things I love

sound of cicada beetles in the bush
the smell of rain on african soil
picnics
early mornings
farmers markets
safari tents
dirt roads leading off into the distance
camp fires
picking berries
eating under the stars
riding my vespa scooter with my man
my staffie’s unconditional love
smell of thatching grass
sitting at a water hole waiting for game
tickling my feet
sun dried cotton bed linen
the elegant loping walk of the giraffe
the smell of veld grass parting as you walk
sleeping under a mosquito net
records played on an old grammaphone
morning filter coffee
whales in spring
call of the fish eagle
artichoke and halloumi on ciabatta
spring jasmine
scones with clotted cream
hunting for wild mushrooms
the sound of hyenas and jackals in the night
mozart’s clarinet concerto played really loud
smell of an old library
icy cold homemade lemonade
the sound of karoo silence
head massage
full moon
black figs
heart of palm
croteas and blue cranes
sandstone autumn colours near lesotho
the colour of the african light
shell and pebble collecting at puntjie
the sound of crickets
my mom’s cooking
organic veggies from our garden
the thud of a paddle fan in the heat of summer
watermelon wedges from the fridge
a cup of tea anywhere anytime
candles, fairy lights and sparklers
baobab trees
african acapella harmonising
cheese cheese and more cheese
all the windows and doors wide open
weekend trips
people watching
freshly baked hot bread with farm butter
a highveld thunderstorm
lingering daylight hours
wildflowers growing along dirt roads
driving with the sunroof open
the smell of a braai
anything lemon
thorn trees
antique handwoven linen
hot air balloons
infinity pools
giving to others
unplanned trips to exotic places
the sound of rain on a tin roof
a hand written letter with exotic stamps
a steaming hot bath
street cafes
summer salads
a warm sincere hug
teapots with teacosies
hats
dear precious friends
amazing grace on the bagpipes
hot popcorn at the movies
my man nuzzling my neck
africa
exploring remote and strange places
an all boys choir singing in a cathedral
steam trains
all creatures great and small
humility and graciousness

Puff Adder Hotel

Just discovered to my horror - that there is a puff adder hotel /commune/ community living a mere one pace from where I park my car every day at the factory.

Some time ago, my staff saw a puff adder in that vicinity and threw rocks at her. By the time we stopped them and called the snake man , Mrs Puff Adder had been injured and had to go the vet.

Dr hazel gave me a dressing down for the fact that she has a few broken ribs and a ruptured spleen. He nursed her for 4 weeks and then she was set free in the local Bontebok National Park .

Now we have discovered that she was in fact only one of a "nest " of puff adders to who live under the flagstone at the front right tyre of my car. I can't help but wonder how close i have come to standing on a friendly puff adder when opening my car door in the dark.

Best part is, the snake man can't reach them in the nest and so we have to wait till they "un-hibernate" in the spring and then hope we can catch them and reloacte them to somewhere with a better view than my front tyre and my ankle.

The Rock

This is the new flagship Rain Store - The Rock
59 West 49th street between 5th and 6th Avenue
You have to see it

Unashamedly absent

I have been neglectful and absent. I admit it and I am sorry. But I have been busy - as usual doing queenie type things. Just got back from 18 days in New York where I got to open a new Rain store, have my shoes professionally shined, sleep in the back of truck on a bubble wrap pillow ( see picture ) and travel on my second least favourite airline ( after Delta ) - American Airlines.
What is it with these american airlines - they seem to strive to outdo each other on apalling food, outdated ill equipped planes, antiquated grouchy crew and rude indifferent service. HOW do they stay in business one wonders?
Anyway, enough moaning. I am one lucky spoilt rainqueen ......... got to open a store in the centre of the world , and one with a brass door and a badly behaved tree outside. You have to see it - it is SPECIAL.

my bead man

And this ladies and gentleman, is the man from whom I buy my beads.

HORNY TRUCKS

With a population of over 1 billion, India is busy and noisy. The roads are another story . With all sorts of exotic traffic trying to get from A to B, everyone has a need to make themselves heard –loudy, persistently , all the time, everywhere. Every vehicle from a bicycle rickshaw to a train, makes itself heard . Diaphanously cacophonous ( is there such a word ?........ sounds good anyway ) is an understatement for the horn blowing, bell ringing, music blaring noise pollution which one is exposed to on India’s roads ( or shall we call them tracks ).
The journey to Bundi has its challenges. Apart from aforementioned noise and lack of peace, one faces endless hours of vehicular , animal and pedestrian obstacles allowing progress of only a mere 30 km/hr on average. Apart from all the common stray goats, holy cows, overloaded camel carts and diesel pumping tractor taxis , there are enormously and dangerously overladen trucks heading who knows where – Bhopal maybe ? Overloaded to more than double their width and height – so they protrude a full fifty percent into the adjacent oncoming lane. You have to see it to believe it. It is chicken playing game par excellence. It is the wild wild west.
The truck windscreens are gaudily decorated to within centimetres of their line of vision – so they don’t see the oncoming traffic anyway. What you can’t see , you just don’t have to worry about. Decorated with pom poms, luminous woollen tassles, streamers, garlands of real oranges, painted slogans and messages to the vehicles behind, tin cutwork, filigree etc. They are gaudy but loving works of art. And the horns ....well, these are no ordinary hooters as we know them in general civilisation. With one press of the horn the loudspeakers play an entire one minute dittiy at full volume .There are endless variations of these tunes and ditties , each driver having his own special unique signature in decibels.
The drivers ( who live in their vehicles as a mobile home and perform their daily ablutions very visibly along the way for all to see )have an attitude and an ego to mirror their lorry. They travel jauntily with attitude- elbows jutting from the windows, one hand barely on the wheel, grinning with their red betel stained teeth, they steer these amusement parks with alarming recklessness – all to the deafening shrill of hindi music at maximum volume.
My discerning queenly tastes and zen zulu approach to design and my love for less is more and pared down sophistication just can’t quite grasp this idea of beauty with all is loud garish excess and bling. But to the owners of these vehicles they are the most beautiful thing in the world, and they convey them with a badge of pride.
I enjoy the colours, the vibrancy and the pace first, but later, the slowness and noise starts to get me down , and to test my patience and I feel that latent defect gene commonly found in South African city dwellers ,called road rage, rear its ugly head. Unable to change anything about situation I make a conscious decision to travel resignedly , enjoy the mayhem , but secretly longing for the smooth ride of my silver beamer back home, with my cool bluesy jazz music, sun roof and a Woolies chilled lemonade.

Hallitosis and wild India

Another flight from hell. This time the one to Indonesia – sandwiched between my gum chewing teenage niece and a Frenchman with chronic halitosis. ........ and I have a nose to rival pinnochio.
Fortunately a benevolent air steward rescued me with an extra eye mask to use over my mouth. The Frenchman fell asleep – mouth open – as fate would have it perfectly in line and only just centimetres from my super sensitive snout – breathing foul fumes as he snored.
And so I sat for four solid interminable hours alternatively trying to hold my breath or to synchronise my breath in with his in order to avoid the overwhelming stench of old Coquille St Jacques a la Provencal coming from his fundamental orifice.


Next stop India ..... and the ideal trip to India surely has to be via helicopter – ferrying one in a becoming queenly manner between oases of civilisation and conveniently avoiding the mayhem and squalor in between the jewels .
On the upside, India is truly Incredible as the advert states – exotic and magical . The remnants of a glorious colonial imperial past, the grandeur of the Maharajas make it all so bearable and beguiling.
But to get to each pot of gold, one has to endure filth beyond measure, persistent aggressive beggars, hooting crazed drivers, overcrowded trucks and trains, intense people pollution coupled with chaos and pandemonium.
Just when you start sinking into despair, a colourful sight of a group of labouring women in irresdescent saris in a field of rice, lifts your spirits and you can carry on. India is not a place for the faint hearted, impatient or overly hygiene conscious.
So, how does this queen cope ?
Armed with a pot of the strongest brand of Tiger Balm , a bottle of hand sanitiser and an inhaler of potent pungent essential oils – I can persuade my nose to endure. Sunglasses help to screen out demanding beggars, and a strong relationship with my God and Father helps me survive the onslaught of mad mad crazed drivers.
I hate it and I love it, and everytime I cope – only only just.