Weekend away

We're taking Granny to the Highlands this weekend. Hopefully, by the time we get back on Wednesday, I'll be able to reveal all about the move.

As a taster though, the picture shows the skyline of the city we will more than likely be moving to. Guesses anyone?

Globe toddler

Bambi was born in Cape Town. At six weeks we took her to Zambia and at ten months we moved her to Scotland. For the first year and a bit of her life, those first six weeks represented the longest period of time during which she hadn't flown somewhere. She flew to the bush. She visited South Africa a few times. She's also been to Victoria Falls. The more I think about it, the more I realise that I have tended to treat my daughter a bit like a laptop.

Perhaps it's because of this early start, but she travels really well. Of particular entertainment value is her early interest in languages. You see, Bambi may have only walked at 15 months, but she's been talking since 11 months. She's just never been worried about giving words a go. So when the hotel concierge in Paris said, 'Bonjour!' to my wee 14 month old princess as she crawled behind the reception desk, she shot back a 'Bonjour!' all of her own. And we got the best service imaginable for the rest of our stay.

In South Africa she leaves most homes with a breezy 'Totsiens!' and greets anyone with a tan with 'Molo!'. As there are actually 11 official languages in South Africa she's not always on the money, but her efforts raise a smile anyway.

I do sometimes question our decision to live a nomadic life and, in the rundown to a move, I do worry about the effect this could have on Bambi. It was, after all, our choice, not hers. She has friends here - in fact she definitely has a best friend here. One whose absence will be noticed and whose presence will be missed. I keep in touch with my friends and I hope to teach her to do the same but it is a difficult one to explain to one so young.

I just hope that her budding interest in different cultures and languages makes it as worthwhile for her as it is for her parents. I hope that she doesn't hate us one day for not having given her a geographic base from an early age. On the whole she seems pretty happy with her lot in life. But teenagers can be decidedly odd - you just don't know what to expect. I fear the hormones, and the ammunition I may have given them!

For those who read between lines, yes, our big news is that we will be moving in the next few months. The details of the destination have yet to be ironed out. But here's a clue. We're probably going somewhere we've never lived before, but I anticipate living there as much as if I were going home...

Scary things

The night before Easter, my normally confident little Bambi announced that she was 'a bit scared' of the Easter Bunny. It transpired that she had seen two people in bunny outfits handing out eggs and (do give a child credit here) thought something was amiss. As tempted as I was by the thought of a sugar-free Easter, I felt that some Easter eggs should make it into the fray (not the least for me!) and began negotiations.

She was not buying the story about the human sized bunnies being fake - this was clearly what differentiated the Easter Bunny from normal bunnies. Extra height and reticulated thumbs are quite obviously what gives him his supercharged chocolate producing powers. Eventually we promised to not let him into our house. But, if it rained, he was allowed to leave any offerings inside the storm door. One should always take care not to let one's chocolate offerings get soggy, you understand.

Then, several weeks later, she announced that she was scared of Barney. This made more sense. A large, purple dinosaur would freak me out too if I hadn't made the whole person inside connection. Don't let those catchy tunes fool ya!

But then, when I asked her what she thought Barney was going to do to her if she met him, she told me that he would tickle her. Exuberant tickling by a large purple dinosaur....hmmmm. Okay, fair enough. Again we decided that, should Barney ever visit our street we would simply not let him into our house and take cover in the pantry.

Today I took Bambi and Granny to see The Wiggles - Live in Concert at the Royal Concert Hall. Her first foray into live theatre was in the form of four loudly dressed Australian men. I'm still not too sure how I feel about this. I had imagined something more highbrow. Carmen for Kids, or The Nutcracker perhaps. At least Dan Zanes. But then he didn't make it to Glasgow.

Anyway, before spending a fair whack on tickets I asked her if she was scared of The Wiggles.

'No Mummy. They're men. Like Daddy.'

Just wait till the Good Man hears that he's a hip-wiggling, primary colour-wearing, Aussie accented singer of itty ditties. At least in the eyes of his daughter.

What nonsense!

I know that there are plenty of newspapers and magazines that make their bread and butter from sensational headlines. For many, that the headline may be misleading is incidental at best, if it is able to generate sales en route to the recycling bin.

Before yesterday, I would have put The Times into the other category - those who report more responsibly with usually thoughtful commentary on politics and opinion.

Front page of the Sunday Times (Scotland) carried the headline: Scots NHS and 462,000 'avoidable deaths'. The article, by Mark Macaskill, states: The deaths have been blamed on a series of failings, including GPs not recognising symptoms early enough, unacceptable delays for hospital treatment, poor access to drugs and botched operations.

The term used for 'botched operations', incidentally, is 'misadventures during surgery' which does conjure up images of the cast of Grey's Anatomy in pith helmets. But moving on...

Shock! Horror! Nearly half a million people dying for going to the doctor! However, the rest of the article actually reveals the following:
The figure represents a period of 30 years during which time millions upon millions of people would have been treated. In fact, the avoidable death rate for men is 176 for every 100,000 which translates to just 0.17%. For women it's lower, at 123 per 100,000 (0.12%). Figures are shown to be lower in Austria (129 per 100,000) and Italy (100per 100,000) but given the minute figures we're talking about when we get away from that ridiculous headline, I wonder the extent to which they're even statistically significant.

The author of the report, Dr Colin Fischbacher, is also quoted as saying, better treatment could have saved the lives of almost all the patients who died. Considering that many died of cancers and heart disease, both of which can be unpredictable, I find this quite a sweeping statement.

Then, on page 13 is a further diatribe. In an article titled 'The Killing Wards' and illustrated by a picture of a ward with each bed playing host to a coffin (nothing overly dramatic here!), Mr Macaskill reveals that, while undoubtedly the figures for Scotland are higher than other European countries, they have improved significantly over the last 20 years. Of course, this is couched in several column inches of doom and gloom so you really have to look for it. That will happen with good news.

The chief executive of the Patient's Association is quoted as saying:

It's getting to the stage where people are going to be scared of going to hospital. The NHS is supposed to be a wonderful thing but this study makes a mockery of that.

Really? The NHS is a wonderful thing. I reckon a 0.17% chance of something going wrong when you go to hospital is pretty good odds. And, that these figures are improving is impressive to me. Ultimately healthcare professionals are human and human error is always going to be a factor.

Don't get me wrong, if one of my loved ones was the victim of a 'misadventure' I would sue the suckers for all I could - and still be completely gutted. But we are not talking about a crisis here. We are talking about a very small chance of things going wrong when people require medical treatment. I'm actually surprised it's as low as it is.

Even Dr House, with the benefit of a squad of scriptwriters and Hollywood advisers gets it wrong occasionally. Probably somewhere around 0.17% of the time.

Rant over!

Three Scottish Piles

Scotland is well known for its castles. And well it should be - they are gorgeous and allow us a small glimpse into history, and a way of life which may well be gone forever. They also make an excellent backdrop for weddings and other special occasions. Every country should have a few.

Take this one for example:

This is Culzean Castle on the Ayrshire coast. On a clear day you can see Arran from its front windows and it has a 500acre garden including a deer park. A lovely place for horse riding, but, perhaps a bit tricky if you're trying to locate a lost welly. It is the former home of the Marquess of Ailsa but, as is not uncommon these days, the family couldn't find the funds to pay the necessary taxes on the property, or pay the army of cleaners/gardeners/ maintenance folk to look after the place. Having a small issue with the arctic conditions in Scotland I would also hazard a guess that the heating bills were a touch staggering.

Anyway, the castle was gifted to the National Trust for Scotland and now anyone with £12 can spend a day there. I like to pretend it's all mine. The trick is to dress down - lots of tweed and green boots - and stride confidently while wielding a riding crop. I probably don't fool anyone but I have had a few long looks.

Of course, not all lairds have handed over their homes. Take this one:

That's Blair Castle in Perthshire - ancient seat of the Dukes and Earls of Atholl. It is beautiful and also boasts some significant acreage, but it is telling that the current Earl lives in South Africa. This family's solution to the tax/staffing/utilities issue has been to open the family home to the public. I suppose if he's lapping up the sunshine in SA he probably doesn't find this too intrusive.

It is a really lovely spot - beautiful art exhibits and fantastic furnishings. Bambi quite liked it - that's her saying, 'Mine, mine, mine!'.

But the prize for Eccentric Things to do with your Scottish Pile goes to the Earl of Glasgow. His wee spot, Kelburn Castle, currently looks like this:

He has let a team of Brazilian Graffiti artists loose on it! The castle is still owned by the family but the grounds are open to the public. What makes this place particularly special is that it has been developed exclusively with whimsy in mind. It is home to the Secret Forest - glorious woodland punctuated with goblin houses, woodcutter huts, crocodile swamps, giant's castles and a maze.

Theoretically, it's targeted at children, and all the houses and tunnels are built to child scale, but who can't love a place so full of imagination and fun. Bambi certainly tired of it before Granny and I did!

And I bet you thought this post was going to be about hemorrhoids!

She's here

The Good Granny has arrived. It turns out she was on an aeroplane, which is good as I'm not sure where I would have gone to fetch her had she arrived by balloon.

Bambi leapt straight into her arms, the five months since they last saw each other floating away into the distance as they quickly reaffirmed their bond. Gifts were given, biltong shared, stories told and announcements made (Granny, when I grow up I want to be a tooth fairy).

And now they're curled up together on the couch doing whatever it is that grandmothers and granddaughters do after too-long separations. I have not been invited.

And all is as it should be.

Antici.........pation

Bambi's life has turned into a rotational chart filling extravaganza. It all started with the No-accidents-for-ten-days-and-you-get-a-doll Chart (my erstwhile sensibilities about bribery now being but a vague memory). It took the form of ten little raindrops (at least that's what we told visitors they were), one to be coloured in each dry day. Dry trousers that is, not dry weather, or Bambi would still be doll free.

Then the Good Man started travelling and, as proof that it is possible to buy forgiveness, we invented the Six-sleeps-till-daddy-comes-home-with-a-dress Chart (a little clothes rack), and the Eight-sleeps-till-daddy-gets-home-with-biltong Chart (wee cows), and the Three-sleeps-till-daddy-gets-home-with-fancy-chocolates Chart (teddy bears - not sure why).

But now we are on the final hurdle of an extra special chart. It is one more sleep until Granny arrives. It shows nine balloons - I didn't think Bambi could handle a longer countdown although I've been secretly counting down for much longer. The significance of the balloons is merely avoidance - I hate flying and can't face thinking of people I care about on aeroplanes either. I can just about deal with an image of my mother clutching a bunch of balloons as she traverses the African continent.

And she's bringing biltong.

oh goody!

Oh, what a good girl am I!

I noticed that the information campaign about the smoking ban in England has started to get going. Of course, Scotland, advanced nation that it is, has had the ban enforced since March 2006.

This got me thinking of my long-lost, pack a day smoking habit and how little I miss it. I started smoking when I was in high school (didn't we all?) but really got going in Germany. I like to talk and couldn't speak the language. Smoking gave me something to do other than looking vacantly at people wandering by. By the time I learnt the language I was addicted.

I think the most bizarre thing about smoking is how it can be considered cool - admittedly only by other smokers - while being so utterly and recognisably vile. It smells bad, tastes bad, paints your teeth and fingers yellow. How anyone with a smoking habit can NOT know that it is bad for you is beyond me. Waking up every morning with a burning throat and a choking cough do not strike me as being hard to interpret. And yet I smoked for several years.

And then the Good Man woke up one morning and, before you could say 'hypochondria' announced he had a tight chest and was going to stop smoking. He'd been at it for the best part of twenty years by then, so I naturally thought it would last about 3 hours. I even agreed that, as long as he didn't smoke, I would only smoke outside. This kind act illustrates two things:

1. I knew that smoking was a bad idea - I wanted to support him in kicking the habit. And yet, I gave no thought to actually stopping myself...


2. I can be really stupid. It gets could outside - even in Cape Town sometimes. And you always want a cigarette when the baddies are about to be caught but can't see the TV from the garden. Outside is lonely...

Much to my surprise, he really didn't ever smoke again. And then began the conspiracy. Our office building became non-smoking and we were forced to huddle in small groups on the balcony around overstuffed ashtrays. The place was like a walking crematorium. And then they designated smoking areas in restaurants. I slowly started to realise that us smokers were becoming very uncool.

Two years later I got laryngitis and honestly didn't want to smoke for a whole day. It was quite nice being allowed in the house so, as a kind of cruel, self inflicted torture, I decided to not smoke for another day. Then, I thought, with two days down, I may as well try for a week. Just to prove that I wasn't actually addicted to cigarettes and was still in control of all aspects of my life (motherhood has now put paid to that myth, but I digress...), I went for another week. Several weeks have now passed - somewhere around 520, I think.

Today, I decided to price cigarettes, just to see how much I'm saving ten years on. Flipping heck!!! £5.30 a pack!!! That's £160 per month. While I'm tempted to look at this as a potential city break a month for being virtuous, it would actually mean having £160 less to spend on stuff each month. Like living in a dodgier neighbourhood, or never shopping at Sainsbury's. Unthinkable!

It actually means that stopping smoking can improve your lifestyle as well as your health.

Looking back I just can't remember why I bothered.

8 (more) things

I'm not very interesting really. The first time I got tagged I was flattered and had a clean slate to work from so made it through my list without revealing too much about my rather dull existence. But now I've been tagged again, by Theresa.


The first eight were tough enough, so this could get very boring. Feel free to move on.

1. My Good Man is allergic to alcohol. I loudly expound on the ills of drunk driving while he chauffeurs me home after one too many.


2. I grew up next door to a gynaecologist. When I was seven, his twelve year old son took it upon himself to educate me - in the textbook sense. His father's tomes about the female functions were explained in full. There is such a thing as too much information. However, one connection was made abundantly clear - sex means babies. I never had a problem saying 'no' and Bambi was very well planned.


3. I nearly got arrested in Germany for breaking into my High School to throw a party. It was an annual tradition that I got a bit too caught up in as I was the only one who could figure out how to remove the hinges from the doors to get us in. Fortunately, the police recognised that it was a pretty pointless thing to get too excited about and that, really, all should be more concerned about students breaking out of school. But, man were we ever considered cool the next day in class!


4. I paint, but only in oils. Watercolours require too much commitment.


5. My favourite African animal is the leopard. I've got to be pretty good at spotting them in the bush. They're easiest to spot when reclining in trees. Their tails hang down vertically - nothing else in the bush is so straight and so vertical.


6. My favourite Scottish animal is the Highland Cow. So hairy and forlorn. And they don't move very fast so are easy to spot.


7. When I was thirteen I made a cake tin full of chocolates to be distributed to guests on Christmas Day. We were celebrating in Hermanus, an hour and a half away. I left a few days early with my parents but it was scorching hot and the chocolates wouldn't have made the journey, so I left them with my older brother to bring along on Christmas day. He arrived having eaten all but six of the chocolates. My revenge has been telling this story to all mutual acquaintances since.


8. I get fairly emotional whenever I hear children sing, but the African Children's Choir reduce me to tears every time.

I need more blog friends (blogends?) as I don't know who to nominate to carry this tag on. If you'd like to nominate yourself please respond in the comments and I'll make it official.

Questions anyone?

PS Nominees (so far) are:

Gwen

Katie

Aminah (hello new friend!)