you aren’t quite sure now – you will be again, one day.

Because you are my daughter – and you are magical. Perfect.

As you all already know, being the New Gal is not one of my strong points. This extends to many facets of life and boils down to one essential point – I don’t like not knowing what I am doing.

Close your eyes and think about the words “Spa” and “Massage”. No doubt you are seeing glossy magazines, the dratted Nivea Girl, edible-sounding scrubs (names like Mango Infused Sea Salt Satin Wrap with Pomegranate and Patchouli Essence), rubs, wraps, soaks…you’re probably hearing the calming sound of waves breaking on a pristine beach, the haunting cry of mating whales…you’re feeling sensual oils and soothing hands…

Blah blah and so on.

I too, pictured all those things. Who wouldn’t, faced with the constant onslaught of Nivea Girls and Perfect Flora Families? The problem does not lie in what I pictured.

The problem lies in my habitual fear of not knowing what I am doing.

So – here’s how those two words shaped up for me. I arrived at the Spa, parked (uncertainly, looking nervously over my shoulder for the habitual Disapproving Guard/Gardener/Nivea Girl/Gal Who Came Last Time) then made my way (uncertainly) towards the entrance.

Now, I don’t know if it’s just me, but The Entrance is always a pretty big ordeal. Most obviously because, if you’ve never been to the place before, you simply do not know where It is. And for the most part, It is never obvious! And there is nothing more embarrassing (apart from the odd Water Cooler Incident, or Yoga Mat Location, or Conversation From The Bath…ok, there are a lot of embarrassing moments out there, but today I’m on the Spa Blog, so I’ll stick to that)…

Anyway, as I was saying – there is nothing more embarrassing than walking (with a confident I-Know-Exactly-Where-I’m-Going air, inspired by Nivea Girls and too many self-help articles) into:

a) A broom cupboard
b) A glass door…that is closed.
c) The Wrong Entrance

Now, in case you are wondering, I have done all 3 on various occasions, in various states of sobriety, under various different circumstances. What links them all is the abject feeling of “Oh no. Oh drat. Oh dear. Oh rats. Oh &*^%$” when you realize that:

a) You’re in the broom cupboard
b) You are coming round, surrounded by Gals who Came Last Time and strange little birds tweeting in circles over your head
c) You have inadvertently walked in on
i. A Full Body Massage (Not yours)
ii. A room full of Nivea Girls in white tunics and eyelash extensions, crowded around the water cooler, exchanging gossip (presumably about Yoga and The Girl who Ran Over Enzo)
iii. The toilet
Etc and so on, I think you get the picture.

In this instance, happily, the first door I tried was not made of glass and was well and truly locked, preventing any disastrous results. Admittedly there were a few Nivea Eyelash Extensions who made surreptitious note of my first failed attempt, sitting (prettily) inside the (very clearly marked, as it turns out) Reception, peering (beautifully) out on my confident I-Know-Exactly-Where-I’m-Going attack on the door (to the garage).

I mean, seriously, why is it that people just sit and watch while you blatantly do The Wrong Thing? Why don’t they jump up (prettily) and say (helpfully) “This way, madam” or something ?? Why don’t they cough discreetly or hiccup politely to get your attention? It’s like having spinach in your teeth. No one ever tells you!

Anyway, I digress. To get back to the point, I finally made it to the (very clearly signposted but who notices faced with the trauma of being the new gal in Nivea-Infested surrounds??) Reception where I dutifully announced my name in a clear, ringing tone of confident assurance…(ok, ok, I bleated it rather sheepishly, but you weren’t there so I can embellish a bit).

Now, if you’re a gal who came last time, you generally know a few essential facts, like:
a) Who is doing your treatment
b) What your treatment actually is
c) Which of the 5 Nivea Girls at the desk is actually the correct one to address when bleating your name in a stridently sheepish manner.

It turns out that the Nivea Girl I randomly picked to make my announcement to was, in fact, the cleaner (something that under less…er…traumatic conditions I may have been alerted to, given the mop in her hand and the eau de windowlene about her) and so I was forced to turn brazenly to my next choice and make my confession again, “Bleat, bleat, bleat.”

Long story short, they eventually worked out who I was and what I was there for. Which was pretty good going, considering I still haven’t quite got to the bottom of either of those issues myself.

And so I found myself filling out a form full of complicated questions like:
a) What do you hope to get out of your Treatment today?
b) Is your lifestyle active, moderate or sedentary?
c) What is your usual beauty routine?
Well, to those of you who have followed my blogs, you will know that such existentially obscure questions should really not be posed to me, as a general rule. I am simply not very good at the answers, even under the very safest conditions (at home, in my bed, sucking my thumb and reading a book). And as I have already explained, I am not at my best (to put it mildly) when I don’t know what I am doing…

So here is what I answered:
a) What do I hope to get out of my Treatment today? Uh…a massage. Duh!
b) My lifestyle is none of your business. I mean, these are the days of 50 shades of Anything and when you look at it like that, the question doesn’t really bear THINKING about, let alone answering, so I am not going to tell you.
c) My Usual Beauty Routine. Um…does peering manically into my compact muttering “Mirror mirror in my bag, please tell me I’m not a hag…” count?

I finally handed it in, fully expecting it to be marked. Happily no one even read it. I know this because I got asked the same questions all over again in The Massage Room, along with some that hadn’t even been on the original exam like what my Drinking Habits were and whether I like it Hard or Soft. At this point I was beginning to hyperventilate sheepishly.

So 20 minutes into my appointment and I was finally following Nivea Girl No 4 up the stairs and into a darkened room…I kid you not. It was 9:20 am outside, but inside it was permanently Twilight. I looked furtively around for vampires, and was met with an eerie howl…(Ok, that was the iPod doing its Mating Whale thing, but when you’ve never been to a place before…well, I’m just saying…)

So there I was, in the dark, peering around myopically and trying to adjust my eyes to the gloom, when it suddenly occurred to me that Nivea No 4 was looking at me expectantly. I looked back in my best What’s Eating You fashion, but eventually (after about 3 seconds) my nerve failed me and I bleated miserably… “Bleehh, bleehh, whaa..?” or something like that.

What I was trying to say, without actually saying it, was “What the £$%@ am I supposed to do now?” Because, of course, I had no idea. In principle, I knew that a massage involved oils and stuff, mashed banana maybe with the odd lashings of sea salt or who knew what…or is that a facial? Anyway, suffice it to say – I was clueless.

So there I was, standing there fully clothed, with shoes on, still reeling from my existential battle with the Entrance Exam, in the dark, with whales mating, and Nivea No 4 waiting…She eventually blinked, showed me an operating table, told me to take everything off, and left me.

Now I know most of you have probably had a million massages (or even 1 or 2), and you’ve probably been to millions of spas and read plenty of self-help articles on Massage Protocols. But I haven’t.

And I am also not very good at whipping my clothes off in a relaxed manner and settling myself down comfortably down on an operating table in a strange, twilight room, with whales mating above my head. I know that sounds silly, but there it is.

I am a prude. I am also inordinately concerned about things like grey underwear and cellulite, not to mention where to hang my bra and what sort of conversation one is expected to strike up with Nivea No 4 whilst lying with one’s face in a hole, naked. I mean, it’s just not really my idea of relaxation, no matter how I look at it. But, as most of you will know, I am not one to make my concerns known out loud. I tend to watch and wait and hope to eventually work things out, hopefully without too much catastrophe…

So there I was, lying face down with my head in a hole, naked quivery bits all over the show, miserably staring at the floor and wishing I’d walked into the broom closet and stayed there when there was a discreet tap at the door and Someone walked in. I squeezed my eyes shut and prepared myself for whatever lay in store. Then it suddenly occurred to me that I didn’t actually know who had just walked in, and that I was head down in a hole, and that this was not the most elegant position in which to be discovered in the (highly likely) event of another New Gal getting the Wrong Door…

Thankfully, it was Nivea No 4. Or at least I think it was. She had purple toenails. In any case, even if it wasn’t Nivea No 4, she set to work with a purpose and a vengeance that was terrifying.

I mean, why on earth do ordinary human beings go around propagating the myth of a relaxing massage?? It is a complete fabrication. Massage is NOT relaxing. It is a terrifying experience. It is full of awkward moments and psychologically traumatic events. Quite apart from the indignity of being face down and naked, it is quite simply *&^%ing sore. It is interspersed with ungainly grunts and abject squeals of pain. What in heck is relaxing about being embarrassed, uncomfortable and in pain????

And as for those of you Gals Who Came Last Time, who claim to “fall asleep” during a massage…I quite simply do not believe you. The only thing close to sleep that I experienced was the real time nightmare I was in. Gloomy room, mating whales, excruciating ministrations of The Purple Toed Monster…it was like something out of Harry Potter on Steroids.

Needless to say, I did not voice any of this to Nivea No 4. I lay obediently with my head in a hole, biting down with all my might on my lip to prevent too many unladylike emissions. I cried real tears, which dripped forlornly onto the floor, narrowly missing the purple toenails. I counted to 43 950. Twice. I counted the stars I was seeing. I counted my blessings. I counted the seconds until I could get out of there.

I can just about work out why one would subject oneself voluntarily to a massage in the first place. I mean, we have already discussed the media hype and the mental picture blah blah etc. So that bit I get. What I don’t get, and can’t for the life of me work out, is why one would ever in a million years go back for another one??

But when I shakily got up off that operating table (big red ring around my face), located my bra and sheepishly escaped from the Twilight Zone…get this…I THANKED Nivea No 4. I really did. I said “Thank you so much. That was lovely.” Seriously. That’s what I said. And when she suggested that I book for a follow up session, I said “Oh yes please, that would be lovely.”

And it clicked – THAT’s why people go back a second time.

There is an annual phenomenon in the town where I live called The Wine Festival. Tickets go on sale about 4 months before the event, and about 2 hours before they go on sale, they are sold out. Which is a convoluted way of saying that unless you Know Someone, or Are Known by Someone, or Know Something About Someone that Someone Else Ought Not To Know – you don’t get tickets. It’s really that simple.

In case you haven’t been before (because you were out of the country or washing your hair or at your Mother’s Great-Aunt’s Cat’s 100th Birthday Party, and NOT – Heaven Forbid – because you couldn’t get tickets), here are some well-tested pointers.

Always check the Dress Code. Because there always is one. And it is never simple. Bright White With A Touch Of Citrus may sound simple enough. And may even look simple enough. But, take it from one who knows – this seemingly innocuous kind of dress code is not something you want to be tackling 10 minutes before you are due to get into the car.

For a start, it involves Adjectives. If you don’t believe me, get out every bit of white clothing you possess and have a very careful look at it. I can pretty much guarantee that, unless you are a Nurse or a CSI Forensics Person or a Nun or a Choir Boy (in which case the Wine Fest is not for you anyway), the word “Bright” will be a stumbling block. Creamy-white, off-white, grey-white, sort-of-white, used-to-be-white, should-be-white and not-quite-white are there in great abundance. But “Bright” white??

And you need to bear in mind that you are going to a do where roughly 750 people will be vying for about 7.5 porta-loos. You may think you are above such things, but believe me – sometime between the time you arrive (about noon) and the time you leave (about noon the next day) you are going to lower yourself (possibly literally) to avail yourself of these facilities. And when you do – you do not want to be wearing Bright White. You also do not want to be wearing an Indian Wrap Around Sarong-Trouser Thing which has to be unravelled and reravelled and untied and retied and deftly tucked and tweaked back into place. All the while balancing on one foot, avoiding the puddle (which gets bigger, but oddly less noticeable, the more the evening wears on), and clutching desperately onto your wine glass (more about this later, but trust me – you only get one, and It Matters). This is definitely one of those occasions when it does well to check the bottom of your shoe for trailing loo paper (or trailing other things – mercifully exponentially unidentifiable as time goes on) as you leave the facility.

So – back to The Glass. It is very simple: Remember to collect your glass at the door. And keep it with you at all times. It is The Only One You Get. People kill for less. (When you first arrive, you really have no excuse for forgetting what one is supposed to do at a wine festival – i.e. taste wine. This may become a bit hazy the further into the wine tent you proceed – but when you arrive – you’d be well advised to collect your glass).

I know you are not going to take this next bit of advice, but I will proffer it anyway. Before you take another step, locate the big barrel of mineral water, grab a bottle, and keep taking surreptitious slurps from it. Seriously. It helps enormously later when you are putting Your Name on A List. As I said, you will probably not heed me now, but alas – all things are clear in hindsight.

OK – so now you are ready to begin. I think the best bit of advice I can give at this point is this – do not be intimidated! Always remember that, excluding the people from the wineries (poor, genuine, highly qualified folk who really ought not to be exposed to our heathen masses), of the 750 odd people who are there, about 7.5 of them are authentic wine tasters.

The rest of us are most certainly also there for the wine. But not in the Connoisseur Sense. More in the I-Have-Paid-65-Dollars-For-My-Ticket-And-I-Am-Darn-Well-Going-To-Get-My-65-Dollars’-Worth Sense. Not that any of us will admit that, at The Entrance. When our Whites are still Bright and our Citrus is still Zesty. At this point, we are all still using words like Well-Rounded and Full-Bodied in reference to what is in our glass, and not in reference to what is in our fantasies. We are not trailing loo-paper and we are still standing up straight. We have not become mysteriously befuddled with the Later Conundrum which is – Sauvignon What??

The next bit of advice I can give you is this – if you are even vaguely interested in keeping up the appearance of a Serious Taster – head off as directly as possible to the stands whose wine you wish to sample, as soon as you arrive. Look neither right nor left and do NOT make eye contact. Because in this town, where 750 tickets sell out before they are on sale because of Who You Know – you can guarantee that Who You Know will be there. En masse. And if you so much as stop for a single second to talk to One of Them, you are doomed. You will end up tasting what they are tasting. And whatever is in the bottle next to it. And whatever the nice chap with the blue eyes is having, and then tasting something else that someone else is tasting. And then you will get them to taste what you’ve just tasted and…well, basically it all goes rapidly downhill from there.

So – if you are attempting to take this whole thing seriously – I reiterate – get the Real Wine Tasting done in a business-like manner, as quickly as possible. And make a mental, or even a written note (you will look seriously impressive if you rush around with a notepad…7.5 people will be impressed. The rest of us will either not notice, or will wonder where our notepad is and whether we have missed out on a complimentary gift somewhere along the line – $65 ticket and all that.)

And the last bit of advice I will give is this – beware of anyone brandishing A List. If you put your name down on A List, you will be Phoned at a later date, when you are sober and back in your grey-white and sensible shoes. And when the reality of 26 cases of wine that you have ordered (yes – ordered) somehow does not quite match up to the exuberant (if slightly incomprehensible) manner in which you ordered them. And when you are Phoned and you go in (like a rabbit caught in the headlights, terrified to face the reality of The Lists You Put Your Name On), they don’t check their list and say “Oh yes – hullo, Mrs So and So – now you ordered the XYZ Sauvignon What? And the ABC Chenin Blotto – here are your 428 bottles and that will be six thousand dollars, thank you.” (they do say the last bit, but only at the end).
No – they say – “Oh hullo Mrs So and So…sorry we don’t have our list at the moment. Can you remember which wine it was?”
And you say…”Ummmm…sort-of.”
(bearing in mind these are the people who set the Bright White theme – they are not really into sort-of)
And they say, “Oh Dear. Well – can you remember the Name of the Estate?”
And you say…”Errrr…not…exactly.”
And they say, “Well – perhaps you could tell us the type of wine, madam? Was it a Cabernet What?”
And you say…”Aaaah…I think…yes…I know…almost definitely…sort of…that it was a…What??”
And they say (helpfully), “Oh dear. Let me find the list, Mrs So And So”
(I mean – couldn’t they have done that at the start??)
And THEN – they come out, triumphantly, brandishing a bottle of Butiensomethingveryafrikaansandlong Buiten Blanc , and say, knowingly: “Ah…the Buitenwhatsitsomethingexpensive Buiten Blanc! Excellent choice, madam. Here are your 428 bottles and that will be six thousand dollars, thank you.”

And you walk away a bit bewildered. And somehow not sure that you did really get away with that 65 dollars’ worth of wine ticket, after all…

This is something I wrote in 2005…cheating a bit, but I am The Blogger, so I can do what I like!

As most of you will know, my son is a source of constant Blog material.  I just had to share Today’s Question:

“Mum…if you fall off a big slide and you break two bones…do you scream twice, or just once, really long?”

OK, OK. One-Mouse is In The House… (technically I have been here all along – but what can I say – blogging requires deliberation and inspiration, Followers. Not to mention a dearth of distractions such as mince pies and hat parties. But here I am. Back.)

Before I start, I want to thank all of you who have commented. Or at least, I want to thank all of you whose comments I have allowed to be published on my blog. (Haha – yes, The Blogger Decides!!)  If you have commented, and you do not appear on the list – then this is for you. (If you have commented and you do appear on the list – I LOVE you. Comment again. Become A Mouse Two.)

But if your comment does not appear – there is usually a Very Good Reason for that. I get at least 6 emails a day informing me that someone has commented on one or the other of my posts. That’s, like, 42 emails a week. Roughly 128 a month. (Ok – don’t check the maths – I already told you – it’s not one of my strong points). It would be lovely if they were all telling me how great One-Mouse is and offering me useful advice on how to Master The Art Of Being Permanently Divided in Two. But in 127 out of 128 cases, this is sadly not the case.

So I have devised a quick and efficient way of Weeding Out The Serious One-Mousers from the Seriously Deluded. It comprises 3 parts:

1. Do the words Sex, Toys, Fetish, Viagra or any other derivation/augmentation/devolution of, appear in the comment, the user name or the email address of the commentator?

2. Is the user name at least vaguely within the parameters of normality?

3. Is the comment in English? If yes – does it make sense?

This effectively renders unto the Trash Box at least 80% of all comments. For example, I get quite a few comments from jasin@sseeexx2012. I am sure he is someone’s son and therefore must have had some good points at some stage, but I just don’t really think it’s any of his business whether I wear pants or not. It is not a blog I have even written yet, so I feel the comment is little premature for a start. Delete Forever. (There is something quite therapeutic about Deleting Someone Forever.)

Then there is growtallerwithme who comments at least once a week. I have an issue with growtallerwithme because I know I am not exactly tall (not exactly even medium height either) but who says I want to growtallerwithyouor withanyoneatallforthatmatter? Perhaps I like being svelte and petite (ok – short and a bit chubby). And anyway, growtallerwithme, you have completely missed the point of any blog I have ever written. I do not impart knowledge! I do not provide facts or figures or anything useful at all. So don’t keep telling me “thanks to the writer coz I have found a lot good knowledge”. You have found a lot good nothing, dear. And you speak a lot good rubbish. And you cannot spell a lot good either. Send to Trash Permanently.

This brings me onto 3. Is the comment in English and does it make sense? I mean, seriously, downloadfreemovies – do you use a phrase-book to help you formulate your comments? “In essence, the story is, in point of fact, the greatest on this noteworthy topic. I agree with your inferences.” What is that? The Collins Guide To Totally Imprecise Commenting? I was writing about running over a DOG, downloadfreemovies! Which inference do you agree with, specifically?? Which part of I Nearly Squashed Enzo didn’t you understand, dear? Delete Forever.

So – as I said, the 3-point plan is fairly effective. But it is not entirely foolproof and certainly does not mean that what remains is safe to unleash upon you, my (real) followers. Take, for example, Celeste Wank (yes, I know, I know – missed that the first time) who “incontestably agrees with what I am saying and has been talking about this subject a lot lately with her father.” Well, I am not sure what Mr W. and his daughter actually do discuss, but I seriously doubt it is Yoga Part One – The Art Of Being New. It just doesn’t really seem to me to be discussion material. Whether you are called W. or not. Mark As Spam.

Traveloffers.com writes periodically to thank me for the superb analysis I have done on Advice from the Vet. That’s lovely. And totally inappropriate, which clearly shows you have not read a single iota of what I actually wrote! Mobilephonespy says my information is very useful and my research is invaluable. It is invaluable because it has no value at all, mobilephonespy. And, come to think of it – what is a mobile phone spy? Remind me to check my phone. Delete forever.

Oh, and thanks so much to those commenters who feel impelled to send me lovely little snippets of wisdom. “Cry for the moon” and “a leopard cannot change its spots” and “pet care is a big responsibility” (in fairness, at least that one was in response to The Dog Blog, so it had a modicum of relevance). I think it is lovely that you bothered to put in something that at least makes sense, but I deleted you forever anyway.

And as for Kip Reigle…Kip, my dear Kip. There ought to be a fate worse than Deleting Forever in your case. I like to think of myself as fairly easy-going and relaxed (ok – a slight exaggeration, but She Who Writes The Blog and all that) but you test me, Kip. You try my patience. In short – you make me feel like punching something. It’s not very nice to say mean things, Kip. “The next time I just read a blog, I am hoping that it doesn’t fail me as significantly as this place” is not a very nice thing to say. So I have Deleted You Forever, Marked You As Spam and Sent You To Trash Permanently. Don’t take it personally. But please don’t come back.

So, in conclusion, thank you for your comments.  I welcome them. I thrive on them. And if I don’t – I simply delete them. Forever.