The pros and cons of cycling

(I wanted to call it the ups and downs, but being in the Netherlands it would be more the flats and flats)

Pro: You get from A-B faster than walking (and public transport).
Con: I equal the time out by getting tangled in my locking mechanism.

Pro: It's a good way to warm up for hockey/football.
Con: It sucks to cycle home afterwards.

Pro: You can point and laugh at the suckers stuck in traffic as you sail past.
Con: The suckers stuck in traffic can point and laugh at you when it suddenly starts to rain.

Pro: It's safe. Bicycle paths and dedicated traffic lights mean you don't need to dodge cars.
Con: It still gets confusing as to which side of the road I should be on.

Pro: Drivers are assumed liable if a cyclist gets hit. No matter what the circumstances.
Con: Regardless of who'll be paying the medical fees, if you get hit by a car it's guaranteed that the vehicle won't be the one taken off in an ambulance.

Pro: Lots of fresh air gets the brain into gear on the way to work.
Con: Lots of fresh air usually comes in the form of very strong gusty wind. (Also, some bugger in a van insists on spritzing his windscreen wipers down the same stretch of road, at the same time every morning - resulting in a face full of watery cleaning agent for me. Fortunately I don't cycle with my mouth open any more. It used to be very unpleasant.)

Pro: I can cycle with my phone/mp3 player on.
Con: I still can't cycle while holding an umbrella.

Pro: My sixth/seventh hand bike is still considered 'new-ish'.
Con: Parts of it are held together (literally) by cellotape.

Um... that's all I can think of for now. I'm sure there'll be more. Actually haven't been able to do much cycling lately, what the lashing winds, heavy rain and wintry temperatures.

Frolicking around Europe

Oh my shattered poepstring, the game on Saturday nearly ended my heart. We did not drive to France just to watch SA lose to Tonga! On the upside, we were sitting in the chicken run seats in the corner of the tryline, just where Bobby Skinstad went over in spectacular fashion in the second half. This meant that we missed Steyn's punch up on the other side of the field - as apparently, did every TV cameraman. Did he bite Faka? I wonder. Of course, when Mah BOY Bryan was warming up in the same corner, right under our seats, I was in the queue for the toilet. Of course.

In other news, Mills managed to book us into the same hotel as the Tongan team, which was really cool. They're a charismatic bunch - even though they treated us to knowing nods and smiles when we crawled in (in full SA regalia) after the game... saying with out saying it... "we almost ended your team." I got my picture taken with the man of the match, Finau Maka. We cornered the poor bugger while he was requesting ice for a his black eye - I'm sure he was thrilled to be accosted by an enthusiastic South African, a Dane and an American (Mills hung behind, trying to pretend he wasn't with us). In the picture, I'm the one looking intimidated by the size of his biceps, and his hair. I know a good 'fro when I see one, bro.

Speaking of Bro... there were obviously lots of drunk SA fans on the town that evening. What a mess - mildly embarrassing when one dude from Centurian did the nation proud by drooling on our Texan acquaintance and having the following conversation with the Dane:

Dribbles: "ssshoooo... wheres you all from?"
Dane: "Denmark."
Dribbles: "wait... don tell me. Yous from Ireland."
Dane: "Nope. I'm still from Denmark."
Pause as Dribbles tries to absorb the information, drools a bit more. Conversation continues without him. Five minutes later...
Dribbles: "ssshoo where you from?"
Dane: "I'm sticking with Denmark."

Go SA.
Now... Barthelona:




Very cool city - awesome architecture. Can't say I knew much about this Gaudi dude before our arrival, but I'm sure he had real special recreational drugs at his parties. Enough sightseeing, here's something that you won't find on a walking tour:


The Catalonians have a tradition at Christmas. They like to hide a little Caganer character in amongst the shepherds, the angels and the three wise men. What's a Caganer, I hear you question? It's a figurine of a Crapper. A person taking a poo. The reason for this tradition is a little hazy.

You think I'm making this up? Read here. Suddenly, South Park's character "Mr Hanky the Christmas Poo" makes some sort of sense.

Finally: birds. Uncontrollable, all around the world.

And that's my life over the last two weeks. My job here is done. Now I need to download the 400-odd pictures onto facebook... Next on the list of priorities: get the Dutch computer working so I don't have to use Mills's laptop any more.

Time out

It's a tough life... just back from Barcelona. Hardly time to catch my breath or download pictures, because we're off to France this weekend to watch SA play Tonga. It's a tough life, but I'm prepared to do it.

Watch out for me on TV, I'll be the one trying to tackle "Mah BOY" Habana on the bench.

Tot strakjes!

Stomme idioot

I know I shouldn't, but I do. I judge her for being thick - the Sheltered South African kid. I know it's not her fault that she has no idea about the atrocities committed by South Africans on South Africans. I blame her upbringing - and the fact that she went to a school called Voortrekker High.

It irritates me beyond words when she tells people that all South Africans are sheltered and unworldly, but I don't argue, because that would be like screaming at a four-year-old for being naive. Most of the South Africans I know can at least name a country and point to its rough location on the map.... unlike Americans, Brits and even Aussies. When it comes to all-round education, Saffers tend to be leaps and bounds ahead of the western world - along with Eastern Europeans and Asians. First world countries tend to think that knowing the bus route to work is general knowledge.

I judge her because she judges her father for marrying an Indian lady 10 years ago. She thinks that once you choose to marry, you stick by that decision. Regardless. And the man is always right. Unless he's your father and has chosen an interracial second marriage.

She tells me how much she misses South Africa, but she can't go home because her boyfriend doesn't want her to go on holiday without him and he doesn't want to go to South Africa because he's been there before - once, when she went home to visit her mother, two years ago. It gets better. He's still studying, so she's the one working in the relationship. Yet he controls the finances and puts a pittance into her account as pocket money. I want to tell her to tell him to shove his opinion where it's dark and warm, but it's not my place and I bite my tongue.

She tries to include me in her ignorant opinions. Like, "I haven't watched South African rugby in the last five years, but don't you think we're going to lose against England?" No, you lobotomised goldfish, I think Bryan Habana is a god and I'm actually hopeful that we're going to do quite well. The Brit in our office is a betting man... and you know what, he's betting on SA to win on Friday. Any further idiot opinions at this stage?

Why don't I verbally attack this gullible and misled lump of charcoal?

Because I really think it would be like elbow-dropping a toddler, screaming "you like that, punk? HUH? DO YA?" I can't do it. And she sees me as her one link to South Africa, except that I actually get to visit South Africa and see my family when I choose to. So even though I want to grab her by her shoulders and shake her until I can see the veins bursting in her dull eyeballs, I tolerate her comments. I take deep breaths and let her idiot ramblings wash over me. Because I pity her.

Gawd, I feel so much better after this rant. Now I can face another day of the SSAK.

In other news, I walked a Japanese granny to her flat in the old-age centre this evening. I like to think this cancels out all my bitching in this post. And now I must go clean the fishbowl.

Sheltered

Sheltered example 1: I work with a lovely lady. She's white, South African and Afrikaans. She loves everything about South Africa and misses it dearly... and she is not the brightest member of the light brigade.

Over the weekend, she watched Cry Freedom, with Kevin Kline and Denzel Washington. Had I seen the movie, she asked me. Yes... I watched it at school. You know, when the teacher was too lazy to force us to pay attention in history.

You see, my colleague had never seen the movie. In fact, it upset her terribly because... and I quote... "did you know how the blacks were treated during Apartheid? It was horrible!"

Um, yes. Did you know that sometimes white people sleep with black people? I didn't actually ask her that, I don't think she could handle two shocking truths in one week. I suppose it's possible that she missed every episode of Carte Blanche, Special Assignment, Third Degree, all the BBC documentaries and CNN broadcasts (who never seem to show footage outside of Soweto). Maybe she didn't catch the few newspapers that covered the TRC hearings. I suppose it's possible to grow up in South Africa and not notice that Apartheid may have affected a few people.

Sheltered example 2: Metric Martyrs. First, I love the sentence, "his scales were confiscated and he earned a criminal conviction for selling a pound of bananas." Second - ounces, yards, miles... let it go. And yes... you were on the winning side (but noticeably NOT the winning factor) in a war 60 years ago. LET IT GO.

Princess day

For those who didn't get the memo (and are subsequently OFF the Christmas card list), last Thursday was my birthday - or Princess Day, as I prefer to call it.

I must say, turning 21 gets better every time I do it. Mills earned massive brownie points by paying attention and getting me the camera that I've been subtly hinting at ("see that one in the window... that one.. the Nikon D40... I want that camera... the Nikon D40. Are you writing this down?"). I honestly didn't expect to actually get it for my birthday, some money towards its purchase would've been nice - but receiving it on the day was even better!

At work, my work desk looked like a festive hazard zone, with birthday decorations, coloured chevron tape and balloons covering every square inch of work space. I got a huge bunch of flowers (complete with proteas - nice touch); a selection of Mama Africa curry and spices (because as much as the Dutch ran the spice trade, they certainly forgot to add any to their cuisine); and a BEEG bottle of Amarula.

How much more attention can a girl get on her fifth 21st birthday? Oh yes, and then Mills's parents arrived for a visit, bearing more gifts from my family, and took us out for celebratory supper.

Full princess treatment. No tiaras though - which is always disappointing.

Sorry about the lack of regular posting. I'm too busy being busy - and waiting for a new computer that actually works. What a novel idea.

To the god of gadgets

Dear Sir

I hope you and the latest model are keeping well.

Pleasantries dispensed with, I suppose you are wondering why I am contacting you in writing - as all my previous interaction has consisted of less-formal descriptions of the four-lettered kind. Well, dear Sir, you can crack open a bottle of lubricant or pump up the circuits - or whatever you crazy nuts are doing to celebrate these days - because I am writing to inform you of my surrender. I give up. You win.

I won't fight it any more. Like a petulant toddler, you have worn me down. I had long ago accepted that interaction with anything involving a power cable would be testing, but today you cracked me. In the battle of wills between good and evil, the dark side has won. I'm sure you and Darth Vader are having a good laugh.

You see, Mills and I bought a computer today. We just needed a standard desktop, check-email, upload-holiday-pics, computer. That's all. Walk into shop, point at computer, pay for computer, walk out.

But you know the story already, don't you? You know how it ends. Please tolerate me elaborating anyway. I need the cathartic therapy and I'm sure you'll enjoy reliving the moment.

We bought the computer - the PC, monitor, the keyboard and the mouse. It came in a big, prepackaged box from a reputable dealer, with a one-year warranty. We got the heavy box home on the bus on a Saturday afternoon (you must have enjoyed that viewing pleasure, you sick f...). Sorry, I'll control myself I promise.

Like I was saying, we got the computer home and read the English instructions (that was a nice touch... it gave us hope. False hope is always entertaining). We attached the monitor and the keyboard and the mouse to the computer and we turned it on. There was power on the screen for a second, followed by a "No signal" error and then nothing.

We tried again. Nothing. We admitted that we may have connected something incorrectly. We tried switching cords/plugs/power points and cables. We called the computer shop. The computer shop asked us if we had plugged in the computer. The computer shop transferred us to the central helpdesk. The central helpdesk told us that we would have to take the PC back into the shop.

Were you watching this the whole time or did you change the channel while we navigated the public transport back into town?

We got back to the computer shop and explained that our same-day purchased computer wasn't working. They set it up to have a look. Oh, this is where your beauty broke me, Your Perniciousness... the computer switched on without a problem. The artistry of your work almost reduced me to tears.

I particularly liked the touch of having your human minions patronise us. And we're foreign too. Pity we're not American, otherwise we would've had the full stupid label. Oh dear... you're not American are you? No offence meant, I've just always pictured you as a god of the Indian-persuasion.

Back on the bus and home again. Plugged in the monitor and the keyboard and the mouse to the computer. Low and behold, it worked! Again, the false hope was a tweak of perfection. The ups and downs of the emotional day have exhausted me, and I commend you for it. Masterful, truly masterful.

Now Mills and I sit and stare, dear Sir, because we don't have the energy to take the computer back to the computer shop to find out why we cannot change the working language from Dutch to English. Again, nice touch. Especially as we asked if it was possible to change the language selection, and were assured that it would be the first option on the installation process; especially as we phoned the helpdesk to point out that there was no such option; especially as the helpdesk got a second chance in one afternoon to check that we had plugged the computer in.

So now, bearing my pitiful capitulation in mind, please can you stop tormenting me? I am sorry that I thought I was stronger and more resilient than you. I am sorry for thinking that being human means that I am mightier than a computer. I am sorry for my arrogance.

You know all those times that I threatened to dropkick an appliance out of our second storey window? Well, I know that probably irked you somewhat. I apologise for that too.

Now, please... please... can you find someone else to mock for a while? I'd love to set up a computer and have it work on the first attempt. I'd love to be the person at work who does not call IT every single day because the computer has forgotten my profile. I would love to be the one on whom the train doors do not slam shut.

(I realise the latter may be an indirect request, but I'm guessing you're in touch with the god of public transport, so perhaps you could share this letter with him? It'll save me the postage and give you something to talk about at the next god-like social event.)

In short, Your Nefariousness... I'm tired.
Please can you cut me some slack?

Yours in miserable deference,
Twisted Koeksuster

Dit en dat

Following up on my "Who is gay in the world of rugby" theories... please see this story. Now, apparently, only real mean grab others by the crotch.

Then (and I hope you're reading this at lunch, because I was when I found it), please see this story to further educate yourself on foreign cuisine.

Koekmeister out.

Is it contagious?

They're dropping like flies. Every day, another falls. Every week, another announcement.

ENGAGED! ENGAGED! ENGAGED!

No, I'm not talking about the ladies' loos at a Justin Trousersnake concert. I'm talking about matrimonials.

I realise that in the conventional, orthodox, religious sense; marriage is important. No sex out of wedlock and all that. But in this day and age, what exactly is the point of marriage? I know there are also supposedly tax advantages. But tax is about as foreign an understanding as biochemistry is to me, so I ask again - what is the point?

There's also the argument that wedding illustrates the partnership. Matching rings on matching fingers, completing the set (like the salt and pepper cellars that dad bought my mom on their first anniversary... now there's a gift that'll live on in infamy for a loong, looong time). But you can get a set of his and hers toe rings without a marriage certificate. So what is the point?

The closest Mills and I have gotten to marriage and certificates is when we had to prove that we WEREN'T married (for relocation purposes). And there was the time that I thought he'd said, "marry me" when he was actually referring to his teammate - Murray Lee. That was an interesting conversation in a noisy and crowded pub.

I love the fact that my friends are getting married. I'm happy for them, and I'm really sorry that so far I've actually managed to miss most of the celebrations (being out of town and off the continent has put a dampener on the social circle). But I don't see why there is still an expectation for young couples to tie the knot.

Let's be honest... how many young couple unions end in divorce? Scarier than people my age getting married, is people my age getting divorced. Is it part of the growing curve? Get drunk, pass driver's license, try boinking, get married, get divorced, turn 30. Woo hoo!

Okay, not necessarily in that order, but I think I've made my point. Hmmm... do I have a point? What is the point? Oh yes. Marriage. Why?

I'm all for weddings though. Good fun. Two thumbs way up for that idea. It's true what they say. Every girl dreams of her wedding. The difference with me is that I don't think it's necessary to include a ceremony, a marriage certificate, or a groom for that matter.

I'm a simple girl. With simple dreams. I just want a party where I get to wear a special dress, eat a special cake. Where everybody brings presents and tells me how pretty I look in my tiara.

M.I.A.

It's been a while. I haven't had access to a computer at home, and I was keeping myself busy at work by completely destroying the internal network, culminating with a power failure on Friday. Okay, I can't back up those claims, but seeing that I was in the vicinity, I'm sure I had something to do with it.

In the last week, I have:
- attempted to consume already-eaten-and-discarded olive pips (it was semi-dark and what the hell were they doing in a bowl next to all the other snacks anyway?);
- almost broke my nose on the bus when sudden braking sent my precious face dangerously close to a pole;
- selected and attempted to try on clothing from the children's section. I was irritable and in a hurry and they were quite large children's clothes. Damnit.

Who am I? Where do I belong?

It's always been confusing being me. Growing up, I loved the music of the 60s and 70s, which meant that I completely missed out on what friends my age were actually listening too. To this day, when people talk about 80s and early-90s bands, I can't contribute.

Then there's my hair's era. My voluminous crowning glory belongs to the 80s, even if my music tastes don't. Unfortunately, I spent my teenage years in the 1990s, when everbody looked sleek and staight. Scraping my hair back and flat did nothing but look greasy from extensive product use.

Recently, I learnt that my body type belongs in the 1920s. Last night we went to a Flapper-themed party. (Flapper is the style of dress from the 1920s, for the uninitiated). I did some research on the fashion and learnt the following:

After the first world war (1914-18) when women's dress became more mannish, female clothes became looser and more shapeless in fit. The bust was suppressed, the waist disappeared, the shoulders became broader and hair shorter and shorter. Narrow boyish hips were preferred. The silhouette emphasised a flattened chest and womanly curves were eliminated as the line became more simplified. Foreheads were unfashionable in the 1920s.

No boobs. Check.

No waist. Check.

Boyish hips. Check.

I still have a forehead though. Doh.

Life would've been a bitch for Christina Ricci... there isn't a headpiece big enough.

The party was good. Not nearly enough Charlston dancing for my liking, but marching with about 50 flapper-styled expats through the streets of Rotterdam, in search of a late-night club is certainly a priceless (and probably once-off) experience.

Good times.

Let the games begin

Cycle 4km to hockey practise.
Run godknowshowfar up and down hills.
Get back to pitch. Warm up. (what the hell were we doing on those hills?)
Drills. Run. Jog. Run. Jog. Run.
Drills. Run. Dodge. Run. Shoot. Miss.
Game. Run. Run. Run.

Cycle home.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
Peer at bicycle in dark.
Prod back wheel.
Pfffff.
Ah.

Walk the rest of the way home.

Fun.

Kaalvoet

It's always good to know you're not on your own... this received in response to my biking-incident:

Koeks, it's impossible not to laugh at your stories! All I can see is Mills's arse sticking in the air with a bike between his...Well, you get what I'm saying!

Speaking of funny stories....did I tell you my shoe story?
Briefly (to avoid boredom):

Arrived in London for my first job
Got lost
Found correct bridge (of many)
Ran along bridge - and broke both my shoes
Threw both my shoes away
Arrived at work...no shoes
Met my boss...sweating, with no shoes
Went to the board meeting....no shoes
Was introduced to the CEO...again....shoes?
Told him he had to employ me 'cos I am a poor white girl from Africa.

Was splendid.

Must go - actually have work to do but again, briefly:

I HAD NO FREAKING SHOES ON!

D.U.I.

Mills and I have gotten pretty good at balancing on one bike. Besides that little kneecapping incident. Unfortunately last night proved that we have yet to master the drunken-biking balancing act.

After a civilised round of croquet in the park (which lasted over four hours, without anyone winning... we're that good) we moved on to not-so-civilised dinner in town. Mills and I were already on one bike, so when it came time to go home we went through the usual routine: Mills fired up the engines, I trotted along next to him and hopped on. No problem.

We travelled about 7metres and fell over.

It happened in slow motion. We were doing fine, when suddenly the vindictive hand of gravity reached up over my left shoulder and pulled. Technically, I don't know whether I was the one responsible for the lack of equilibrium, or if it was Mills who just couldn't handle the excess baggage.

I landed arse-first, with my feet in the air. Mills landed in a similar position, but on top of me, sandwiching the bike between us.

The indignity.

We walked home after that. Well, I stomped and Mills tried to keep up while wheeling/wobbling his bike behind me. Next time, maybe we'll take the bus.

RWC

Bring on the passion...

Continued

Last night, Mills and I were going through our joint budget (which he INSISTS that I should be in charge of, because I HAVE to learn how to budget. Pah.)

But, amazingly, the budgets and the bank balances do not... balance. So Mills was doing some reconciliation. He quickly learnt why the excel spreadsheet and the bank accounts don't match...

Mills: "You really are amazing at this. You've broken all my formulas."
Me: "Yes."
Mills: "How do you do it? All you have to do is fill in a number!"
Me: "It's a talent."

This evening, I asked Mills if I could use his computer. He trustingly allowed me control of the keyboard. Shortly after...

Me: "Miiiiiills.... it won't let me log on."
Exasperated boyfriend: "How do you do it, Koekie? How... do... you... do... it."

Right, must dash. I'm off to break something else.

Untold talent

I have a super-human power. You’ve heard of the Midas-touch? I’ve got the converse... commonly known as the Clutz-touch. If I come into contact with it, it will break. Sometimes my powers are so strong, it breaks on contact. On other occasions, it will take a few days for my power to crumble the resistant molecules.

In the last week:

The keyboard on my computer has switched keys. I don’t know how I did this. I was typing and suddenly I couldn’t find the question-mark key. I later learnt that it had been transported to where the hyphen key can usually be found. The @-sign has gone missing completely. I now have too many variations on apostrophes. I have no idea where the forward-slash key has been relocated. I can’t find it at all. It made punctuation tricky, but I soldiered on.

Then – the laptop stopped recognising the power cable altogether. As it was, it was functioning on a precarious connection with very limited battery-power. More than 3 seconds without electricity and it started beeping. Now it has progressed to not recognising the power cable, unless I’m holding it in place. The resultant one-handed typing (sans punctuation) killed my anal-retentive nerves. The computer was blessed with every combination of colourful swearwords I could muster and I am back to sharing a computer with Mills (much to his delight… especially with my Clutz-touch track record)

This weekend, I broke the fishbowl. This wasn’t an instantaneous reaction. I managed to crack the underside of the 30l-capacity bowl. Unaware, we refilled it and replaced it on its spot… on the TV cabinet. You can see this going horribly wrong, can’t you? Fortunately, I noticed the puddle of water forming underneath the bowl and we were able to avert a major crisis before the glass gave way completely. The fish look lovely in their new bucket-habitat though.

Finally, today… I was closing the window in our bedroom and I managed to break the window-maker-opener-thingie clean off its hinge. THIS I maintain was not my fault. The solid metal connection has literally crumbled. I am not that strong.

…Although, who truly knows the full might of my super-human power? If only I could harvest it into a bolt of pure energy directed from my fingertip. I could fry pigeons with a single gesture. That damn laptop would be the first to go up in flame, if I had a choice. The very thought of its destruction fills me with glee.

Overheard

I found a shoe sale this evening. €5 for every pair of shoes in the shop. The catch was that you had to FIND a matching pair. There were shoes in big tubs everywhere. No categorisation of sizes, colours, styles... nothing. Boots, sandals, slops, moccasins all in one messy barrel. If you can find a pair, you can have them.

It was proving to be a popular concept, dominated by frenzied women throwing discarded shoes over their shoulders like spilt salt. One lucky boy had been dragged into the middle of this mess. His girlfriend had located one shoe that she liked and was now scouring the shop for the other. He was assigned the impossible task of Cinderella's prince: find the set.

She was looking for a white, opened-toed shoe. I watched as she gave him specific instructions on the specimen... Left foot. Medium heel. Size 39.

He couldn't understand why she wasn't interested in what he thought were perfect matches:

"No... that's got an ankle strap. Can you see how this one only sits around the heel? Not the same."

"No. That one has a platform heel."

"No."

"No."

"No. That's cream, not white."

"No."

"Are you kidding?"

Poor bugger was doomed from the start. I eventually lost interest in that shop and went to a normal store where they sell shoes in matching sets - although it did cost me more money for the service.

ps. Freaky is pooing peas and doing much better. Swimming upright and all. Good sign.

Karma is a bitch

Just because I was bitching about good parenting, Karma reached out and zapped my children.

We came home to discover Freaky floating belly up in the fishbowl. Not moving a gill. Tentative tapping and prodding inspired him to attempt swimming... upside down and sideways.

A quick google proved productive:

Swim Bladder- Swim or air bladder problems sometimes occur in freshwater fish.
When the bladder is effected, the fish will experience equilibrium problems.

"Symptoms:
The fish has problems swimming correctly. Check.
They may appear to be standing on their head, or floating to the surface and struggling to go down to the bottom, or possibly even have problems removing themselves from the bottom. Check.
At the later stages of the disease, the fish could lose its balance and swim upside down. Yup... check.

Treatment:
There is no specific treatment for this dilemma [Awesome]; however, you can try isolating the fish to a quarantine tank in shallow water (this provides relief for the fish). Add one teaspoon of salt per gallon of water. Some individuals will feed thawed out frozen peas and this purges the fish's system and has been noted to help many fish."

Why am I sharing all of this information? Because after my rant about pampering to children's needs, I now find myself defrosting (and SHELLING) bloody frozen peas for my pet fish. Giving my goldfish the golden diet. The five-star treatment. Oh, and it's also quarantined in medicated water. I also - shock, horror - find myself negotiating, begging, pleading with the friggin' thing... "Come on Freaky... that's it. Bum topside... come on... you can do it. Nooooo, keep pumping those gills... don't die on me!"

I still maintain its being a hypochondriac, but Mills was pretty concerned about it so for peace I shall pander to its every need.

Next time, we're starting with plastic plants.

For godsake

I don't have children. There are two reasons for this... 1) I do not live in a house with suitable dungeon facilities 2) I would more likely eat any offspring than nurture them to maturity (to quote a friend).

Maternal, I am not. As I've mentioned before, I don't squeal when I see baby clothes. In fact (I was thinking about this during the umpteenth baby shower that I've had to attend in the last few weeks at work), I think my reaction is closer to that of a homophobic straight man stuck in the middle of a gay pride celebration.

...Get me out, get me out, get me out... just nod and smile, nod and smile... get me out, get me out...

So I will be the first to admit that I know very little about parenting. This is by choice. I block out conversations that involve pooping, puking, baby food and diapers (unless we're reminiscing about some of the more revolting stories to come out of varsity days).

But I do know one thing for sure... this woman is wrong.

I don't have children, but last time I checked, they're not likely to understand Machiavellian social mores debate...

"No Tristan, Mommy said you can't have the nice lady's hand bag."
"Why?"
"Because you're still counting your age in months and the bag belongs to her."
"Why."
"First, allow me to validate your feelings... I know you like the bag. But the way society works is that she paid for the bag, the bag is therefore hers. We need to look at this from a pragmatic point of view, sweetie..."

Or, alternatively, a swift smack to the back of the hands to get the message across that pawing other people's possessions is not cool.

Scenario Two:

Unrestrained toddler sets off at pace towards busy intersection. Old-school parent grabs child's hand, smacks child on diapered bum, enforcing the instruction that road + cars = danger.

Unrestrained toddler sets off at pace towards busy intersection. New-age parent trots along next to child, expressing their heart-felt reasons for why child should not set foot on the road, but at the same time reinforcing their support in any decision that the child chooses to take. Three-year-old meets eighteen-wheeler truck = messy.

But hey, what do I know.... the only children I choose to care for are two fat goldfish. I would smack them for swimming in their own poo, but I don't like the way they wriggle when I catch them.