Sort-Of Here

In the end, it was just too much

2006-10-02T04:09:00.000+02:00

This blogger has moved to here.

I'm sorry, faithful readers, but you must have seen it coming. The dwindling post numbers, the half-hearted content of the posts that did appear. The fact is that in the end, two blogs were just too much for me to manage. Sort-Of Here is shutting down.

I won't delete this blog, so that I (and you, if you want to) can go back and peruse it if I'm feeling a bit nostalgic. But from now on I'll be posting on one blog only, called Just Up The Dose. Although I know the title is very medical, I promise this is not a purely medical blog - on it I'll be dabbling in the kind of stuff I used to on Sort-Of Here. Please change your bloglines subscriptions, the address in your 'favourites' folder - whatever you do to keep you up-to-date on the blogging world. I look forward to hearing from you on soon.

Home, Sweet Home

2006-09-06T08:48:00.000+02:00

The house I currently live in is the one I've lived in since I was five years old. My parents built it themselves (not with their own hands, but you know... it wasn't bought built-already). Over the last seventeen years, all through primary school, high school, and my medical degree, this house is the one I've come home to. It's the one where my dogs have lived and died, the one with the garden my mother planted, with plants inherited from my grandmothers. It's the one with the swimming pool I shrieked and splashed in as a child, the same swimming pool I hurriedly ate hotdogs next to so I could jump back in and play marco polo with my brother. It's the house my brother and I played hide-and-seek in, the one with the mulberry tree in the garden (planted for the feeding of the silkworms that were a seasonal feature in primary school), the one I practised playing my violin in for years and years, driving the neighbours insane. It's the house my friends slept over at, the one I had parties at that drove the neighbours to phone and complain the following morning. It's the house where my brother burnt holes into the kitchen counter whilst trying to make his own firecrackers. It's the house I know I can always come back to, and it will always be home, and I will always feel safe and comfortable in it.

This weekend, for a whole pile of reasons, my parents decided to sell this house.

There have been estate agents in and out since Saturday, but today, for the first time, I was the one who had to show a pair of them around. Estate Agent-in-chief was a miserable looking woman of about fifty. Her sidekick was a fairly attractive young thing a few years older than me. We started at the main bedroom and worked our way through the house, the chief asking various questions, the sidekick taking various photos. I love this house a lot, and it is beautiful. But suddenly, I felt I had to explain to this pair of women why the paint was peeling here, why there were no cupboards in that room, why there was no grass there.

The estate agents didn't see the mobile we hung in a tree when I was twelve. They didn't see the huge cycads my mom took from my late grandmother's garden to take root in ours. They didn't see the blue paint my brother chose for his bedroom walls when he was eight, and they didn't see the giant Tracy Chapman poster I hung on my wall in my first year of university. They just saw that we don't have electric gates or motorised garage doors, they just noted that the pool's marbalite was a bit damaged and that the bedroom cupboards were rather small. They thought the carpets needed changing, the light fixtures were old-fashioned, and that it was a shame the pool wasn't heated.

It's really hard to sell a home - to see the place you've lived and breathed in for so many years, to be turned into somebody else's cash cow. I hope I don't have to do it again soon.

Commenting Problems

2006-09-04T09:48:00.000+02:00

OK, I'm aware of the commenting problem created by my changeover to Beta Blogger.

To comment on my blog now, you need to follow one of three options:

1. Sign in using your Google account

Don't use your old blogger login - use the login you do to get into Gmail, or your google account.

If you have no Google account:

2. Please select 'other' to comment

You will have space to type in your name and your own URL, so I will be able to visit you from your comment.

3. Comment as 'anonymous'

Obviously the least ideal, but you can still leave your name and URL in the comment body itself.

Please try these options out - I've tested them myself and they do seem to work. Let me know how it goes - and send lots of complaint letters to Blogger!

Also, I'll send out invites to people wanting to join Gmail (I think you can join by invite only) - send a request email to littlkaren[at]gmail[dot]com.

Survivor comes to South Africa

2006-09-03T06:54:00.001+02:00

OK, I'll admit I only watched about ten minutes of the first episode. That's for two reasons: firstly, I only started watching forty minutes in, because I forgot all about it. Secondly, it was appalling.

Survivor South Africa, well, sucks. From poor sound quality, to disjointed scenes, to boring, bitchy, pretentious contestants, to hundreds of super-corny super-sentimental shots of clouds and water and clouds and water and clouds and water, to an abominable soundtrack - Survivor is another brilliant example of why I'd really rather just watch American TV.

Little's Post of the Month

2006-08-31T09:14:00.000+02:00

Two Candidates

My Post of the Month for August comes from a blog called

*One Child Left Behind

by a man who currently calls himself ducklet

I've been enjoying this blog for a while, because he just writes so.... differently. Have fun!

Previous Posts of the Month:

May 2006 - Winters

June 2006 - Jane and the EOH

July 2006 - Brooke

Confetti

2006-08-30T07:15:00.000+02:00

Last night I went to watch this movie with Rowan and a few friends. It was brilliant! Rowan booked the tickets during the day - I'd never heard of the movie before, but he told me it was 'british' and 'funny'. I was skeptical, imagining something similar to your typical BBC comedy, or something Monty Python-esque. (I'm not really a fan.) But british cinema and comedy has taken a definite turn for the better over the course of the last few years, and Confetti was more along the lines of a film such as Love, Actually. (Actually, one of the main characters was the naked-model-guy from Love, Actually - I can't remember what his name is. Anyway.)

Confetti was laugh-out-loud funny. It's about a competition hosted by a wedding magazine called Confetti. Three couples compete to have the most original wedding, with the winners supposedly getting a house at the end of it. The couples are all extremely different: one pair is a set of tennis-obsessed bad-losers, another is a pair of 'naturalists' living in a nudist colony and wanting to wed in the nude, and the last is a sweet pair of middle-class folks, who share a very deep love of musicals. There is a fourth couple in the form of the wedding planners - a pair of screaming queens who always dress the same, and are absolutely loveable.

So, each of the couples (with the aid of the wedding planners) embarks on putting on the most original wedding ceremony. One couple recites their vows to each pother as they play a game of tennis, another recite poems to each other in the nude, the last couple sings their vows to each other in the style of a 1930s musical.

The characters are bizarre, the weddings end up being nothing short of absurd, but somehow the movie strikes home in a very real way. The director of this movie uses a very similar technique to what Josef Heller did when he wrote Catch-22: she uses comedy and absurdity to highlight some very serious issues. Confetti is not about gimmicky weddings, but is in fact about the trials soon-to-be-weds face. From interfering but well-intentioned relatives, to worries about adjusting one's own lifestyle to fit in with that of a future partner's, to the fear we may not be able to offer a future partner any reasons to stay married to us.

Confetti started out hilarious, and although it never stopped being funny, it became quite sad in places. It was touching and sweet (for the girls), had lots of un-hot naked people in it (for... well... anyone, I guess?), had lots of gayjokes (for the guys - straight and gay), and was generally excellent all round. Go see it.

Thank you, Winters!

2006-08-24T01:14:00.000+02:00

Thank you Winters, for telling me how to heal my blog! I got the old template back, but as I'm posting now, i'm not getting the option to add labels. That's ok though... small price to pay and all ;)

Well done, Blogger

2006-08-23T09:27:00.000+02:00

Yes, it hurts me too: my template is a nightmare. After all that time spent upgrading to that masterpiece that was here only yesterday, now... this.

What happened was that I upgraded to Beta Blogger (All new features! Label your posts! Cut and paste on your template without having to work in raw HTML! Ra ra!). Immediately after upgrading, Sort-Of Here was still fine. I then decided to upgrade my template to access some new features (see below - labels!). Blogger did warn me that many of the features of my blog would be lost, but also said that my template would be saved, so I could access it again. I thought I'd just be able to paste my old template into the template editing window, and everything would be OK. Except, when I went to the Edit HTML button, I got this message:

Raw template editing functionality coming soon.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I can't get my old template back yet. Bastards! So y'all will have to deal with this most hideous blog for a while... sniff! At least I didn't screw up Milf's Anatomy.

Damn Blogger.

My Top Five Blogs

2006-08-15T19:28:00.000+02:00

In honour of Arcadia's Top 5 festival, I've decided to do my own list, and I've chosen my Top 5 blogs. Here they are, not really in order of preference.

1. The Jungle
OK, Jane's currently off air, busy with the big move from Aus to England. And I know I'm always linking up to her and going on about how much I like her, but it's all true. Jane's this weird combination of brilliant writer, fantastic comedienne, and gutter-mouth. You can't open her blog at work. Don't be tempted to. You will be fired. But (for those of you not already highly familiar with Janey), next time you're all safe and sound at home, with no nasty managerial types glaring over your shoulder or trawling through your computer's history, give her a lookup.

2. The Sartorialist
I've linked up to this site before as well. I don't know what it is that I love about it so much - I'm not a big fashion fundi. I guess I love this site because it's full of ordinary people looking great. I also like the way it makes me feel like New York is only a short step away.

3. Passing the Open Windows
Ok, ok, it looks like I picked Arcadia's blog just because she inspired this post. But really, she is one of the first five blogs I check each time I log on. From her very first, virgin post, I knew she was gonna be a star. I was at work, and i turned to my friend, Matt, and said: 'Read here. You're gonna like this a lot.' So, go there.

4. Charming, but Single
This is a girly blog, detailing the dating life of CBS, as she calls herself. I'll admit: when I first read this blog, I was jealous as all hell. Who could possibly make dating and flirting and general female angsty-stuff be this interesting? CBS writes so effortlessly, and the reading is so easy, and entertaining.

5. Fuzzy Around The Edges
Mike's the guy next door. I like him because he's South African, reads well, and is so darn likeable. He's down to earth, and funny. His blog isn't one massive existential quandary, and it's got nice pictures. I like mike's blog because I like Mike so much - he's the student I always wanted to be: living it up at a varsity far away from my parents' home, in a way I like to live things up: not too hectically.

The post below, on how you blog, is still open for comments. I've had so many interesting responses - please keep them coming!

How do you blog?

2006-08-13T15:28:00.000+02:00

(I feel like a bad mother - one who loves one of her children more than the other. It's not that I've abandoned Sort-Of Here, it's just that I have more to say on Milf's Anatomy)

Anyhoo, I've spent a good deal of my Sunday-morning-at-work wandering through the blogosphere. And I was thinking: What is it that makes a good blog? Why is it that some blogs carry on for years with only a few people hitting them a day, whilst others rocket onto the A-list, with thousands of people logging onto them from all over the world? OK, there are some obvious sifting factors: better writers (think Brooke and Jungle Jane, Citizen of the Month and Fitena) are going to get more hits than people who can barely string a sentence together. Fabulous picture and photo blogs, like The Sartorialist and PostSecret, get stacks of traffic with good reason. There are theme blogs, like NHS Blog Doctor, Charming, but Single and So Close which appeal to people because of their content.

I've just listed a few blogs that have done really well. But there are stacks of great blogs out there that don't do as well, and plenty of terrible blogs that get gazillions of readers a day. What's the deciding factor?

Blogging in South Africa is taking off, but isn't as huge as it is elsewhere. I get the feeling that in other parts of the world, people get to work, sit down at their computers, and then read a couple of their favourite blogs, much the same way that they would sit down to read The Onion, or a news site. Am I wrong? If I'm right, it would mean that frequency of posting is more important than actual post quality - people just want something quick, well-written and entertaining to read with their morning coffee. Each post doesn't need to be a masterpiece. What do you prefer: a blog that you know is updated every day, or one that only gets a new post every week or so?

And that brings me to my next question: how do you choose which blogs to read today? Do you keep them all your favourites bookmarked, and religiously check each of them every day, in case there's a new post? Or do you subscribe to a service like Bloglines, which lets you know when a particular blog has been updated?

How do you publicise your blog, and is publicity important to you? I have friends who like to keep their blogmunes small, and who dislike the hassle of too many commenters, but I know other people who thrive on comments. Do you keep track of how many people read your blog? Do you have a stat counter, or are you subscribed to a blog ranking service?

And then, what do you enjoy when reading a blog? Long posts or short? Pictures, photos, cool templates, adverts, links to other sites - how do these things affect the way you feel about a particular blog?

Do tell me, because I'm dying to know. I've enabled anonymous commenting, so all you non-blogger lurkers out there have no excuse for not having your say. Let's hear it.

The Death of Johannesburg

2006-07-30T17:23:00.000+02:00

A friend recently brought my attention to a blog called The Death of Johannesburg. This is actually a collection of blog pages created by a guy who calls himself The Real Realist. Other blogs in the collection include ones called Why South Africa is Crap, and Get Out of South Africa, amongst others. The Death of Johannesburg shows photographs of the ugly side of Jo'burg - the run down and abandoned buildings, the filthy streets, the vandalised apartment blocks and hotels that have become so prevalent in the city. Why South Africa is Crap is 'A blog dedicated to revealing the truth about the failed South African 'Rainbow' nation and monitoring its decline into a Turd World Hellhole' (in the words of the author).

Now, I'm one of those silly, blindly patriotic people who get really upset if anyone says anything bad about South Africa. At first, these blog pages really, really got my back up. I dumped The Real Realist into the bin of people labelled 'quitters, losers and absurd pessimists'. I assumed he was one of the disloyal millions, ready to shirk off this country and slag it to death while he was doing it. I was upset, and offended that someone could so blatantly negatively publicise this country.

But then, I took a look at the photographs. Many of them are of places I drive past on a fairly regular basis. I think we get so desensitised to how hideous our cities have become. Sometimes we'll say 'Gosh, this is a dodgy part of town...' but we don't really see the filth, the decay, and the general corruption of what once was.

The Death of Johannesburg isn't the blog of someone who hates South Africa - I (personally - I may be wrong) think it's the blog of a person who mourns what we once had. Jo'burg used to be the beautiful heart of South Africa, and it, along with many of our other cities, is being systematically destroyed by a government that seems to place no value on culture, learning, art or national pride. Johannesburg is what happens when the people in power care more about politically correct city names than about the buildings and homes of the people living in those cities. Johannesburg is what happens when too-rich administrators care more about having enough people of colour in high-powered companies, than about actually creating manual labour forces out of those who don't have the skills for the aforementioned companies, to revamp the thousands of buildings we have standing vacant, while millions squat and die in tin shacks. Johannesburg is what happens when priorities are fucked up, money is misspent, and the government is a herd of idiots.

It really is a tragedy, and maybe more of us need to become real realists, and work up the courage to speak out about the ruin of the places we live and come from.

Little's Post Of The Month

2006-07-30T16:29:00.000+02:00

OK, I know it looks like I only started looking for my post of the month yesterday, but I promise it's really just a coincidence that my favourite post for July was published three days before the end of the month.

I chose Brooke's post 'My House' because she very eloquently discusses the issue of nasty commenters and readers. I always thought that I was one of the only people who's been slapped with bitchy comments, and also thought that I really took them to heart and was hurt by them far more than what I should've been. I was also really confused when it came to how to deal with comments like these - on the one hand, I feel the commenter is entitled to their say, and that by exposing myself the way I do on the Internet, I should be prepared to take the good with the bad. But then, on the other hand, if someone's going to hurl abuse at me, surely they should do it with the same lack of anonymity that I post with? I take responsibility for everything I say, and people who're willing to shoot their mouths off at me anonymously really tick me off.

Brooke deals with the whole issue really well, standing up brilliantly for the blogger. Go check it out.

Little's Post of the Month June 2006 here and here
Little's Post of the Month May 2006

2006-07-24T22:52:00.000+02:00

Sorry I've been so absent here of late, folks...

Been posting a bit on Milf's Anatomy, if you're keen.

Later...

I love my new template too

2006-07-21T11:52:00.000+02:00

Thank you all for the compliments on my new template! I got it off Gecko & Fly (whose address I got off Brooke's Blog) - I spent ages cutting and pasting and trying to work out which little bits of code represented what on the actual screen.

The picture on Sort-Of Here is one I took of my own feet when I was in the Bahamas two years ago. Unfortunately I had to hack out a pile of gorgeous blue sea to make it fir - and I see I hacked it too small in terms of width because there's a little grey bit on the side there. You guys will have to live that for now - I'm too templated-out to change it at the moment.

The graphic on Little Favourites is a storyline that a good friend of mine, Chris Stamatiou, took, and was kind enough to let me use. He's busy working on a web site of his photographs - will link him up once it's done. (I see I hacked it a bit too narrowly as well...)

I'm still working on the graphic for Milf's Anatomy. I'll hopefully have one by the end of next week.

Happy Birthday Madiba!

2006-07-18T21:31:00.000+02:00

I know it's a cliche, but I'm completely unashamed to say it: I think Nelson Mandela is the greatest man alive. Today he turned 88 - eighty-eight! - and he blew out all of his own candles.

I saw Madiba speak live once, three years ago, at the 46664 Concert at Greenpoint Stadium in Cape Town. The concert's slogan was 'Give One Minute Of Your Life To AIDS' and was similar to the Live Aid and Band Aid concerts, in that it featured plenty of artists all raising money for a very worthy cause.

Beyonce and Annie Lennox and Yusaf Islam and Peter Gabriel and Bono and The Edge were all present, but the person I was most stoked to see was definitely Nelson Mandela. What a man. He was 85 at the time - an age when most of us would either be pushing up daisies or playing Bingo for cake in the old age home. But not Mandela. Nope - he was shuffling away to the tunes (many of which my own mother would find too trendy and too loud) before he alighted onto the stage to give the best speech I've ever heard.

The thing that struck me, is how he just never, ever stops fighting, and how much he's prepared to give and forgive for the sake of others. After conquering Apartheid and the segregation issues in South Africa, after spending 27 years in a minute prison cell, Mandela emerged full of forgiveness, and ready to embrace reconciliation. I don't think I would've been big enough to do that. And then, three years ago, when he could've been chilling in his mansion, munching on free food, and generally leaving our dirty, messy world to its own devices, he was crusading and campaigning against the biggest threat our country has ever faced: AIDS. He doesn't have to be bugged by the epidemic: he'll never contract the virus himself, and will be gone from this world soon enough to not need to care where it's going.

But Mandela does care, and he puts all of his energy into caring, and that's why we love him. Hip-hip hurrah!

It's Not A Competition Anyway

2006-07-17T18:15:00.000+02:00

Today while I was running the back section of my out-and-back route, I heard the heavy footfalls of another pair of joggers coming up behind me, just as I reached the base of the final hill. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a middle-aged couple gaining on me, the woman's bleached hair tied in a high pony, the man's paunch heaving under his shirt. I'm not a strong runner - in the face of adversity I normally just pull over to the side a little and let the other runner pass. But today, for some reason, I just didn't want to be beaten.

I upped my pace. My arms started pumping like mad, my legs stretching out as far forward as they could go. My heart rate raced up to 192 beats per minute (only five beats short of the absolute fastest my heart can pump) and my breathing increased to a two-to-one-ratio. Their footsteps became softer, and after a while I heard the man say 'Ok, let's walk.' At the robot on the top of the hill, I panted hysterically as I waited for the light to turn green, grateful for the break. Here, the couple caught up to me. We avoided eye contact.

When the light changed, I dashed across the road, the couple behind me. Once again, the sound of their footsteps faded, until I could hear them no more. I assumed they'd turned up a side road, so as not to be further demotivated by my diminishing figure. Ha! Smug in my victory, I started to compose my blog post (originally entitled Eat My Dust) and slowed to admire the herd of gemsbok to my right (yes, I know: it is odd that there's a herd of these animals livng next to a main road in Pretoria East).

I don't know were they came from, but the next thing I knew, the couple came screaming past me. I had to turn up towards home, and so there wasn't time for me to overtake them again.

As I crossed the road, I saw them get smaller and smaller as they moved into the distance, a cloud of dust kicked up behind them.

Damn.

Pseudonym

2006-07-14T21:07:00.000+02:00

I nicked this from Vesper's Blog - give it a go!

Rock Star name: (first pet and current street name)

Jake Curlewis

Movie Star name: (grandfather/grandmother on your dad's side and your favourite candy)

Jean Flake

'Fly Girl/Guy' name: (first initial of first name and the first two or three letters of your last name)

K-Milf

Detective name: (favourite animal and favourite colour)

Dog Blue

Soap Opera name: (middle name and the city where you were born)

Leslie Champaigne

Star Wars name: (first three letters of your last name, last three letters of your mum's maiden name, and first three letters of your pet's name)

Mil Kie Sod

Jedi name: (middle name spelled backwards and your mum's maiden name spelled backwards)

Eilsel Eikcam

Porn Star name: (middle name, father's middle initial, and the street you grew up on)

Leslie V. Umgazi (WTF?)

Superhero name: ('The', your favourite colour, and the automobile you drive)

The Blue Golf

Ghetto name: (first two or three letters of your first name, -Shawn/Quan/Quita/Niqua, last name of whatever Prime Minister is on the currency you pull out of your pocket)

kaNiqua Rhinoceros (no Prime Ministers on these notes, I'm afraid)

Oh, and the link is...

2006-07-14T18:21:00.000+02:00

Click here to go to
Milf's Anatomy

It's been a bit rough

2006-07-13T23:39:00.000+02:00

I'm knee deep in surgery, folks. That basically means I don't really think about anything except medicine. Oh, and sleeping. And eating. But I am always, always thinking about food, so that doesn't count.

I've noticed that every now and then some poor, misguided soul still happens upon my now-defunct medical blog, Milf's Anatomy, and have so decided to revive it. Go take a peek at it - my adventures of the past few hours are up. If you like it, maybe I'll keep it. If you don't... maybe I'll keep it anyway.

Later Alligators.

How I Spent My Winter Holidays

2006-07-04T19:23:00.000+02:00

How To Do Cape Town In Six Days

Day 1: Catch an early flight. By early, I mean leave home when it is still dark, and get Wimpy coffee at the airport for breakfast. This will ensure that you have a full day in Cape Town ahead of you. With this full day, you can check out Cavendish Mall (or something similar) while you wait for the last people who occupied your room at The Green Elephant to clear out. You can then mosey on over to Boulders (view above), scoff delicious calamari, and then take a stroll along the boardwalk while you watch the penguins snooze (don't forget to clean up after your pooch, if you have one). In the evening, head over to Long Street for some fantastic vegetarian chow at Lola's, and then take your pick of the stacks of bars, clubs and lounges for some after-dinner entertainment.

Day 2: Take your Long Street hangover on a brisk trip to the countryside, and soothe it with good wine. There are hundreds of wine farms to choose from, and several areas to tour. In the Paarl region, we tried Laborie, Lindhorst, Fairview (pictured above with Rowan and Wendy in the foreground) and Rhebokskloof. This is your first wine-tasting day - so go wild! Polish each of the twenty or so half-filled wine glasses you're offered, and gorge on the free Fairview goat's cheese! You will feel too ill to eat the fantastic food on offer at Rhebokskloof, and later, when you're watching a movie, you'll have the uncontrollable urge to retch. This is all part of the quest to become a wine connosieur, so don't be bogged down.

Day 3: Now that you've stuffed yourself silly for two days, there's no reason to stop. Just... add a little physical activity on the side. Take a nice long drive down to the Cape of Good Hope, and then climb the mountain to find a good spot to have your picnic. Don't forget to bring a bottle of the wine you brought with yesterday along, as well as some of the cheese (if you can't stomach the cheese due to your exertions at Fairview yesterday - bring some other snacks). When you're done eating, take a 'stroll' over to Cape Point. Because it's already mid-afternoon, the mist will be coming in, but this will only serve to cool you down as you hike like a pro up to the lighthouse. Once you're done with the peninsula, drive back to Cape Town along the Chapman's Peak road - you'll be guaranteed a beautiful sunset (above). For dinner, head on over to Diva's in Obz, right across the road from the Armchair Theatre - they have pizza to die for, which is sold at student prices, and not the tourist prices the rest of Cape Town is so well known for.

Day 4: Take a Cape Town day today. There's plenty of shopping in the Mother City - apart from the hundreds of malls, there's also Access Park. It's a whole village of factory shops, and you can get everything from Adidas to Aca Joe to dried fruit and nuts to Cape Union Mart stuff to La Senza underwear. Then - and this you must do - go to Mr Pickwick's Deli on Long Street. Cosy and dark, with all-over pierced waiters and quasi-christian cartoons on the walls (check the picture in the background on my new avatar), Mr Pickwick's sells the bestest milkshakes and sandwiches ever. After this, we headed over to the Cape Town Book Fair, but you won't do that because (hopefully) this abomination will never be repeated. Boring speakers and piles of books sold for the exact same price you can get them in the shops - it was basically a letdown. In the evening, head over for the super-larny Camps Bay. In the winter, most of the restaurants have a two-for-one special. That is, buy one main course and get the second free. This is a bargain. If you go to the Bayside Cafe, have the seared tuna. YUM-O.

Day 5: Fully recovered from the Paarl wine route, you may now do the Stellenbosch one. Hartenburg is a must, and you can give the more touristy places like Delheim and Vergelegen (pictured below) a try. In the evening, break the budget for once and for all with a meal at Die Wijnhuis. While your stomach will be full to bursting, your wallet will be empty. But that's OK. It's your last night, and the food is worth it.

Day 6: *sigh* - it's your last day. The good weather has finally broken and it's cold and rainy, like Cape Town usually is in the winter. It's a good day for the V&A Waterfront, Ocean Basket sushi, and a movie. After that, you can head on over to the airport, and queue for your flight with the rest of the losers heading back to Jo'berg.

Special thanks to Wendy for taxiing Rowan and myself all over the place - we really appreciate it. Check out her post on Cape Town dining.

Little's Post of the Month: June

2006-07-02T14:16:00.000+02:00

It's late, and it's a tie:
Little's Post of the Month
for June 2006 goes to:

The Electric Orchid Hunter
for his post on
Book Collecting
(a subject very close to my heart)

and

Jungle Jane
for her post on
Farting
(because it really made me laugh very hard)

Little's Post of the Month May 2006

Is it just me?

2006-06-25T20:30:00.000+02:00

I've typed up my Cape Town post, but for some reason I can't add pictures. I'm hoping it's just a temporary blogger problem... My pictures are small enough, and I'm trying to upload them the usual way, but it's just not happening.

Why?

Half-Nekkid Thursday

2006-06-22T22:48:00.000+02:00

I thought I would participate in the weird phenomenon of HNT, just this once.

I personally prefer the way Jane celebrates Thursday, though. (I know I've posted this link before)

Cape Town coming!
Later.

Aw... You shouldn't have

2006-06-22T12:09:00.000+02:00

Greetings Bloggers!

Thank you all so very much for the collection you put together to bail me out of jail. I'll confess, though: I was not incarcerated, but have in fact spent the last week prancing around Cape Town. Your donations were, however, put to good use: I bought half a beer. Rowan paid for the other half. (In Cape Town, liquor is valued more highly than freedom, you see, and so a beer is more costly than bail).

Anyhow, sorry for not letting you all know sooner... I'll do a post on my fabulous holiday soon, and then you may all turn green with envy.

Bye for now!

xoxox

Kleptomania

2006-06-15T18:32:00.000+02:00

kleptomania /klep-tuh-may-ni-uh/ (n.) recurring urge to steal

Although I've probably met plenty of them in my life, the kleptomaniac that stands out most in my mind is the one I met about four years ago, when I first started working in bookstores. She was a well-dressed lady in her late fifties. I saw her often in the shop - she bought lots of fiction, and some nice hardcover history and biography. She was always ordering books, asking about new releases, and generally being a model customer. Then one day, I sold her a whole pile of books. I mean, a pile. And I could see the security guard watching her. And the manager. The customer paid up, and as she exited the store, the guard asked to search her bag. The woman went ballistic. She refused. The guard insisted. Eventually, she ran back to me in the store, and hysterically shoved something into my hand and said, 'It's this. I took this. Can I go now?' I looked at my manager, and she nodded. I told the lady it was ok, and she ran out. I opened my hand, and there was a miniature bottle of Dettol hand wash. The woman had stolen the freebie from a health magazine.

I once stole a story. When I was 6, and in Grade One, we wrote stories once every few weeks. The average six-year old's story goes: 'My dad is big. He cuts the gras. He luvs me and my bruther and my mommy. He snors at nite.'

My essays were just like this for the whole of Grade One. Then one morning, near Christmas time, my teacher was sick, and the substitute read us the tale of a family of squirrels who lived in a tree trunk and did all sorts of warm squirrelly, christmassy things. Then my teacher came back, and told us to write a Christmas story. All my little friends wrote 'Father Krismis brings us pressents. The rayndeer land on the roof.'

I wrote the squirrel story. Some of the names were changed, and the plot was modified, but it was essentially the same. I just wanted to write a real story, not a collection of silly sentences. My classmates told the teacher that the sub had read us the story, but I was the class goody-goody, and she believed me. I got two gold stars.

I haven't ever consciously stolen words again. I've perhaps borrowed a phrase that I loved particularly, or quoted from a book, in a way that the listener might think I came up with the witticism. I've stolen one other thing: I once nicked a chocolate from the university cafeteria on a very busy day. And that's all, I think.

But the squirrel story really haunts me. I shouldn't have done that.

What have you stolen?

The Block Continues

2006-06-12T19:26:00.000+02:00

Those of you who actually read my blog on a regular basis (and don't just stumble onto it occaisionally after I've commented on your blog), may have noticed that I've taken a bit of a blogging break over the last few weeks. I guess I just feel a little blogged-out. Does this ever happen to any of you? Sometimes I just feel so overwhelmed by the gazillion new posts on bloglines, and when I try to post myself, I just create this nasty, lumpy, porridgey type crap I know people are just going to comment on to either be polite, or to get me to check out their blogs. I hope I'm not alone here... I feel like a failure.

There's a blogger called Jan, a journalism student, who is going to use blogging as the topic for his June exam. He's got a few questions far you lot to answer - so go ahead and comment... Give the man an A.

Last night I saw David Gray at the Dome at Northgate. It was such a beautiful concert: David Gray is honestly better live than he is recorded. Before the concert I was telling a friend that Gray is a bit like Sting: everyone's fond of him, but he's nobody's favourite. A little while later, I told Rowan that I think David Gray is the kind of person whose music you love privately: I don't mean that you're too embarassed to admit you enjoy him (such as you would be to admit you enjoy... ABBA, for example), but that he's not like Goldfrapp or the Basement Jaxx or Alanis Morisette or whatever - bands and artists you enjoy as part of a group: he's someone you listen to intimately, by yourself or with one or two others. It's like he listens to your heart and then explains to you what that feeling inside of you is. His lyrics are ridiculously corny: 'Feels like lightning running through my veins, every time I look at you', is a classic, but his voice and music give them a pathos that removes them from their cliche. So I'm taking back what I said about David Gray sort-of being in the league of Sting: I think he's far above that.

My weekend

2006-06-06T12:13:00.000+02:00

I have blogger's block. I'm sorry.

This weekend I went to Dullstroom with Rowan and some of his friends. It was icy cold, and the only warm place in the bungalow we stayed in was under the duvet covers. The best escape was to go tramping down to the trout dams - there was a kind of wholesome beauty in the chilly air that frizzed out my hair and made my eyes water. It felt good.

I didn't think I would enjoy fly fishing, but found that I loved the watching the line, silver in the sun, streaming in long, ever-increasing loops. The only sounds were the cows tugging on the grass, the occaisional trout breaking the dam surface, and the hissing of the line. I didn't catch anything - I don't have the patience to sit and wait for the fish to bite, so I just tugged the fly back in quickly each tme - but casting made me feel good, and I kept doing that until my stomach got the better of me and I went back to the bungalow for breakfast.

On Saturday afternoon I took a walk down past the bottom dam. There I discovered a little settlement - I'm guessing maybe twenty or thirty people lived there. Except for the modern clothes, the place wouldn't have been out of a place a hundred years ago. There was one large mud hut, painted a bright turquoise, its currogated tin roof weighted down with heavy rocks. There was an outside kraal area, and chickens flapped in the dust. People were coming up from the ravine carrying long bundles of wood on their heads. A couple of children shrieked and waved at me. I wondered how many of these tiny little villages we have dotted about this country, nestled in valleys miles from the nearest tar road, hidden away from us.

It was a gorgeous weekend. I'm so lucky to have Rowan - there are so few people out there who have the energy and the willingness to break the routine and go out and do this sort of thing.

This Really Happened

2006-05-31T20:38:00.000+02:00

Last year, I did my obstetrics and gynaecology rotation. The final exam consisted of two orals, the first in obs, the second in gynae. The topic of the gynae oral was ammenhorrhoea and infertility. Ammenhorrhoea is the failure to menstruate, and can happen for many reasons. One of them is breastfeeding, and this is due to a hormonal cycle that repetitive nipple stimulation sets up, suppressing ovulation.

My examiner was a distinguished old professor from the University of the Witwatersrand. He was a nice man - cordial and friendly, and told me right at the outset to not be nervous, and that he wasn't out to trick me. He spoke with the old-school South Africa english accent - the one of headmasters and writers.

I launched into my series of questions, starting at the brain-causes for ammenorrhoea. Was the woman exercising heavily? Was she losing weight? Was she very stressed? Did she have any signs of a brain tumor?

I moved lower down. Was she breastfeeding? And uh... were her nipples being excessively stimulated in any way?

'What do you mean, Miss Milford? I've already told you she's not breastfeeding.'
'Uh... um... any other.. stimulation..?'
'Such as?'
'Oh... you know..' (I'm blushing)
'Do you mean the kind of stimulation that might occur during sexual intercourse, such as her partner sucking or nibbling or tweaking elaborately on her nipples, or applying clamps to them?'
'Uh... yes... that's what I mean.'
'Point taken Miss Milford. None of that is happening to her.'

I got a distinction for the rotation.

Little's Post Of The Month

2006-05-31T08:12:00.000+02:00

I know I'm being a dirty little blog slut, but I can't help myself. I would like to announce

Little's Post Of The Month

for May 2006...

*drumroll*

The award goes to Winters for his brilliant piece on the dangers of one-night-stands before Valentines Day.

Hurrah!

When you want to Loathe, but have to Love... (Part II)

2006-05-29T19:40:00.000+02:00

David Mitchell: Loathsome Genius

I know that it may appear that I'm the snotty kind of reader who won't touch anything that hasn't at least had a whiff of prize, but I'm not. I promise I enjoyed Cloud Atlas because it's an absolutely fantastic book, and not just because it was nominated for the 2004 Man Booker Prize. Cross my heart.

I'll admit, I picked Cloud Atlas for two reasons: the first is that I really like the cover (you have to judge a book on something, and the cover is a good place to start. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise.) Secondly, whilst I was trying to decide on my next read, I came across Cloud Atlas in 1 001 Books to Read Before You Die, which is as decent a recommendation as any.

The book is all about circles and cycles. It is in fact composed of six short stories, set in different eras and different places (the first story is in the form of the diary of a nineteenth century American, travelling in the Antipodes; the last story is told by a goat herder living on some unknown island, in a time long after the collapse of the society we know today). Each story is abruptly ended midway, right at its very climax, until we reach the last story which is told in full. Mitchell then completes each of the stories we have started until we reach the end of the book, travelling in a full, beautiful circle. The stories themselves seem unrelated, but fit into each other like a perfectly-crafted marioschka doll - Mitchell even makes reference to such a doll in the book. The threads all focus on very different people, coping with very different situations, but the protagonists in each story have one thing in common. They're all heroes, fighting for a particular ideal in a society that seems intent on destroying itself.

Mitchell's writing is amazing. He switches styles six times in the book, and each style fits him like a skin. He is funny one moment, and painfully deep the next. He can describe the ordeal of standing in a queue to buy a ticket for a London train, and the ordeal of the sweetness of new love, and be equally convincing in both. In one instance he is the devout Adam Ewing, the next the godless Robert Frobisher, and yet he loves his characters equally, we know he holds them all close to his heart. He can link the most absurdly different settings in the most curious of ways - using a simple turn of phrase or the echo of a metaphor - and somehow makes us realise that while we are cosmically nothing, we are also cosmically gigantic.

When I read authors like David Mitchell, I think that maybe I'll just never write again. What would the point be? Why would anyone bother with the drivel of ordinary fiction when there is such loathsome genius out there?

Read him now

When you want to Loathe, but have to Love... (Part I)

The meme continues...

2006-05-29T19:34:00.000+02:00

The rules are: you answer the interview questions on your own blog, and the first five people to comment get interviewed by you in turn.

Missy:

1. How exactly did you and Joel meet?
2. What are your top three top fives?
3. For which magazine are you the future cover-girl, and why?
4. Which was your favourite story in Cloud Atlas, and why?
5. Your favourite books list could be my favourite books list - do you think that means we're the same kind of person? What qualities win you over when you're assessing someone for friendship potential?

Zen Wizard:

1. I'm a South African - here we only have left wing and right wing. Please explain to me, like I'm really, really dumb, what the difference is between 'Republican' and 'Democrat'?
2. What's so dirty about the South?
3. Which world religion is your favourite, and why?
4. Which smell sends you back to your childhood? (stolen from The EOH - thanks)
5. So... uh... is there someone... special in your life?

Kirstin:

1. Tell me about the best day you've had in England so far.
2. What made you decide to go to England, and when do you think you'll come back?
3. What are your ten favourite songs at the moment?
4. If you could choose one other person to be, who would that be, and why?
5. Who is your ideal man?

Niel:

1. Why a toothbrush?
2. I'm stealing this question from ~d, but what do you love and hate about Holden Caulfield?
3. Do you honestly, truly believe that Lock, Stock is better than Snatch? Why?
4. What kind of a journalist do you see yourself becoming?
5. If you had to live either in a world with no pictures, or a world with now words, which would you choose, and why?

Pixie:

1. How did you and Dixie meet?
2. What do you want to be when you grow up?
3. How did your mum and your dad meet?
4. What's your idea of a Big Night Out?
5. Who is your favourite cartoon character, and why?

I know I've asked some of these questions in previous interviews - forgive me.

The Electric Orchid Hunter Interviews Karen

2006-05-26T16:11:00.000+02:00

Here are my answers to The Electric Orchid Hunter's questions. I'll interview the first five people to comment, and then I'm out of the chain.

1. When did you realize you wanted to become a doctor?

It's hard to say exactly. I remember as a little kid thinking about what I wanted to be when I grew up, and thinking that I didn't want to be a doctor because that's what everyone else wanted to be. In high school, I went through a brief stage of rebellion when I wanted to be a paeleontologist or (don't laugh) a geneticist. But I think I just always knew that medicine was for me. I just sort of gravitated towards it.

2. Tell us what you think Michel Houllebecq will do next.

I think he'll get a Yugoslavian sheep farmer to defecate on him, and then call it art. Whatever, I don't care. The man should be sent to Siberia. Forever.

3. What smell immediately takes you back to your childhood?

Hmmm... Camphor cream always makes me think of my grandmother - her soft hands, the way she'd let me snuggle up against her boob, the way she'd pat out rythms against my leg with the arm that was around me.

Theatre always takes me back, because of all the operations I had. The smell of Sevoflurane is particularly potent: I remember one anaesthetist telling me I was going to get to see the magic balloon when he saw me on a pre-op round. I was so excited - the magic balloon! - and then when I got to theatre it as just the gas mask, pumping me full of Sevo, making my limbs heavy and turning my mind to cottonwool. I was so cross.

And then the smell of chlorine always makes me think of those long summer afternoons with my brother hopping in and out of the pool, eating Enterprise hotdogs and faking drowning. I loved those days.

4. At which point did your relationship with Rowan advance to the next level and who initiated it?

Well you know I've always been a complete sucker for Rowan. I don't know when exactly things changed, but I think the hike we did at Queen Rose was a major factor. He told me recently that on the hike he saw a different side of me - one that wasn't so abrasive and annoying. Ouch! The advancement was sort of mutual, although it was Rowan who started asking me to go out with him and his friends more often.

5. Is there hope for Africa?

When I think of Africa, I think 'It can't get any worse, so it must get better.' And if things are going to get better, there's hope, right?

I think there's definitely hope for some parts of Africa - I'm eternally optimistic about South Africa: I believe we have a fantastic democracy, we've got stacks of progressive thinkers, geniuses and pioneers. True, we face some problems, but I believe we will overcome the bulk of them eventually. I think our major problem is a mere lack of organisation - not a lack of funds or brains, but a lack of well thought-out plans and strategies.

And I think there's hope for places like Mozambique, Kenya, and even Botswana if they ever manage to overcome the AIDS crisis. But places like Zimbabwe, Congo, and the Ivory Coast? I'm not so sure. We can only hope they don't suck us down with them.

How To Pickle Your Grandma

2006-05-24T19:59:00.000+02:00

I was busy inflating the blood pressure cuff on a patient the other day when he asked whether or not I'd read God's Pharmacy yet. This question offended me a lot, so I inflated the cuff to 200mmHg and left it there until the patient's arm turned blue and fell off. OK, it didn't fall off, but the patient did start making those squeaking noises patients do when they think the doctor might be fucking up, but don't want to question her authority.

Overseas readers will not have been exposed to the abomination known as God's Pharmacy (also available in Afrikaans as God se Apteek, written by Herman Uys, available from Bambi [snigger] Books), but I'm sure they'll have heard of something similar. Ambiguously sub-titled 'You are what you eat, and you are what you don't eat...', it works on the premise that God would not have created a particular disease without creating a cure for it. It then goes on to describe the cure for each and every disease known to mankind in a whopping 133 pages.

Anyway, one particular remedy in the whole sorry publication reminded me of Iwan's grandparents. God's Pharmacy recommends you drink a teaspoon of Cayenne pepper each morning, to fight off your hypertension, but Iwan's oldies came up with a whole cure of their own for this malady.

Originally from The Netherlands, the old folks are eternally devoted to homeopathic medication, and shun modern medicine (although they're real proud of their grandson who's about to become a doctor). So Grandma naturally turned her nose up at the ACE-inhibitors and beta-blockers prescribed by a GP when she was diagnosed with high-blood pressure. She toodled on for months untreated: her risk for stroke, heart attack, kidney failure and blindness increasing daily. She drank the cayenne pepper, piles of different herbal teas, all to no avail. Systolic over diastolic remained resolutely above 140/90. And so Iwan gave Grandpa a stern talking to, telling him that when Grandma turned into a vegetable, it would be completely Grandpa's fault, and so Grandpa better take action. And he did. He pulled his last homeopathic trick out of the bag.

Grandpa knew of an old boereraad that declared weed the ultimate cure for a raised blood pressure. A man of normally unimpeachable morals, Grandpa would never normally dabble in the shady underworld of narcotics, but decided to make an exception for the sake of the life of his loved one. And so he fired up the old Datsun, headed off for the parking lot round the back of the local Spar. He had a brief altercation with the thirteen year old who was selling the dope, feeling that R10 was a ludicrous amount to pay for one miserable joint, but his fear of being pounced upon by the ever-watchful SAPD forced him to quickly pay up and get the hell out of there.

Once home, Grandma and Grandpa did nothing so base as to actually smoke the joint. They unravelled it, and then carefully sifted the seeds from the leaves. They then planted the seeds in a little pot with 'Home Is Where The Heart Is' painted on the side, which they placed on their kitchen windowsill. The leaves they heated in some hot oil, and then added a pinch to a shot glass of cane. Ten minutes later, Grandma was happy as a clam, although her blood pressure was wholly unaffected.

In spite of the failure of the concoction to work as an anti-hypertensive agent, Grandma and Grandpa concluded that the potion must have some use - I mean, anything that made you that happy must've had some therapeutic effect, no? So they watered their little Pot plant every day, fed it plant food, and watched gleefully as it unfurled into a glorious specimen of marijuana-hood. They carefully plucked the leaves, dried them out, and then either added them to Grandpa's pipe or simmered them off in oil to add to Grandma's before-breakfast shot of cane. The poor dear only eats a small portion of muesli for breakfast, by the way, and it would appear that this little helping of bird-food is no match for the rocket-fuel she imbibes before it.

My point was meant to be that homeopathic remedies don't work. But thinking about the two little pickled grandparents, I can't help but wonder if they're not better of as they are - spending their days laughing like hyenas, shedding all their worries and old-age fears, and generally living it up in a way most of us are just a bit too nervous to do.

Does My Back Look Big In This?

2006-05-21T19:29:00.000+02:00

Now, before y'all think I managed to photograph a hunchbacked member of the Klan, let me explain that this is in fact a picture of my boyfriend Rowan, poncho-clad on our hike this weekend. That's right: instead of slogging it away on the overcrowded streets and in the over-filled malls of Gauteng this Saturday and Sunday, we packed our bags and headed for the green Bushveld of the Northern Province, to go hiking with my dad and a bunch of friends.

We discovered on the hike that we all have the power to control the weather: as soon as we wanted it to stop raining, we just had to put our raincoats on, and to get it to piss down, we just had to take our ponchos and splash-covers off. Miraculous.

Anyway, the hike was stacks of fun: we clambered up mountains, tumbled down hills, navigated huge bodies of water, and were terrorised by bugs the size of my foot (I've inserted a small picture of a particularly corpulent shongololo for your viewing pleasure).

I always find that I'm not particularly keen on hiking in the week leading up to it: buying and preparing all the food, packing the rucksacks, trying to arrange to take Friday afternoon off, the long drive, the thought of the dust and sweat and miggies and backache. The day before the hike I always think I'd rather stay at home for the weekend and sleep late, slob out in front of the TV and eat plenty of takeaways.

But when I get there, it's always fantastic. From the Friday night braai to the Saturday morning bacon-and-eggs-on-the-skottel, to the fresh morning air and brilliant scenery as we start out on the hike, to my lunch-time snooze next to some gorgeous river, to the Saturday evening fire and beer and chilli and marshmallows and sleep-of-the-dead, to more scenery on Sunday morning, to that first hot shower when we get back to camp, to the cheeseburger I've earned and eat with relish on the way home - hiking is really one of my favourite things to do ever, and I'd recommend all you city-slickers out there get yourself a pair of boots and go climb a mountain.

That said, I'm stiff as hell and slightly more tired, and am going to go hop under my nice down duvet right now. I can't believe I've got a ward round at 8 tomorrow morning...

Night Terrors

2006-05-17T11:16:00.000+02:00

My parents have not slept in the same room for years. This is because of the unholy rucus my dad causes every night while he sleeps. It's not just snoring - when most of us are curled up warm downy nests of duvet, my dad is being assaulted by an invisible tribe of goblins. They hack at his legs with pickaxes, they drill through his skull with corkscrews, they drive little needles into his eyes, and they light miniature bonfires on his belly, around which they perform evil little goblin dances and invoke the spirits, asking them to disrupt my dad's sleep.

This is naturally all very painful, which is why my dad screams, flails, moans and kicks in his sleep every night. This of course has a hugely negative imapct on my mother's sleeping pattern, which is why my dad has been permanently banished to the guestroom down the passage.

I remember one particular incident from my childhood. My brother (Richard, two years my junior) was something of a ninny in his younger day, and so would routinely go and hop into bed with my folks in the wee hours of the morning. He was sleeping peacefully between the two one night, when a particularly vile pixie (no doubt an evil cousin of Pixie Sprinkle's) decided to drive a stake into my father's right calf. This hurt him a lot, and he jumped from the bed, screaming. My brother, a sadist as well as a ninny, giggled deliriously as my dad hopped around the bedroom screaming 'Eina! Shitshitshitshitshitshitshit! Jissus!' Richard in fact laughed so hard that he farted*. It was at more or less this point that my father, in his manic prancing, stubbed his toe. I guess this final assault on the man's pain centre was just too much for him, because he fainted dead way.

With my dad lying prone and near-dead on the floor, my mother (who had been feigning sleep up until this point) rolled over and told Richard 'Tell your father to stop being such a goddamned baby.'

The next morning at breakfast, my mother was grouchy, my father was haggard and pale, and Richard was well-rested and wholesome looking. When my dad gave him his orange juice, Richard looked at him and said: 'You know Daddy, it was really, really funny when you fell over last night.'

*Actually, this is not so unusual. Richard would regularly fart when laughing, which is why I have a morbid fear of being tickled today. I am always afraid that while my boyfriend is playfully poking my ribs, I'll let one slide, and never live it down.

Everyone Has a Love Life

2006-05-14T21:35:00.000+02:00

Relationships and sex are a hot topic in The Blogosphere. Almost every blog I've ever visited has featured at least one or two posts on matters of the heart (or of the genitalia).

Everyone has different issues: While EJ battles it out against the EoE (Ex of Evil), Missy's so besotted with her new squeeze, Joel, that she barely has time to post anymore. Faltenin loves to get hot under the collar, but Jungle Jane has almost sworn off sex. Chickybabe's going at it long-distance, Wendy's in love with a man she can never have, and Candace and ~d are smug marrieds*. Wombat and Midwest are eternally on the prowl, while Mike can't decide whether or not it's worth it asking someone out.

But my favourite relationship blog at the moment is without a doubt jeut. Jeut's blog is a chronicle of a breakup, and all the crap that goes with it, in the form of a cartoon. Heartbreaking and funny at the same time, the thing that really gets me about Jeut is how he manages to hit the nail bang on the head, in three frames filled with stick-figures.

Jeut was kind enough to let me borrow one of his strips to beautify my blog. Go take a peek at his site - there are plenty more.

Lunch-time heals all wounds

*I don't really think you're smug - 'Smug Marrieds' is just a Bridget Jonesism that I adore...

For All The World To See

2006-05-14T12:42:00.000+02:00

On Wednesday, a Johannesburg teen hanged herself from her parents' security fence using a dog leash. Suicide, and especially teenage suicide, is always tragic, but the thing that made this one particularly horrific was the fact that she apparently filmed herself whilst doing it. A child psychiatrist said that this form of suicide note was 'bizarre' and 'unusual', and that he'd never heard of it being done before. Yesterday, the Pretoria News featured an article detailing the teenager's membership to a UK blogging sight, and published extracts from some of her posts.

It is bizarre that the girl actually wanted her loved ones to see her dying in such a terrible fashion, but I don't find it very surprising. You may not believe it, but abstract thought isn’t properly formed until the age of seventeen in most people, and teenagers often don’t comprehend the finality of death – they subconsciously see suicide as a revenge act, and as a way of making a statement. That’s why we see kids shooting themselves in school cafeterias, slitting their wrists at parties, and hanging themselves from the rugby posts on their school sports fields. They often fantasize about their funerals, and imagine how bad all the people that hurt them will feel when they’re gone. That’s why it’s not so incredible that this girl chose such a big way to go out.

What I do find interesting, however, is the girl’s blogging history. I think most of us can acknowledge that blogging is an introverted form of exhibitionism: we express ourselves in ways that we usually struggle to, we say whatever it is that we want to, and we don’t have to worry about what people are going to think. We publish incredibly dark secrets, we post the erotic fantasies we could never utter out loud, we tell of our losses and disappointments. In a sense, a blog is like a giant PostSecret card, except for the fact that people can comment on it and tell us what they think of us. And in all my blogging experience, I’ve never seen a nasty comment.

This girl blogged about her depression. She posted about the things that made her unhappy, about the people who had let her down. She openly discussed how she felt about suicide, and virtually declared her plan to kill herself. Her intentions were there for all the world to see, and then she did it. And filmed it. For all the world to see.

I know it’s warped to think this way, but I wonder if she didn’t see her little home video as the final chapter in the story she had written on her blog. I once saw a post where someone asked, ‘Do we live to blog, or do we have lives so that we’ll have something to blog about?’ It’s a good question. Do we get so caught up in the fantasy selves that we have on our sites, that it overflows into our real lives, and we start to change into the person out blog needs us to be?

The real tragedy of this story is that this girl was obviously ready to talk. In fact, she was begging to talk. If only she’d chosen to have her conversation with somebody that could actually have helped her, instead of the vast emptiness of the blogosphere, and the hundreds of people that hear our cries without being able to do anything about them.

When you want to Loathe, but have to Love...

2006-05-12T19:43:00.000+02:00

My Top 5 Reasons for Loathing/Loving Zadie Smith

1. Zadie Smith published her best-selling, award-winning debut novel, White Teeth, at age 24, right after graduating from Cambridge. Most of us are still fretting about our zits, love-lives, lack of income and lack of inspiration at the age that Zadie became an overnight success and recognised literary genius, lauded by the adjudicators for the Whitbread prize, applauded by ther likes of Salman Rushdie, and adored by the general British public.

2. Zadie Smith is downright gorgeous. With her toffee-caramel skin, huge brown eyes, sexy-silky hair and supermodel cheekbones, Zadie Smith gets even me, a full-blown hettie, hot under the collar. She's thin and sleek, and has a mouth that's either going to kiss you into ecstasy or lash you with some well thought-out witticism.

3. Zadie Smith is considered by Time magazine to be one of the hundred most influential people in the world today. Whilst most of us think we're pretty cool if more than two people read our blog, Zadie is an international hero and commands respect from people who would slag off their own mother if they thought it would get them column-space.

4. Zadie Smith's latest book, On Beauty, was short-listed for the Booker Prize last year. She was thirty years old. Even Salman Rushdie was one million years old before he bagged his Booker for Midnight's Children. Zadie has spewed out three books over the last 6 years, each of them to more acclaim than the previous one.

5. Zadie Smith can actually write:
'The headmaster of Glenard Oak was in a continual state of implosion. His hairline had gone out and stayed out like a permanent tide, his eye sockets were deep, his lips had been sucked backwards into his mouth, he had no body to speak of, or rather he folded what he had into a small, twisted package, sealing it with a pair of crossed arms and crossed legs' - extract from White Teeth

Don't you just despise her?

Read her now

Karen interviews...

2006-05-12T09:36:00.000+02:00

Right, now it's my turn to pick on people!

The first two people to comment were Mike and Faltenin, and I nominate Arcadia, Wendy and Leon.

Mike:
1. What's your favourite memory from your trip to Dubai?
2. It's you, a desert island, and one other person. Who would you choose that person to be, and why?
3. What are your favourite ten songs on your iPod?
4. If you had to meet one blogger in real life, who would it be, and where would you take them?
5. Tell us one thing about yourself that nobody knows, but you wish everyone did.

Faltenin:
1. What is it that you actually do?
2. Tell us, in a hundred words or less, what you love about Her (I know this is unfair, seeing as you've dedicated almost an entire blog to the task, but humour me).
3. What's your favourite poem?
4. For which magazine are you the future cover-boy, and why?
5. Tell us one dirty little secret.

Arcadia:
1. Where did you come from, and where are you going?
2. What's the story with you and EJ?
3. If you could make only one movie in your life, what would it be about?
4. What's your favourite thing about yourself?
5. What's your least favourite thing about yourself?

Wendy:
1. Define, for once and for all, your ideal man. (You're not allowed to say 'Dave Gahan')
2. Give me your top three top fives. (Just call me if you don't understand that question...)
3. What exactly is your ten year plan, missy?
4. You've been kidnapped by first years, and they won't let you go until you get a tattoo. What is it, and where?
5. If you could be anywhere right now, where would it be, and who would you be with?

Leon:
1. Explain your masters project to us, but pretend we're five year olds. Tell us in a way that makes us want to go home and tell our mothers.
2. What's the best night-out you've ever had?
3. What was your proudest moment?
4. Who is your favourite book-fiction character of all time? And why?
5. If you could change just one thing, about anything, what would it be?

OK, the deal is that you answer these questions in the form os a post on your own blog. Then, you interview the first five people to comment in turn.

~d interviews Karen

2006-05-11T20:05:00.000+02:00

Here's my interview with the fascinating yummy-mummy ~d. I'm supposed to interview the first five people who comment in turn, but I'm gonna change the rules a bit (don't frown - this is my blog, and I can make my own rules. Hurrah!) So, the first two people to comment will be interviewed by me, and I'll nominate the next three.

~d' questions to Karen were:

1. What do you like or dislike about Holden Caulfield?

Well, the thing I like about Holden Caulfield is that I think he represents almost every single one of us at some point in our lives, a point most of us experienced in late adolescence. He's on that terrible precipice between the hedonistic life of a child, where consequences and meaning and fulfilment beyond the superficial aren't really important; and that point where you suddenly realise that life has to mean something, and you have a sneaking suspicion it doesn't.

Holden's also sweet - the scene where he visits his baby sis Phoebe back in their New York flat is one of my favourites ever.

I guess to dislike - Holden's a touch arrogant, a bit self-absorbed - but what teenager isn't?

2. Where and when was your profile picture taken: in detail, please.

This picture was taken underwater it the fantastic Caribbean sea, just off Rose Island, which belongs to the Bahamas. I went to the Bahamas at the end of my fourth year of medicine (2004) to do what is known as an elective - one month spent in the specialty of your choice (mine was obs & gynae), doing some sort of research project. As you may well imagine, I didn't get much research of the academic kind in...

The day on Rose Island was brilliant. I went with a German elective student I'd met there called Bjorn. We spent the day water-kayaking, snorkelling, snoozing on the beach, and gorging ourselves on fried chicken, peas 'n' rice and melon. It's one of my favourite memories of the trip.

3. What is your favourite Counting Crows song - and what memory do you have tied to it?

I think Hard Candy is my favourite - I love how nostalgic it is. I love the way Adam Duritz pines back to times he perceives as being 'better' than the one he's in now, but also recognises that he's romanticising the memory.

As for who it reminds me of: I was involved in the first of two long-distance relationships at the time, which also happened to be my first serious relationship. The lines You send your lover off to China, and you wait for her to call / You put your girl up on a pedestal, and you wait for her to fall sort of said it all for me.

4. On April 16 you wrote about warm coins: how do you feel about warm chairs?
I hate warm chairs! But even more than that, I hate warm toilet seats. Yucky!

5. What stores do you like to shop; what style of dress do you prefer; what magazine are you?

I'm pretty casual - I wear jeans 90% of the time - even to the hospital, where I know I should dress more formally. I'm a middle-of-the-line shopper, shopping at the kinds of stores you find in malls that mass-market their clothing and knock off international trends. It sounds terribly boring, I know.

As for a magazine... I think I'm sort of an Elle or Marie Claire girl?

How I'm Going To Meet Ryk Neethling

2006-05-08T19:06:00.000+02:00

Some of you may have seen the recent article in the Huisgenoot telling how Christina Storm and James Small managed to conceive their child, and about Christina’s new luxury apartment in Randburg. This article is an excellent example of just how inaccurate the Huisgenoot really is, because Christina’s pad is not what I would call luxurious. ‘How do you know?’ I hear you all sneering. Have I actually been there? The answer to that question is no, but I know exactly what Christina’s flat looks like, because it is the one directly below my boyfriend, Rowan’s (he thinks this fact is the most interesting thing about him at this point in time).

Now, the flats are very nice – they’re excellently located, are very spacious, have lovely kitchen fittings and have smashing little balconies or gardens, depending on whether or not you’re on the ground or first floor. But some less luxurious aspects of the apartments tend to manifest themselves from time to time, particularly on Saturday mornings. Firstly, the geyser that dwells in Rowan’s ceiling tends to whip itself into action early in the morning, humming and clanking and giving the general impression that the world is about to end. Secondly, the flats have the all the privacy of a goldfish bowl – I’ve spent several Saturday mornings (after being awoken by the Armageddon Geyser) watching Rowan’s neighbours have sex whilst enjoying a pleasant cup of coffee.

But how is this all going to help me to meet Ryk?, you may be asking. Well, Christina owns a little pooch called Nunu, who looks like a cross between a frog and a yorkie. One night, I arrived at Rowan’s place to discover that Nunu had escaped. I narrowly rescued Nunu from the plastic bag she was gnawing, and breathing through my mouth (yes, even supermodels’ dogs roll in birdshit), carried her to Christina’s front door, where I rang the bell. When she answered, I proffered the wriggling, hiccupping Nunu, saying ‘I think this is yours.’
‘Oh,’ said Christina, ‘that’s so naughty!’ in a voice so sultry I almost thought she was going to spank me, and nearly wet my panties.

This now means that I am separated from Ryk by only four degrees:

1. I have almost been spanked by Christina Storm
2. Christina has had sex with James Small
3. James has done manly rugby-type stuff with Francois Pienaar
4. Francois co-starred in an advert for Lays Chips with Ryk Neethling

Thus, Christina just has to invite me to a party to which she’s also invited James who has invited Francois who has invited Ryk, and my plan will all fall into place! Isn’t it beautiful?

Suicide Saturday

2006-05-05T10:43:00.000+02:00

Around this time last year, I was rotating through family medicine, which involved doing calls in casualties after hours. I was in casualties one fine Saturday morning, feeling morbidly sorry for myself, when my friend Irene (the maxillo-facial registrar on call) called me to operating room 1. There, a pair of paramedics were wheeling in a white, thirty-something man on a stretcher, who was crying and groaning and wailing something nonsensical. His face was obscured by an oxygen mask, and every time he exhaled, a spray of blood blew out into the mask, and all the little droplets were gathering to form little rivulets which trickled out of the mask and down the man's chin. It was at this point that I decided to go hide behind a drip stand in a corner. This strategy didn't work. In a matter of seconds, a nurse was beckoning to me - 'Excuse me, student, this man is tissuing. He needs a drip'.

So I edged along the wall to the patient, drip-set in hand, trying to avoid eye-contact. I stood in front of the man, fastened my tourniquet and started slapping his wrist. I'd just secured my cannula, and was opening the drip, looking up at the drip bag to see if it was running, when I heard a splash and felt a moist warmth around my left ankle. The man had just vomited about a cup of aging, oxidising blood all over my shoes.

When the patient first came in, I thought he'd been a victim of violent crime - robbed at gunpoint in his home somewhere, or perhaps hijacked on his way home from a big night out. In fact, the man had attempted to kill himself by placing the muzzle of a gun below his chin, pointing upwards, and pulling the trigger. Folks, this is not a good way to try to commit suicide. In order to die by bullet to the brain, the bullet must hit your brain-stem - an area of about ten cubic centimetres - which is very small. This man had made the worst mistake ever in trying to shoot himself. Most bullets coming from this trajectory go nowhere near the brain - they tear a hole throught the floor of the mouth, the tongue and palate, and then ricochet off all of the hard facial bones. In this case, the bullet had lodged in the frontal bone (or forehead) right above the man's right eye. The right eye itself was destroyed - apparently the bullet had gone straight through it before finding a place to rest.

If you're shot in the face, you won't get surgery immediately. The surgeons first wait for all of the swelling to go down before they start reconstruction. This make take three to four weeks. So for this man, Irene did some initial debriding and I did the suturing. She cut all the singed, dead skin and muscle in the floor of the man's mouth away, and then I did my best to stitch up the hole. He was only the second person I'd ever stitched on.

I remember cleaning all the dried blood off his face with wet gauze, before allowing his brother to come in and talk to him. While his brother was talking to him, I was prepearing a shot of pethidine. His brother didn't hug him, or tell him it was gonna be ok. He didn't say any of the things we would usually say to someone we loved, who had just suffered such a major trauma. In a low voice, his brother said 'What the fuck have you done now? What the fuck were you thinking? You're fucked up. Crazy.' The man I was busy injecting was a big guy - tall and muscular. He was probably a strong person, the kind who didn't depend on others, and dealt with his own problems. But in that moment, curled up on the stretcher, swollen and disfigured, being lambasted by his brother, he looked like a three year old boy to me: terrified, bewildered and lost.

I can't remember what the patient's name was, and I don't know what happened to him afterwards. After that morning in casualties, I never saw him again. I don't know what made me think about him today - the incident was quite a long time ago, and I've seen plenty of bad things since. I think, maybe, that we (or I) internalise a lot of the emotions we experience when immediately confronted with this kind of thing, and maybe our subconscious brings them back to us later to deal with, at a time when we've got a little distance and space.

2006-05-04T20:41:00.000+02:00

ok, i know it's crappy just posting links, but i have nothing to say, and you've gotta check this one out (warning: not for those who disapprove... of... stuff) in fact, check out jungle jane's whole blog. always cracks me up.

The end is in sight

2006-05-01T19:18:00.000+02:00

I'm so terribly happy this weekend is over - this is now the sixth day in a row that I've worked in the shop, and I'm sick of it.

My earlier post on my misgivings about having children, and Arcadia's subsequent comment, reminded me of This be the verse by Philip Larkin - a poem that Leon introduced me to.

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.

OK, so I know a few of you have taken the Personality Disorder Quiz, and have been so freaked out by the results that you didn't want to post them. I just want to say that this quiz is like the ones you do in the Cosmo to see if you and your boyfriend/girlfriend are gonna stay together forever - it's not real. So, if your result says you're a psychopath, but you're pretty sure that you'd feel bad if you hacked someone to death with a cheese grater, you've got nothing to worry about.

I was randomly wandering around BlogWorld, this fine evening whilst at the bookstore, and I discovered that there is a heirarchy in our Democratic Republic of Blog. Apparently, the popular clique of bloggers are known as A-listers, whilst the rest of us fall somewhere between B- and D-listing. Now, I knew that some blogs were more popular than others. Of course crap loads more people are gonna read the log of Zach Braff than the blog of Karen Little. But I didn't know it was a competition? I didn't know we could find out our page ranks, measure traffic , and count hits (ok, i suppose the hit counter you'll see in my sidebar should've been a clue... but I thought it was just a... gimmick?) I honestly (and obviously naively) thought that blogging was all about a global expression of ideas and a meeting of minds... but it turns out it's nothing more than a base popularity slash money-making contest. I feel so disillusioned.

Have a good week folks. At least it's only four days.

(PS: A customer just asked me for The Mongoose Who Sold His Ferrari. Fellow booksellers, cringe with me)

Five Links

2006-04-30T17:33:00.000+02:00

For a weird blog, check out this guy, who is obsessed with nudie pics...

Check out this funny post, from a guy who realised at a young age that he preferred men...

I'm not all that into fashion, but The Sartorialist is a Google blog-of-note by a guy who patrols the streets of NYC, taking pictures of well-dressed people. It made me feel all New Yorky, and gave me a bit of that up-and-leave feeling.

For those of you who thought that my last post made delivering babies sound like the best job in the world, read this older post of mine, which might expose the darker side of midwifery.

And this is my favourite postcard from this week's edition of PostSecret.

Babies

2006-04-29T20:27:00.000+02:00

There really is nothing in this world that can compare to a brand new baby. I've seen and held what must be close on a hundred by now, and I can never get over just how fantastic they are. Even covered in amniotic fluid, meconium and lochia, squirming in a pool of blood and faeces, there's something so miraculous about these perfect creations that seem to appear out of nothing.

We all know the science of how babies are made, about how the sperm penetrates the ovum, how the genetic material is mixed, how the little marula moves down the tube and implants itself in the cosy nest of a woman's endometrium, and how the cells start differentiating into cartilage and skin and blood vessels and nerves. Many of you have probably seen those weird ultrasound pictures of babies before they're born, and some of you may have felt a baby inside a woman's womb - you might have felt it roll over, stretch, or kick. Maybe you've even been able to feel out the different parts - the head, the bum, the legs and arms. Maybe you've listened to the baby's heart beating, quickly and out of sync with its mother's. I've done all of these things, but even with all these refractory clues to the baby's existence, I'm so surprised when the real thing suddenly pops out. One minute, it's a lump in somebody's abdomen, and a soft squishy feeling under my gloves at the top of somebody's vagina, and the next thing, it's a pair of scrunched up eyes, two teeny nostrils in a tiny nose, and an indignant, rooting mouth. And then, it's a grey (hopefully becoming pink), wriggling, squalling mini-human. Amazing! Th black people in the hospitals I've worked believe that the mother must announce the sex of the baby, and after that we all clap and say 'Happy Birthday!' Mothers never care about the goo that coats their new-borns - they always give them big, sloppy, open-mouthed kisses and squash them to their chests. They always thank someone - even those who have never prayed before in their lives. A new, screaming baby makes even the most hardened midwife smile, and most women become oblivious to the cooling fluid around their buttocks and the tears in their perineum when they're holding their babies. The whole scene is warm and mushy, and really makes you think 'Gosh, I wouldn't mind getting me one of those.'

But today, I went to visit a friend who gave birth yesterday. She has a beautiful little baby girl - all soft and pink and downy. She's the first person I've ever known who I've really indentified with to give birth. By identify, I mean that's she's close to my age, comes from a similar social background, and has a similar lifestyle to the one that I have. In short, she could almost be me. And it was just terrifying. There was a point when the baby started crying, and she just couldn't get it to stop - she looked at her mother with one of those 'What the fuck am I gonna do now?' expressions. And I suddenly realsied that your child's entire life must be like that - full of fuck-what-now moments. Can you imagine anything scarier than having this tiny little creature being completely dependant on you, or having to weigh up every decision, not because it's potentially harmful to you, but because it could hurt the person who really does trust you most? Can you imagine the eternal doubt and second-guessing, and can you imagine the horror of actually making a mistake?

Babies are nice and all, but I'm still trying to not screw up my own life, and it would just be a disaster if I had to take responsibility for somebody else's as well. I guess I'll just stick to loving the feeling of giving somebody else their newborn for now.

i am the greatest...

2006-04-29T18:44:00.000+02:00

following J's lead, i took the personality disorder test that i linked to from Milf's Anatomy...

Disorder Rating
Paranoid - Low
Schizoid - Low
Schizotypal - Low
Antisocial - Low
Borderline - Low
Histrionic - Low
Narcissistic - Moderate
Avoidant - Low
Dependent - Low
Obsessive-Compulsive - Low

Take the test - tell us all what your disease is!

Our Little Blogmune

2006-04-28T21:13:00.000+02:00

So, it's another friday night at old EB Woodlands... Matt, next to me, just asked a customer if he had a Fanatics card, and the man said 'Nope, never been much of a joiner...' I don't know why, but that was the most depressing thing I'd heard all night.

So, I think I'm gonna ditch Milf's Anatomy... What do you all say? I don't think it's really interesting, and the little I have to say about medicine these days could probably be included in this blog without becoming too overwhelming.

Matt and I were just talking about blogging, and I was so suprised to learn that he doesn't know any of you out there. The Electric Orchid Hunter, Matt and myself all know each other because we work at a bookshop together, and the Orchid Hunter and I know Wendy, cuz we've been friends for ages, but outside of this little cell, there are no connections to this bigger blogmune we find ourselves in. Who are all of you people? And where did you come from? And how did we find each other? Who of you know each other in 'real life'? We should draw a chart, like the one they had on the L-Word...

If y'all wanna read something terrifying about crime in South Africa, check out Wendy's blog. It's brand new! Two posts only! C'mon... break her comments-from-strangers cherry...

Grumpy

2006-04-27T17:56:00.000+02:00

I'm trying very hard not to be an abject misery... After a week of feeling vaguely morose, I've finally realised that I'm grouchy as hell because this weekend, this lovely lovely long weekend, that only really happens once a year, I'm stuck working in this god-awful bookshop while Rowan has gone to Sabie Park with a bunch of friends. Every single day this weekend - that's Thursday through Monday - I'm standing behind this counter trying to help retards who can't remember the author or title, but know that the book is blue, while Rowan is having braais and drinking beer and just generally having piles of fun.

I know it's nobody's fault, but I'm really grumpy about it anyway. I had to work, and I'm not pissed off that he didn't stay home so that we could be miserable together, but I really wish I was there. It's just not fair.

(Stamps foot and pouts)

The Unanswerables

2006-04-26T19:35:00.000+02:00

I found an old journal today - it was the one I used in my year of Great Depression. There were lots of reasons for me to be sad, but in retrospect I think the reason that I was depressed, and the reason that I couldn't deal or cope with any of my stressors, was that I was smoking far too much weed, and was in a nasty cycle of amphetamine abuse and withdrawal. Don't take drugs, kids.

Anyway, the journal: the one entry was this long list of questions. It's eerie how many of them I now know the answer to: many questions focussed round the dope-smoking Australian I'd left behind in England, and was busy conducting a long-term relationship with. Were Brad and I meant to be? No. Would Brad and I last till the end of the year? No. Would I ever see Brad again? No.

And then others are things that, when I think back, I didn't realise were important to me. I'd just started working at the bookshop in Brooklyn, and my night-staff manager was Wendy, and Rowan was a shift leader (essentially also my boss) - and I barely knew them from a bar of soap. And yet, there in my journal are two little lines: Does Wendy like me? Does Rowan like me? Ok, at the time, Rowan really didn't like me, but today Wendy is my best friend, and Rowan is my boyfriend.

But the questions that bug me are the ones that I still can't answer. Why does my chest hurt when I'm sad? Will I end up happy? Will I end up alone? Will there ever be a friend that will stick with me forever? At the moment, I don't have any friends that I've known for more than three years. Somewhere along the road, I always manage to become disillusioned with people, or to alienate them. Is this ever going to stop happening? Have I made the right career choice, and will I make the right choices in the future? Will I ever have kids, and will I raise them ok? And then there are the questions that will be answered and asked over and over again - will Rowan and I make it till the end of the year? Will we make it after that? Does Wendy like me today? Does Leon like me today? Will they still love me, even on the days they don't like me?

I know it sounds that I'm having the existential quandary of a fourteen year old here, but it just struck me as strange that the questions that most bugged me when I was most unstable, I still have no answers for, here at my most stable. I guess the nonly difference is, is that now I feel like I can deal with the lack of answers, I can live with the mystery.

Two Hate Blogs

2006-04-23T19:34:00.000+02:00

Weird and Sort-Of Lame: I Hate 7de Laan

Weird and Sort-Of Cool: I Hate My Flatmate

Peruse at your leisure...

My Weekend

2006-04-23T17:58:00.000+02:00

On Friday I did my final psychiatry oral - I think it went OK, and psych should be done for now - yay! After the exam I 'rewarded' myself with an appointment at the hairdresser. The previous day my mom had been particularly nasty about my hair (think: medium length, slightly wavy, dyed a faded store-bought red with long, dark, ugly roots). I explained to her that I couldn't afford to fix my hair due to my miserable student status - and she fell right into the trap, telling me she'd pay for necessities like grooming! So I spent her R500 (a ridiculous amount, I know) at the hairdressers', and now have shorter, black hair.

Then I went through to Jo'burg, to see Rowan (thanks to Leon here for letting me swap Fridays with you - now I get to see Rowan for two whole nights in a row every second week) and we went to Lusito Land with Byron and Annemarie. Lusito Land is the big Portuguese festival thing

(ok, if i may interrupt myself here: the cutest little girl (about 4 years old) just came up to the counter with a bead set priced at R62. she gave me 25c - i said that unfortunately what she wanted to buy cost a bit more than that, and she said 'it doesn't matter', still staring at me with huge eyes, waiting for me to pack her beads into a bag for her to take home... shame)

in the south of jhb - sort of similar to the german Beerfest? Anyway, the food was delish, and we guzzled far too many caipirinhas and laurentinos and the entertainment for the evening - Dr Victor and the Rasta Rebels (if you wanna be happy for the rest of your life/ never make a pretty woman your wife) - seemed smashing :)

We woke up a bit hungover on Saturday and then proceeded to do absolutely nothing for the rest of the day, except format my prehistoric iPod and watch taped episodes of Grey's Anatomy and Boston Legal. On Saturday night we had a braai and played backgammon, and then

(another interruption: peggy's just shown me an article in the new cosmo called 'Blog On' - all about this moreish new fad called 'blogging' - hurrah!)

we got stuck into Rowan's new box set of Scrubs. The first season really is the best - Jach Braff is a legend. Sigh....

We went to bed exhausted from doing nothing all day, and then Rowan proceeded to shake me awake no less than three times - twice because I was having a nightmare (I remember the second one - a psychiatric patient was stealing my dominoes because she wanted revenge on me for stealing her children - odd) and once because I seemed to be having a bit of trouble with my breathing - apparently all three times I sounded like I was being exorcised. I wonder how often I do that?

And now I'm at work, which I enjoy these days because I get to blog. So all in all, it's been such a brilliant weekend. I don't normally like writing all-about-my-day, but this weekend was such a good one that I'd like to hang onto it for a while.

I think I'm getting sick - I've got that sore throat blocked nose shaky feeling that means a virus is busy replicating inside me... Maybe that's why I was making exorcist sounds?

Anyway - happy sunday folks. Hope the next week is good...

Sleaze and Cheese

2006-04-20T16:48:00.000+02:00

Today whilst I was trying to find ways to procrastinate (I'm supposed to be studying psychiatry, which I'm writing tomorrow), I went for a quick drive to 'clear my head', and happened upon a new adult shop that has opened in my area. Thinking that there's no better way to procrastinate than by checking out porn, I decided to go in. Now call me naive, but I've never actually been in an adult shop before. The vast majority of the shop was filled with porn DVDs and mags, but one wall was covered with interesting apparatus, such as Sailor Sam's Suction Penis-Enlarger, Lady Midnight's Luminous Love Beads, butt plugs in a variety of shapes and colours, rubber duckies (ew), vibrating eggs (remote-controlled and hand-held), dual-headed dildos, strap-on penises, penis sheaths with 'orgasmic pearls' at the base and synthetic vaginas (lifelike in both appearance and texture). A particularly interesting apparatus was the 'Clitofing' - this pure PVC supersized thimble is available in baby blue, pink, and flesh colour, and is designed to 'stimulate the cliton's and vagina, getting a woman excited more and quicker as usual' (sic). Another interesting innovation is the 'Bouncy Pleasure Ball' - essentially a beach-ball with a battery-operated dildo built into the top of it, it has handles for safety's-sake. So you blow the ball up, impale yourself, and away you go! Is there no end to the pleasure you can have by yourself?

In other news, I discovered yesterday on Rick Stein's Food Heroes, that buffalo mozzarella is made out of real buffalo milk. Apparently they have herds of the beasts roaming around in Devon. Who woulda thunk it?

The thinks you can think...

2006-04-16T18:31:00.000+02:00

Call me weird, but one thing that really gives me the creeps is the feel of a coin that has been warmed up by another person's sweaty palm. This particular outrage is something I'm subjected to on a daily basis in my line of work (bookselling, that is). Ew! I don't know, but body heat is something personal, something I only want to receive from my dog, my boyfriend or certain selected family members. And maybe if we were stranded without fuel in the middle of a blizzard, I would consent to huddling with a few close friends. But otherwise people, please, keep your heat energy to yourselves.

It looks like depression is doing the rounds, eh? Both Kirstin and P@ are feeling glum...

(This postcard is courtesy of PostSecret)

It's a postcard worth pondering... although I have an idea that pondering is something something that Kirsten and Pat are doing a little bit too much of. It's not that I'm trying to promote shallowness or anything, but when thinking starts to take up too much of your time, you lose out on other things and then all you've got left to do is think about how you have nothing to do. It's a sick cycle...

Last night in my idle TV watching, I happened upon 'The Fabulous life of Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen'. Did you know that their company, Dualstar Entertainment, has a net value of more than a billion dollars? That's really something, when you consider that all they really do is dress and accesorize teeny-boppers. Life isn't fair, is it?

kidzpositive

2006-04-15T15:51:00.000+02:00

my friend anne has a brother called david who is doing a rally from th UK to gambia to raise money for HIV positive kids. check out this site and do something good...

YUM-O!

2006-04-15T11:38:00.000+02:00

If you've been paid recently and are looking for a special place to eat, I would definitely recommend Geet Indian Restaurant, in Brooklyn, Pretoria. My idea of a roti has always been the greasy quasi-pancake type thing they sell at Woolworths, but last night I was fortunate enough to be enlightened. Despite the large number of Indian people living here, Pretoria has so few authentic Indian restaurants, and I think we suffer for the lack. It's true: many shopping centres have your Indian delis where you can buy your indian spices, and all fleamarkets have plenty of samoosas and curry-balls on offer, but there's no proper Indian cuisine around for miles. Anyway, I think Geet partially makes up for that. The first impression of Geet is the balcony decorated in hundreds of little fairy lights, which immediately makes you wanna go in just to take a peek. Stepping into the restaurant is a little weird - they've picked a pink theme, and their all-black-male waitering staff are all very neatly decked out in pink shirts, ties and beige chinos. The menu is the length of a short story, and yes, it is difficult to make up your mind. Do yourself a favour: have more than one course, because the food really is delicious, and the menu carries plenty of variety. The food is packed with flavour, as spicy as you want it, and more than you can eat. I will admit that it's a bit over the budget for students, but not ridiculously expensive - starters go for around R25, and mains go for around R70. And, you get the added benefit of your pee smelling like coriander the next morning. Yum-o.

a lesson in lingo

2006-04-14T10:00:00.000+02:00

a lesson in lingo

so, earlier this week, iwan and i had an argument with regards to the correct terminology for clothing made out of denim, and how afrikaans people always get it wrong. this came after iwan bought his first pair of jeans ever. the conversation was sort of:

karen: oh, anria, iwan bought himself a nice pair of jeans
anria: oh, i've never seen iwan in a jean
iwan: ya, but i liked this one

AAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!

ok, firstly, jeans are like scissors: though they are one thing, they are born in pairs. therefore, a pair of jeans can never EVER be referred to as 'a jean' or 'this one'. secondly, the word 'jean' must never be used. you may only say 'jeans', and if you really must refer to the fabric thet jeans are made of, you may say 'denim'. 'jean' is not a word. it's not even in the dictionary. i know because i checked. therefore, there is no such thing as a 'jean jacket' or a 'jean skirt' - it is either a denim jacket or skirt. i promise.

these rules are then extrapolated to jeans of a particular brand. it's not 'a guess jean' - it's 'a pair of guess jeans'. the one exception here is levi's - you need only say 'levi's', they are not referred to as 'levi's jeans'.

and then finally, afrikaans people all over, please PLEASE don't ever say 'a jean pant'. this is the ultimate in uncool, and uttering this phrase will most certainly result in your immediate social death.

Milf's Anatomy

2006-04-13T20:53:00.000+02:00

I just couldn't do it - I couldn't shut up about medicine. so I've created a whole new blog all about my final year as a med student, tackily named Milf's Anatomy - me being Milf, and the title being a cheap rip-off of the show Grey's Anatomy. Hopefully y'all find it a bit more realistic than the show...

Later alligator

No Glove, No Love

2006-04-04T13:10:00.000+02:00

Who would've anticipated this one - Jacob Zuma, the former deputy president of South Africa, has just declared that he had unprotected sex with an HIV positive woman because "I had knowledge, as a layperson, that chances were very slim you could get the disease... just because you had intercourse with a woman you'd be infected." That's it folks! Melt down those damn condoms and mould yourself a dildo - you can't get HIV from someone else who has the disease just by sleeping with them!
It's true that the risk of contracting HIV from one isolated act of intercourse is very slim - in most cases. If however, the infected person that you sleep with has a sky-high viral load (such as one who is seroconverting, or slipping down the slope towards AIDS); or if you have a wound on your genitalia (or anywhere else that might come into contact with the infected person's fluids); or you are currently suffering from another sexually transmitted infection (as people who regularly engage in unprotected sexual intercourse with a variety of people are prone to), your risk for contracting the virus goes up. There aren't a couple of million people suffering from this disease because they all mainline heroin with shared needles - you get it from SEX.

Richard's Birthday

2006-04-04T12:16:00.000+02:00

My brother had his 21st this weekend - the theme was Angels and Demons, but most of his friends just dressed up as goths.

It was a cool party, although I felt sort of old at first. A pile of Savannah, red wine and sambuca cured that, however. It's just a pity that just as I was really getting into the whole thing, Richard decided to start puking and generally passing out, and I had to take him home. His friends draped him over their shoulders in order to walk him to my car, but for some reason they also pulled down his pants so that everyone could see his Bear undies and skinny white thighs. I sort of took offence to this, and grabbed the friend propping him up on the right, slapped him, and told him to pull my brother's goddamned pants up. I'm still trying to work out if this was an appropriate response or not. I'm also trying to figure out whether or not I would have laughed at my brother along with all the other party-goers had I been sober. I guess it's a question I'll never be able to answer.

So these are all pics from the party - Richard is the one in black, holding a beer. I'm the one with an angel wing obscuring my forehead. The pair of popes are Iwan (on the right) and Rowan (on the left). And I don't know who the two guys in paper bags are, but I liked their outfits.

Knowing isn't beautiful

2006-04-03T18:47:00.000+02:00

Isn't it smashing that the Zuma rape trial has set South Africa back by about 50 years in attitudes regarding HIV and AIDS?

We all knew it was gonna be juicy when the news broke that Comrade JZ, as he's known to an ignorant few, had had unprotected sex with an HIV positive woman. But I didn't know how wonderfully graphic the testimonies would actually be, and I certainly didn't anticipate the fest of name-calling and bitch-slapping that has ensued.

The first nail in the HIV-enlightenment coffin came on the cross-examination of the witness by Kemp J Kemp. After the judge ruled that she may be quizzed on her past sexual history, as it provided a setting for this case, Kemp proceeded to question the woman about exactly where she had aquired the virus. The woman quite fairly replied that she didn't know, but Kemp then translated this to mean that the woman had slept with so many people that she couldn't even remember them all. Essentially, he said that the fact that the woman had HIV meant that she was a ho'. Because we all know that HIV is sent by God as punishment for all those who have loose morals and loose underwear.

I'm anticipating more nails in the testimony of Jacob Zuma himself this week. The first will be when he's forced to disclose his status - that's right folks, it's everyone's business, and the doctors are lying when they tell you that your status will just be between you and him or her. The next huge blow will be when Zuma also admits to having slept with piles of women before: ergo, he's a man-whore, and that's why he's got HIV. He's being punished for his dirty, dirty sexual habits. The defense might even take it a step further and imply that he has HIV because he's a rapist.

The HIV status of both the defendent and Zuma should never have played such a huge role in this case. It should have been purely about whether or not the sex between the two was consensual. But now we've taken the whole thing up the wrong path, and have in turn sent out a message to the millions of people suffering from this disease in this country: don't believe what the doctors, the counsellors or the activists tell you. HIV is a dirty disease that you get through doing dirty things, and if you reveal your status like you're being encouraged to, you will be discriminated against, stagmatised and ostracised.

We should be so proud.

The Big Comeback

2006-03-30T20:29:00.000+02:00

So, I'm back - I was sort of guilted into posting again by The Debaser when he added me to his Blognation... and here I am.

I guess I stopped blogging because I decided that I have absolutely nothing to talk about except medicine, which is depressing. And boring. Nobody wants to read about sick people all the time, and I don't particularly want to write about them. There are the occaisional mind-boggling moments, but mostly medicine is a lot like accounting: a whole pile of repetition that makes your boyfriend yawn when you bring it up over drinks. Don't get me wrong, I like medicine, but I'm sure that if you loved it as much as I do, you would've just gone and studied the damn subject yourself.

I'd like to offer you something more than me moaning about me moaning about medicine, so I'll tell you about my friend Anria's blind date, with a work colleague of Rowan's. Anria is a friend of mine from varsity, who just can't keep a relationship down. Her problem is quite a simple one: she's got a super-strong personality. Now, we all know that no girl likes to go out with a man weaker than her. We also know (although you may try to deny it) that there is no such thing as perfect equilibrium in a relationship (for those of you who think that perfect equilibrium is in fact present in your relationship - you're probably the weaker half. Sorry to break it to you). Anyway, and therefore, most girls need to find a man slightly stronger than themselves in arder to be happy. The trouble is, when you have a herculean personality such as Anria, there are very few men stronger than you. It's a sad fact.

Strong as she is, however, Anria does get lonely, and wants a boyfriend. So Rowan and I thought she should give a guy from Rowan's office, Divan, a try. They have stuff in common... i guess... they're both Afrikaans, they both smoke, they're both human... it's a good start? Well, they went out last night, and it didn't go too well. Divan committed a list of offences that men attempting to net an intelligent women should carefully note:
1. He has a weak chin
2. He talked about sport. A lot.
3. He told her his favourite band was Lifehouse, after she told him she loved Diana Krall
4. He didn't know who Tori Amos was, when she told him she was her favourite artist
5. He said he was too scared to go work overseas
6. He still lives with his parents, and isn't really planning on moving out
7. He played her a song on his cellphone (this is a HUGE no-no with girls. We don't like things on cellphones. Not songs, not pictures, not hilarious video-clips that we just HAVE to see)
8. He acted offended when she couldn't go to the engagement party of a person she'd never met before, because she already had plans for Saturday

On the plus side, she did say he was a pleasant guy. And Divan told Rowan they stayed at the restaurant till 1am, so it couldn't have gone that badly. But I don't think Anria will be falling for any of my set-ups again any time soon.

The Big Ward in the Sky

2006-01-19T11:26:00.000+02:00

Upon arrival at the hospital this morning, one of my patients was nowhere to be found. The previous day the man had been virtually comatose, diapered-up in his cot and living on a tube-feed while he shook uncontrollably from his HIV dementia, but I decided to just double check with the sister as to his whereabouts in any case. Her response was to draw her index finger across her neck and point upwards. I nodded somberly, but the cute little junior student who was following me around like I was gonna crap gold at any second said 'Oh, did he move to Ward 8 upstairs?' Yeeeesss dear...

In other news, Anria and I were examining old man in clinic yesterday when he politely asked if he could scratch his ear while we listened to his chest. We couldn't exactly say no, so the man had a nice long dig while we attempted to auscultate his mitral valve. Upon extraction of the finger from the ear, the man laid his hand on his chest, and as hard as we tried, we just couldn't look away from the long strands of wax trailing from his fingertip and coating his cuticle. It was at this point that we decided to give up medicine and instead become trophy wives. We told this to the token lesbian couple in our group, who informed us that by becoming doctors we were becoming token wives, and then giggled insanely and called each other noonoo (puke!). How I wish I still lived in happy-little-feminist land.

The Things I Like

2006-01-10T20:12:00.000+02:00

This is my third favourite ee cummings poem:

i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite a new thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh . . . . And eyes big love-crumbs,

and possibly i like the thrill

of under me you quite so new

although on some days, like whenever I read it, it is my favourite. If I were to list them out though, my favourite is my sweet old etcetera (because that was the first poem I ever liked) and my second favourite is i carry your heart with me, even though it's slightly ruined because everyone loves it and it was used at the end of the movie In Her Shoes (which I haven't seen because I'm not a fan of Cammie).

To be honest, I don't like poetry at all, except for ee cummings. What I do like very much, however, is prose, and more specifically fiction, and more specifically, novels. And one of my favourite novelists ever is Peter Carey, and I was quite upset to discover that Leon has a copy of The Tax Inspector waiting for him in the back. This can mean only one thing: Leon is collecting Carey, and soon he will have a complete collection, and the next time I go to his house I will see the complete collection on his shelf, and it will give me angina, because I can never seem to afford the complete collection of anything. I don't begrudge Leon his collections, though, they took quite a lot of time and effort (and money) to amass.

My two favourite Carey books are everyone's favourites: Oscar and Lucinda and True History of the Kelly Gang. I'm ashamed to say that the only reason that I bought Oscar is that it had a picture of Ralph Fiennes on the cover, but it worked out great in the end. I like Ralph Fiennes a lot too, although the only good movie I've ever seen him in is The English Patient. There's a title where both the book and the movie were brilliant. Michael Ondaatje also wrote Anil's Ghost, but i didn't like that so much.

It's almost the end of my work shift now, and I'll be home just in time to watch The L-Word, which is my favourite TV show at the moment. I can't say why. I think it's maybe because each of those girls is a real girl we all know, or each of them has a bit of ourselves in them.

Back on the wards

2006-01-05T14:37:00.000+02:00

I think people sometimes think I see 'The Real World' in a way that they don't. They think that because I'm exposed to blood and sickness and death on a daily basis, that I know how things really are, that i'm in a constant reality check. This is not true. If anything, the hospital is the furthest place from the real world that you can get.

I noticed this especially on Tuesday, my first day back at university. I was flung unceremoniously into the Internal Medicine wards. Internal Medicine (affectionately referred to as 'Medicine' by a lot of geeks), is the dumping ground of the hospital. If you can't cut it out, deliver it, stitch it up or bury it, and if it's older than 16, it goes to internal. So, it's TB and pneumonia and heart and liver and kidney failure. It's diabetes and stroke and overdose and what-the-fuck-is-this. Where Surgery and Gynae and Paediatrics get two wards each, Medicine has six.

Today was particularly delightful. I arrived for the ward round, only to find the consultant (the boss) and a registrar (a sort of under-boss) standing around the bed of a patient that I, the student (the slave), was meant to be looking after. The registrar was telling the consultant all about some valve lesion that she'd proved the patient didn't have by making him squat, squeeze her hand, blow his nose and fart (these are all valid tests). The consultant nodded cheerfully and asked my what I'd found on examination. I hadn't examined the patient yet. I nearly vomited, and then casually applied my stethescope to the patient's chest. I heard no murmur, and said so. There was an awkward silence, and then the five registrars and three consultants who were now standing around the bed assured me that there was a very loud and obvious murmur, and proceeded to discuss it for half an hour. It was like the Concorde going over - the six students and house doctors (the servants) stared blankly ahead as the bosses heatedly discussed whether or not the murmur should get louder or softer when the patient farts. Then they moved on to the next bed.

The next patient was 'immunocompromised' (a fancy way of saying he has AIDS ) and had pnuemonia. The boss-in-chief, the Professor, began to percuss the patient's chest. A hushed silence fell. Iwan started sweating in excitement. You must understand: watching the Prof examine a patient is like watching Michelangelo paint the Sistine Chapel. Almost none are privileged enough to witness it. It was at this point that the psychotic patient from two beds down began to scream into the pay-phone 'Captain Stoltz! Captain STOLTZ! CAPTAIN STOLTZ!!!!!' It's rude to laugh at psychotic people, so I didn't, but let me say: the man was clad in baby blue pyjamas, with big black leather belt tied round his waist. He was wearing humongous rocky sandals, and wailing hysterically into the phone, while a student nurse attempted to coax him away. The consultants decided it was time to end the round, grabbed their suitcases, and departed for the golf course. We started the ward work.

You see, medicine isn't the Real World. It's the Unreal World, where things happen that most of us can't really reconcile ourselves with. Going to the mall after going to the hospital is like activating the Improbability Drive - you come out at the other end feeling like a bowl of petunias, not really sure why you're falling through the air. Nothing in the hospital is real, it's all just ridiculous.

Pet Hates

2005-12-18T09:46:00.001+02:00

Whenever I work too much at the bookshop (ie: during the holidays) the little things that annoy me about my fellow human beings become huge things that make me want to annihilate humankind.

1. People who don't know the title, author or ISBN, but do remember that the book was blue and the size of a normal paperback.

2. People who want to know why we don't sell stamps, pens, airtime, clipboards or camera film. It's the same as the reason we don't sell pasta: we're a BOOK shop.

3. People who run into the store as the doors are closing because they 'just quickly want to look at something'

4. People who put their children on the counter whilst paying and giggle 'cuz he's just so cuuuute!' when the child shovels the pen and the fridge poetry and the mini-greeting cards into his mouth.

5. People who leave their toddlers in the children's section to play, and then don't bat an eye when the kid rips out the pages of Guess How Much I Love You or chews on the Where's Spot? books.

6. People who read David Icke

7. People who, while you're helping another customer, say 'Excuse me, I just have one little question...'

8. People who tell me crap about their families that I don't want to know

9. The person who just came in and offered to lend me his bible

10. Dumb people

My day and stuff

2005-12-14T18:06:00.000+02:00

Tonight my parents are driving down to St Francis Bay, where we have our holiday home. My mom was all in a tizz today cleaning and packing and getting generally hysterical about the tiniest thing. Rowan and I are driving down next wednesday - I don't know if Rowan is more nervous about spending Christmas with my parents, or a full twelve solid days with me... hehe... So, next week before we leave, I have to pack up the house, and my mom told me over and over and OVER again to close every window and throw away everything in the fridge and unplug all the appliances - I practically have a medical degree: you'd think she'd trust me to perform these minor tasks without difficulty, no? And yet: 'Karen, don't forget you also have to throw the potatoes away. And unplug Richard's computer. And the bathroom windows...'. Jeez...

I read Angels and Demons today - what a pile of shite. Sorry Dan, but the whole pope - and - nun - having - a - baby - through - artificial - insemination bit was just a tad too silly for me. Now I've started The Witch of Cologne by Tobsha Learner. She's actually a writer of erotic fiction, most famous for her book Quiver. I got the book off my mom's shelf - she's a closet lover of pornographic fiction, much as she likes to deny it :) Anyway, The Witch looks pretty good. I'm already Into It.

And that was sort of all. Holidays are good, but they make me feel sort of blah. House-wifish. Redundant. Bored and boring. It'll be better when we go down to the sea. I don't mind being bored and boring on the beach.

Thirty hours in Hell

2005-12-12T11:19:00.000+02:00

On Friday night we all went to Rowan's new flat in Bryanston for drinks and tortillas. We got talking about the best and worst moments of the year, and at the time I really couldn't think of my worst 2005 moment, but I've got it now.

It was sort of a looking-glass moment, I guess, like the moment in the Neverending Story when thingy looks in the mirror to discover his true self. It was during my community obstetrics rotation, which is when we're sent to hospitals all over the country to catch babies. I was originally sent to a little district hospital, but the women weren't popping quick enough, so I elected to spend a night at another secondary hospital a bit further south, to try to catch up (we had to deliver 20 babies in a three week period).

Now, the labour ward at that hospital actually IS hell. You thought if you were bad you got sent to a hot place where you were made to do manual labour? You're wrong. If you're bad when you're alive, God turns you into a pregnant woman just going into labour, and then he puts you down on earth near this hospital, with no medical aid, so you have to go there to deliver. And if you're really bad, he turns you into a medical student, and sends you to this hospital to deliver the babies of the people who were just kind-of bad. At that hospital, there are roaches. They don't have the right kind of drip bags, so only if you really bleed out and go into shock will they give you the Ringers' Lactate that you need. If a student says 'Sister, I'd like to deliver this baby', it means that no midwife will enter your cubicle while you are in labour, because sisters don't like to work with students. This is bad, because students aren't very experienced, so if your vagina tears through to your rectum because the student was too scared to cut an episiotomy, the student will also have to stitch you up again. If you come on a bad night, when the sister who 'Does not tolerate screaming in the labour ward' is working, you'll get a smack if you groan when the labour pains get a bit too much. Like I said, that hospital actually is Hell.

So, off to Hell I went, fortunately with my friend Anne, who had been hanging out there for the last two weeks. I knew it was gonna be shit when I introduced myself to the head nurse and she said 'We don't want you here. Just catch your babies and leave.' Anyway... So, the day was ok, and so was the first half of the night. Then, at midnight, a woman came in, four centimetres dilated. She was a primigravida, meaning it was her first pregnancy. So, you can anticipate a further 6 to 8 hours of labour. Working with this estimation, I predicted I'd deliver my last baby at about 8am, after which I could go home and snooze.

I should've realised things weren't gonna be that easy when the woman just wouldn't stop screaming. She screamed when there were no contractions, she screamend blue murder when there were contractions, and she screamed like the four riders of the apocalypse were after her when either myself or the doctor on call tried to examine her. No matter how much I begged her to save her energy, to try to breathe, to drink some water, she firmly refused to do anything except scream. And writhe. And climb out of the bed and tangle herself in her drip and stand on the bedside stool, and bite the bedclothes and scream and scream and scream. At first I was so patient: I held her hand like I did all of the women I'd delivered so far. I tried to show her how to breathe, and to breathe with her during the contractions. But it was for nothing. She just carried on screaming. Between examinations, I decided to leave her, and went and sat in the student room on the other side of the ward. I could still hear her screaming. And then, her progression slowed down. She crossed the alert line on the partogram, and then the action line (basically: her cervix was dilating way too slowly). I called the doctor. She screamed. He told me to 'just watch her'. She screamed some more. I'd completely lost patience. Exhausted myself, I begged her to 'just STOP screaming, STOP SCREAMING DAMMIT'. At 10am, ten hours after she'd first come into labour ward, the doctor decided to artificially rupture her membranes. And this is where the Worst Moment comes in. When membranes are ruptured, all the amniotic fluid runs out - the 'water breaks'. Normally, after doing this, I would've cleaned the patient up and given her new bed-linen. I wouldn't have left her lying in that cold, sticky fluid, full of poo because she'd been pushing to get the baby out and everything else was coming out with it. Normally, I wouldn't do that, because it just wouldn't be human, right? Well, this time, I was just so tired, and so angry, and I was crying myself. I just wanted them to book the woman for a goddamn caesar so that could cut that goddamn monster out of her and make her shut the fuck up. So, I just left her there. I told myself I was just gonna have a quick cup of coffee, just quickly brush my teeth, and then I'd come and clean everything up. So she lay there, in all the horrid nasties, until a sister came and shouted at me, and then only did I go and clean her up.

I've always been so quick to judge doctors who lose their temper with patients, so quick to condemn nurses who gave sub-standard care. But I guess I'm not really any better than any of them. That was the worst moment of 2005 - realising that I'm not who I'd like to be, and that sometimes I am who I'd hate to be.

Why you can't eat Special K Red Berry out of a mug

2005-12-09T13:03:00.000+02:00

The red berries are a lot heavier than the Special K flakes, which is fine when you're eating out of a normal bowl. A mug, however, is much deeper, and they all sink to the bottom, so you get to the end of your meal, and there's just a pile of super-chewy berries and a bit of milk left. It's not very nice.

I tried hard not to stare...

2005-12-08T14:00:00.000+02:00

I think there needs to be a new sign next to the 'Be a pal - use a sweat towel at all times' sign at the gym. It should say 'If your knees can't touch each other anymore, it's time to stop'.

The other day, while I was doing bicep curls with my puny 3kg weights, the line of vision between myself and the mirror became blocked by what can only be described as a caricature of a man. You know those ugly striped pyjama pants some men wear while doing weights? Maybe he didn't think his were ugly enough, so he chopped his off to butt-crease level. How he actually got them on is a mystery, because his thighs were about as wide as my torso, pushing his legs apart to the extent that his itty-bitty feet way down at the bottom of his legs were a good half metre apart. The purple-and-black striped hotpants kind of did the job, i guess, until he bent over, rewarding me with the sight of a bit of scrotal skin squeezing out between the fabric and one of his trunk-legs - YUM-O! He completed the look with a cute little vest bearing the slogan Bench Press Championship 1998 (or something) - obviously he thought the ripped off sleeves did wonders for his arms, which were almost, but not quite, as thick as his legs. He couldn't reach his sides with his elbows, which I suppose is not an essential skill, but it is something i like in a man. The creature then proceeded to do a variety of arm exercises - single-armed tricep press-ups being by far the most impressive, particularly as he clenched his teeth and snorted like a bull through each set.

I know that through Men's Health and FHM etc lots of men feel driven to be big and buff, but guys - this is NOT HOT. In fact, not only is it not hot, it's anti-hot, it's UGLY. Sure, a bit of a six-pack is nice, a bit of definition around the bicep area is attractive, but when your veins turn into a distended mesh over your forearm, you've gone beyond attractive. you've in fact gone overboard. Trust me on this one... you want people to stare at you in gym because you're good-lookin', not because you're a freak.. Really.

Where did all the epics go?

2005-12-06T13:52:00.000+02:00

Remember the days of Alice in Wonderland, Gone with the Wind, Narnia, The Pillars of the Earth, Magician, Middle Earth and The Stand? I do, and I'm wondering where they've gone...

Leon's recitation of 'The Walrus and the Carpenter' at work the other night made me feel real nostalgic: not only for my primary school speech festival days, where I know Leon would always have gotten an A+, but also for all of those thumping good reads that are so rare these days. I don't know when last I felt quite as excited about a book as I did when I went down the rabbit hole with Alice, stood under the lamp with Lucy, or climbed on a wagon with Scarlett. I can't remember the last time I polished a book like a piece of chocolate cake, and lately, a nap always sounds like a better idea than a read.

I know that there's plenty of literature out there - books that aren't stories so much as they are commentary on the human condition, ones that are less plot and more metaphor. And, yes, they're excellent to read, they kinda make ya think, and do account for the vast majority of the stuff that most of us read. But sometimes I just want a good story, you know? Something that starts in one world and ends in another, or begins with a birth and ends with a death some generations later. I know you're sitting there thinking that those books are a dime a dozen in the sci-fi & fantasy section, and most epics do contain some element of the supernatural, but they don't have to. Ken Follett, Gabriel Garcia Marquez and Margaret Mitchell all wrote epics that were grounded in reality, and I want more of them.

Maybe I'm being a bit wingy, and overly romantic: it's highly likely that I would now cringe at Scarlett O'Hara's 'well fiddle-dee-dee!', and roll my eyes at what's-her-name getting off on her motorbike in The Stand, but still. I'm looking for something thick, with print that isn't too small, something that isn't all wrapped up in subtlety and innuendo, something that makes me feel a little disappointed when I finally close it and realise I have to come back to my world and my life. Any suggestions?