This journey has ended

It is 2:20 South African time.

Loren died earlier this evening.

We are not sure exactly when. He was fast asleep and we were packing to go to the Drakensberg for the long week-end. We went to check on him a few times, but he seemed peaceful. About half an hour before we were due to leave, our housesitters arrived and went to say hi. He still opened his eyes and seemed to fall asleep again. When we went to pick him up for the trip, he was dead. I don’t know what happened. He wasn’t sick except for a slight sinus infection. My guess is that the recent beating his little body took from the pain of the ulcer, was too much and that he died from something similar to a cot death.

We phoned the ambulance, but we knew that it was too late. They confirmed this. Friends came to assist us and we could spend some time with his body. The undertakers arrived and I’ll always be grateful to the woman who wrapped him in a blanket and held him on her lap for the trip rather than putting him in the back of the van.

I don’t know what to say and I don’t know how we are going to get through this. But I guess we’ll have to.

We are contemplating still going away for a few days. Staying won’t bring him back. And I’m not sure if I can face the visitors or the phones right now.

Marco said that Loren is healthy now. I know that he is right.

We fought so hard. And we have lost the fight. But I have no doubt that he is with Jesus in heaven and that he is finally fully comfortable and happy. He will never need to be suctioned again. He will never have pain again. He will be able to speak and run and eat and laugh. But, selfishly as always, I just want him back.

Arch of hope

As a student I often had to drive the 600km from the university to my home town on my own. And it was always a bit of an adventure. Never more so than at the end of the academic year in December when the university closed until the beginning of February.

I would pack my clothes, sit on the suitcase to get it to close, greet dear Louise – with whom I shared a small townhouse – load my 1978 VW Golf and to the accompaniment of my current favourite music hit the long road. I would sail through the flat Free State landscape until the Drakensberg mountain range loomed before me. One difficult pass – Van Reenen’s pass – to negotiate and I’d be heading down into the hilly green beauty of my home province, KwaZulu Natal. I never expected any trouble on the road and never had any despite my car having been somewhat temperamental. In fact, one day my car actually broke down right in front of my parent’s house just as I was about to drive in through the gate. How’s that for Providence?

And every year I encountered a rainbow on the way. I later came to expect it. To me, it was a sign of the successful ending of another academic year and a promise for the year to come. I’d be looking forward to the holidays and late night chats, coffee and cake with my family.

Last week, I finally got my car back. The delay was in getting a part that computes the air bags. It had to be ordered from France adn took ages to arrive. Dirk set me up to believe that we had to pay for this part out of our own pockets because insurance didn’t want to cover it. I fell for his practical joke line hook and sinker and while everybody at the panel beater had a good laugh at my expense, I could only feel relief.

We drove home – me trying to readjust to my own car after driving a rental for a month. It was an unseasonably hot day and by the end of it we had a typical summer rainstorm brewing. It started raining softly just as we left the panel beaters. As we came round the bend in our street the most amazing sight unfolded before my eyes: A rainbow – spanning the road and hanging over our house. Often rainbows are less clear at one end. But this one was so bright throughout that it looked almost like every colour could be plucked from it individually.

I prayed – with my eyes open, of course – “Dear Lord. I’ve been so down lately. Thank you for this rainbow and the promise of renewed hope that it represents. And thank you that you always stay with us. Amen”

I could almost not wait for the gate to open and I rushed into the house to find the boys.
“Come and see the rainbow!” I called and with Loren on my hip and Marco holding my hand we went to stand on the deck to look at the rainbow. Marco was impressed, but only until he realized my car was back. Then he went to inspect the car – rainbow forgotten. Loren, however, focused on the rainbow perfectly and kept staring at it with such an expression of awe and joy on his face that I stood watching him until it finally faded.

As I held his warm body in my arms I could only feel gratitude.

This remains my child of hope.

Trust

Truth is, I’ve always felt pressurized by the concept of faith. I felt that I fell short of the ideal and that somehow fulfilling this ideal, would change my life forever. I’ve never felt more like this since Loren was born.

Faith in relation to the healing of a special or a sick child becomes riddled with all sorts of emotions – most of all feelings of guilt and inadequacy.

This past week I received a comment on my Afrikaans blog which pointed out the difference between faith and trust and hope. And for the first time in my life, things clicked. I realized that God has never asked faith from me. He HAS asked me to trust him in this – no matter what the outcome.

A while back I wrote a post about the South African film, Faith like potatoes. This past week-end, Dirk had the opportunity to attend a men’s conference on the Buchan’s farm Shalom. And to say that this was a life-changing experience for him is to put it mildly. The Mighty Men conference was born after Angus Buchan found himself completely burnt out by the demands of his evangelism crusades. So, he decided to empower other men to go back to their communities and do the work. That first year, only 14 men attended – and 5 of them were staff members from Shalom Ministries. But last year, 1000 men came and they resolved to return this year and bring 4 000 others with them. So, Shalom ministries prepared in good faith for the arrival of 5000 men. In the end 7000 turned up.

Angus says that when the thousands of cars started arriving on Friday, he said: “I don’t believe this!” And in his heart he could hear God answering: “Oh yeah…. And I thought you were a believer?”

To Angus, faith is simply trusting the Lord for everything. The kind of faith that he displays comes as natural as breathing to most of us. He does not ask money from anyone. In fact, the whole conference – food included – was free of charge. Yet God always provides.

Dirk wanted all of us to attend the last day of the conference – consisting of a church service – with him. I could see that it was important to him. When I didn’t have a good night with Loren and we overslept – leaving us with half an hour to prepare before leaving on Sunday morning, I contemplated asking if the kids and I could rather stay at home. On top of everything, they were both cranky – Loren battled with a stuffed nose and was arching and Marco refused to get out of bed and dressed.

But then resolve took over. I prayed: “God if you want us to go, please make a way for us.” And in record time, we had packed the car with Loren’s equipment, snacks and food and drinks for the kids, extra clothes and had we dressed the two boys and ourselves. WE fed the kids and the animals and we even managed a hurried breakfast for ourselves. At 8:00 we were in the car, ready to go. About the unmade beds and the kitchen that we left in shambles, we decided to worry later. We only had half an hour for an hour’s drive, but we bargained on them singing before the service started, buying us some time..

Everything worked out beautifully. We arrived two songs before the end of the introductory singing, we found a parking spot right next to the tent as arranged with them beforehand so that we could get electricity for Loren’s equipment from the tent. When Marco protested at the noise levels – we were right next to the speakers – and Loren also made big eyes, we stayed in and around the car and could still hear perfectly well.

Friends’ two little girls came to play with Marco and kept him reasonably happy and entertained.

Picture a huge white tent on a field of emerald green, a sea of cars and 7000 men and their families. Cowboys don’t cry was banished forever as tears – and the anger and hurt they held in – poured from male cheeks. Relationships were healed. Fathers and sons and brothers were reunited. Many miracles occurred.

Afterwards some baptisms were taking place. As we had parked right next to the small pool they used as a baptism pool, we were hemmed in by people and could not leave.

This turned out to be one of the more difficult outings we have had with Loren. He was uncomfortable and arching and the car did not have enough space to get him in a more comfortable position. Add to that his brother and the two little girls insisting on helping by turning on the suctioning pump and by tumbling over us, and I was getting tired very quickly. I thought to myself that I wished someone could pray for him, but it was unlikely as the only item left was the baptisms. So, once again I asked: “God if you want this to happen, please make a way.”

Then a young man opened the front door and got in with us: “Hi, I’m Neil, he said. Can I pray for your son?” I nodded – too astounded to respond. He prayed, smiled and left. I have no idea how he knew I needed a prayer.

We watched the baptism. My friend, Marlene, was watching intently and seemed very emotional. Then suddenly, she got up and walked to the pool to be baptized. Her husband got into the pool with her and held her. It was a very emotional experience.

Dirk and Jannie – Marlene’s husband – decided to sing the Lord’s prayer. A gap in the crowd opened and Angus Buchan looked straight at me where I stood with Loren in my arms. He responded immediately to the silent plea in my eyes.
“Do you want me to pray for him?” he asked.
“Please” I answered.

So he came over to us, put his arms around us and prayed a simple prayer.

He asked for more faith and strength for us and he asked for complete healing for Loren. He glanced at the suctioning equipment. “Only one more season of that left” he said. And carried on with the other things he had to do. I could not believe how easily my heartfelt wish was fulfilled.

The rest of the afternoon we spent at Wartburg – one of the many German towns founded by German evangelists during the 1800s. We had a buffet lunch at the Wartburger Hof. Loren had fallen asleep and the older children were running around on the huge lawn and playing. Marco enjoyed this enormously. Marlene and Jannie’s clothes dried quickly in the hot sun and the day that started out so difficult, turned into a miracle in the end.

Go home. I want my breathing space back.

There are people who bumble through life unaware. They seem to be born this way, because the condition seems unrelated to intelligence, education or upbringing. And I suppose if that is the case, I should be a little more forgiving. But you know what? I’m just sick and tired of them.

The bumblers are the people who say things and only then think. Or say or do things and never give the consequences of their words or actions another thought. Sometimes they leave emotions and a sense of self-worth in tatters. Occasionally they leave wounds that take a lifetime to heal.

They are not malicious, just thoughtless…

They are seldom brought to task. Because their victims are either too proud to acknowledge that they were hurt or maybe they even think that they deserve being treated this way.

The funny thing is that bumblers are often very sensitive to any perceived slight to themselves. And if their attention is drawn to the fact that they were in the wrong, they act all hurt or defensive.

In our immediate family there are two bumblers. They are the people who, when they come to visit, will bring Marco a gift – totally age inappropriate and nothing he really needs or wants – but nothing for Loren. “Oh, he can share Marco’s gift,” they will say when they realize their oversight.

For Loren’s birthday, they gave him some money. “We didn’t know what to get him”, they said.

Thereafter I point out to them how his face lights up at the sight of an inexpensive toy car. He is just a little boy like any other. It does not matter that he cannot push the car. Mama can help him do that. And, if they are prepared to spend just another few bucks, they can even get him an electronic car which can be converted to fit a large switch which he can operate by himself. Although I don’t say that.

But they don’t get it. The next time they go and buy Marco some much-needed slippers. There was nothing in Loren’s size, they say. As if they know what size he takes…And I go to my bedroom and feel my face contort with unshed tears on his behalf. I don’t expect people going around buying my kids gifts. But when they do go to all the trouble and expense, a little fairness would be great.

A huge song and dance is made every morning when Marco emerges from the bedroom. He is kissed and hugged until he starts acting like barbed wire – totally annoyed by the excessive attention. Loren watches all of this with bright and interested eyes – clear blue eyes that reach out to them, asking to be acknowledged. But his presence goes unnoticed until I “greet” them on his behalf in a cheerful voice.

“Oh! Oh!” A half-hearted smile and a gingerly pat on the head. “How was HIS night.”

Please. Please JUST GO HOME.

Eldest child syndrome

Dirk and I are the eldest children of two mothers who were eldest children themselves and teachers to boot. So, I can say safely that we both suffer from eldest child syndrome. We were both a little precocious – talking early, reading well before we went to school etc. At some point our peers may have caught up and even surpassed us, but I don’t think our mothers ever noticed!

Something that goes hand-in-hand with eldest child syndrome is the expectation of an emotional maturity that is a little over-the-top if not downright unfair. I clearly remember being scolded for not doing something which even I knew was never expected of my peers and responding with a quivering lip: “But Mommy, I’m just twelve years old!” My mother said that the words hit her like a ton of bricks.

Dirk is still the first person his mother phones when her world comes tumbling down – which can happen over trivia. He has often admitted feeling completely helpless and resentful when that happens.

And now we have Marco. Once again, a child who talked early and is clearly intelligent, perhaps fooling his doting parents and grandparents into believing that he is more gifted and more emotionally mature than he is. I don’t want to repeat the mistakes that the previous generation made. I’d like my children to develop at their own pace. And the older he is, the more I realize that. The danger is not in teaching him big words. The danger is in expecting behaviour and understanding beyond his three years.

Both my parents and Dirk’s parents are pushing us to potty train him. I believe that he is not fully ready. I’d rather take our time about this than end up with a child who feels pressurized. I’m okay with it if he stays on nappies until after the new baby comes. He shows no interest yet – just flatly refuses to either use the toilet or potty. And we are now heading into winter – which is not an ideal time to potty train anyway. My own father responded with alarm when I said that. And I calmly replied that it does not matter if he is not potty trained by four or even five years of age. Chances are that he is going to start objecting to wearing nappies sooner or later. Any of you ever heard of a college-aged kid insisting on wearing nappies?

If he wants to cut with scissors I let him hack into a few old magazines. But I don’t “train” him. By playing and exploring his dexterity will improve until he will be able to. From my good friend, Sanet I have learned that there is such a thing as overstimulation. That is why I will not let him go to playschool before he has had at least a year or two of simply playing with peers.

He has a number of letter games – puzzles, magnetic boards with letters – and he plays with them often. He understands that letters mean something and I tell him their names using the phonetic variation. We even spell simple words. I show them to Loren as well- who responds with bright eyes and clear interest to the shapes and colours. Marco does not remember the names of letters even though he will give them random names as he is lining them up on the board. And to me, that is enough for the moment. He is probably not going to be able to read by the time he is four – like his father has been – and that is okay!

He is very tuned into my emotions and I believe it is okay to respond to his:
“What’s wrong Mama?” with a simple explanation.
“Loren’s tummy is aching and it makes Mama sad when one of you hurt.”
But it is NOT okay to say:
“Loren is sick and I want you to behave yourself today, because I cannot stand you misbehaving on top of that!” His brother’s health is not his problem, nor is my reaction to it.

Dirk’s parents are visiting and there is a minefield of emotions to negotiate. Marco and Loren did not sleep well on Saturday night and by yesterday lunch time, Marco was a mess. He was tired and overexcited. I wanted him to eat his chicken and chips and he wanted none of that. So, he overturned the food onto the table. I reprimanded him, he started crying and he knocked my food off my fork. I marched him to the bedroom, scolded him and left him to cool off. After a minute or two of time-out, I went to fetch him and we kissed and made up and went back to the table. He still didn’t want anything to eat, but at least he was behaving himself better. My mother-in-law did not criticize my behaviour immediately, but later she said that a three-year-old have no way to say that he is hungry or sleepy or unhappy. Which is true. But it is equally true that his behaviour was revolting and I was not going to condone it. Understanding behaviour does not mean it is approved of.

Raising a child is a dificult thing if you want to do it well. I have to face that I’m going to make mistakes and that I’ve already made a few along the way.

But I have great faith in intuition and love.

“I didn’t say it would be easy, I said it would be worth it..”

One of the online support groups I belong to has had a series of depressed posts. It started with the Easter celebrations and how, in times which is considered traditional family times, it can be a lot harder to accept that a special needs child does not get to experience things the way other children do.

A number of parents described how their other kids worked at including their disabled brothers or sisters into the hunt for Easter eggs. The presence of other families where siblings could run together and have an equal enjoyment of the occasion was at the root of many parents’ sadness.

I must first of all state that this particular group consists of amazingly positive, gutsy parents who will try and move the earth to help their children. All in all the posting in this group normally relates to successes and encouragement as well as hands-on practical advice. So the recent postings are somewhat uncharacteristic.

But that brought home to me the reality that we all go through tough times.

One mother mentioned how they have invested all their money into therapy – hoping and working towards a better life for their child. Although they have had dramatic improvement, actual functional changes are few and far in between. Their circumstances are such that they have no help in paying for anything for their daughter – all equipment and aids have to come from their own pockets. Now the mother is doubting their decision to forgo equipment in favour of therapy and she realizes that she might need to embark on serious money-raising in order to buy just some things to make their child’s life easier. She suspects that her daughter (a pre-teen) may be realizing the extent of what she is missing by watching the ease with which her much younger sister acquire skills. Physically it is becoming hard for her to handle her daughter and at times she feels bitter at the insensitivity of well-to-do family and friends who see them make do without any luxuries and even some necessities and yet do not even put much thought into choosing gifts for a child who could benefit so much from the right things.

It sounds like the story of countless other parents.

Our experience is one of a constant battle between acceptance and fighting for something better. So far, I have chosen the fight every time. But the last thing I want is for my child to think that he is somehow not “good enough”. Because he is. It is the results of having CP that I’m trying to fight. Most currently his ulcer, for example. I also know for sure that if we didn’t embark on ABR when we did, Loren would probably not have survived. His breathing this time last year was truly frightening. So, in that I have peace.

I am sure that we can do more, though. If I had an extra R 2000 per month, I would rent the ABR machine, for example. Which would give us extra therapy time without losing our lives to therapy. I have at times closed my eyes to the longing in my older son’s eyes when I haul out the ABR towels. A longing which often culminates into him taking the ABR things and hiding them. And I don’t want Loren’s experience of life to be a therapy bench.

At the root of all of this is uncertainty. If we could know for sure that our efforts would lead to a child who is satisfied with his own circumstances and who has some independence, we would probably go to extremes to raise money and pursue whatever we think would help. But we have no guarantees. And the fight for balance is a particularly hard battle to fight. What right do I have to not save towards a college fund for all my children to set them up at whatever they would like to do, instead choosing to spend any extra money we have on therapy for Loren or on things to make our lives easier? I have always been particularly critical of parents who do not financially help their children in studying or getting a foothold in life. But now my criticism has come back to bite me.

I guess this is where I lift my chin and renew my resolve to keep on believing and keep on fighting. Trusting that help will come from Someone.

One of the mothers in the group said something which spoke to me. She said that they have accepted that nothing short of a miracle will “heal” their son. But that they also know that the therapy they have chosen is helping him and makes his life easier. They do realize that the decisions they make today impact on all of their futures and therefore they try and choose wisely. If possible they choose therapies which will give them time together as a family and bring them closer.

Ultimately the cure for my slight depression lay in my own little family…

Marco and I were looking at photographs of himself when he was less than 18 months old. He knew that he is the main character and he was immensely proud, but he still liked me asking him every now and again: “Who is that baby?”

We came across a picture of Marco when he was six months old. He was sitting in his baby chair – all gummy smiles, his cheeks red and plump, his legs kicking. “Who is that baby?” I asked again. But this time Marco faltered. He looked and looked again. And then his face lit up: “That is our Loren!” he said confidently, his grubby finger tracing the outline of red curls tenderly. That photo is in heartbreaking contrast to his brother. Yet this is who he saw.

It made me realize something and the realization felt like an unexpected gift:

Marco does not see his brother’s disabilities…

Quote

“Everything is OK in the end. If it’s not OK, it’s not the end.”

A few thinkers?

I’ve been tagged by Jacqui. Thanks Jacqui!

It is not hard for me to nominate five thought-provoking blogs. There are many. The only problem is that some have already been tagged and to some that I suspect may fit the bill beautifully I have had no access in recent months. (Does anyone know why my service provider would consider all Blogspot addresses p*rnographic in nature?)

Chiara Valle Nadine is mother to Chiara – who died in November last year of a Neuroblastoma. Nadine is actively trying to make a difference in the lives of other kids with cancer. She also feels a calling in making parents aware of their relationships with their children and lifestyle choices impacting on children.

From the mountain top to the valley floor Christy is mom to Elias – a preemie with Cerebral Palsy. She writes beautiful yet honest posts about living in Alaska and about the challenges and joys Elias brings to their lives.

Pinwheels Jennifer is an exceptional writer who writes for a number of online magazines, but is also publishing her book Roadmap to Holland shortly. It deals with parenting Avery – who was diagnosed with Downs Syndrome when he was five days old.

Walking with Alec Kelly writes about her beautiful son, Alec, and the challenges they face as a family due to him dealing with autism.

The lilting house I’m sure Melissa has been tagged before, but just in case she wasn’t…What I find appealing about her blog is that she seems to make raising and home schooling five kids – one with special needs – sound so easy. Until you realize that there is a “thinker” at work here…

Please see the rules of the game and the original posthere.

The road to Bertramka

In the summer of 2000, Dirk and I undertook our last trip abroad without children. For five blissful days we discovered the beautiful and romantic city of Prague (the capital of the Czech Republic).

Vacations contain just the right mixture to get the two of us quarreling: Sharing a suitcase (Dirk’s a perfectionist. I, most emphatically, am not.), tiredness, excitement and uncertainty. We know it and not a trip has gone by when we haven’t had a fight of some sort.

This vacation was lovely, though. Dirk had planned everything to the most minute detail with a daily itinerary worked out for our entire stay. I’m more of a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants kinda gal, but Dirk is talented at planning trips and I am always amazed at how I enjoy them. So, when he asked me if there was anything I particularly wanted to see, he did it with the clear expectation that I would say: “Dearest heart. You have exceeded all my expectations. There is nothing more that I would like to see.”

Instead I said: “I’d like to see Bertramka.”

Bertramka is the house that Mozart used and stayed in when he visited Prague. Dirk looked on the map. “Bertramka is kind of….out of the way,” he said, clearly wanting to indulge me, but also a bit miffed at my unintended criticism of his itinerary. And yes…. It was a bit out of the way. Even I, with my limited abilities with maps, could see it. For a moment I wavered, but then my inborn stubbornness won. “I’d still like to see Bertramka. Surely it can’t be that impossible?”

So, we took the underground, then a tram and then a bus. Finally we had to get off the bus. The area we walked through was hardly pretty, nor was it remotely romantic. Picture a huge construction site and you’d come close to it. It was in the heat of day and we walked and walked and walked. My feet ached and I wasn’t at all sure that I wanted to see Bertramka anymore. But stubbornness kept me silent. Finally we were totally lost. Or so we thought.

“Bertramka?” we asked a kindly-looking elderly gentleman. With an amused smile and a theatrical wave of his arm he indicated the gates right in front of us…

The house was lovely. I looked at the cool garden beyond and saw that cold drinks were being sold. I aimed in the general direction of those irresistible cold drinks, but Dirk caught me neatly around the waist and steered me into the house. “You wanted to see Bertramka,” he reminded me with clenched teeth. So, we walked around inside the house. Honestly I cannot remember a single detail about it any more. There was a Mozart piano concerto due to start, but, we didn’t have enough money for it. And, as it turned out, nor did we have enough money for the cold drinks that I craved. So, we made do by drinking water from a fountain.

Dirk had the good sense to ask for directions back to our apartment from the receptionist. She gave us quick directions to the closest bus stop. “Take the no 40 bus”, she advised.” It will take you straight to where the underground route starts again.”

Well, either both of us misunderstood or she made a mistake in giving the directions. Because, once again, it felt like we walked for miles before we stumbled on the bus stop. Then it took ages for a bus traveling in the direction we wanted to go to come along. And none of the buses were no 40… Finally we caught just any bus going in the right direction and would you know it? The number 40 buses were renamed recently to number 23…

By the time we got to the underground we were extremely tired, hot and bothered. And we weren’t exactly talking to each other. We stopped by a grocery store to get food and I took guilty offense at a slightly irritated inflection in Dirk’s voice. I burst into angry hot tears. The good citizens of Prague going home from work clearly wondered what Dirk had done to provoke such tears and I caught a few worried and accusing glances in his direction. Poor man!

If nothing else, the experience counted as an adventure and often afterwards, when one of us took a decision that caused the other trouble, we called it a Bertramka moment. We couldn’t predict that five years later we would face the greatest Bertramka moment of our entire lives together. And that it would take more than kissing and making up to save our marriage.

Whodunit?

Dirk and I had to admit wryly to each other that we seem to be living our lives amidst a whodunit these days.

First there was the disappearance of R100 from the back pocket of a pair of Dirk’s trousers. Then a bottle of aftershave in the cupboard in the passage mysteriously grew wings and flew away. And last week another R100 went missing from my mother’s handbag.

The first R100 we decided to ignore – except for pointedly asking everybody about it. The fact is that on that day there were just too many people around – a replacement nanny, an acquaintance, the builders, the househelp and some outside contractors. The thief could have been any one of 10 people.

We are not sure when the aftershave was stolen, so it could also have been a number of people. The most likely suspects would be the builders as they were removing doors from that cupboard and were working largely unsupervised around the area.

The builders are also the most likely suspects to have stolen the money from my mother’s handbag as they were working in that room on that day – moving furniture around. So, my dad actually called them all together and confronted them. They were angry and hurt and denied having taken the money. The contractor actually said to us that he never had any trouble with them before and shrewdly remarked that sometimes permanent employees use the opportunity to take things while the builders are around….

Which leaves us with Anna….who was the only permanent staff member around on the day the money was stolen from my mother’s bag.

She has a motive – financial difficulty – which we know about and are trying to help her resolve by offering extra employment and donating old things for her to sell.
She certainly has had the opportunity as she stayed over every night while Dirk was away.
And she even seems to have developed a very tender conscience. On Wednesday morning she had to go for a check-up at the hospital. I offered to take her to the taxi and she gladly accepted as she said she was scared of being mistaken for a “burglar” by the night watch patrol. That evening I arranged to pick her up again at a certain spot and she wasn’t there. I drove around frantically in peak hour traffic, worrying about her. Finally she phoned home and Dirk went to fetch her. She realized that she’s given me the wrong address. Dirk joked and said for all the time she wasted we should actually deduct R50.
“Okay, “she said. “But make it R100…”

Interestingly enough nothing disappeared from the house during the time the builders were there working by themselves with just Jenny – the househelp – for company.

Mmmm..