Skip to main content


The blush of sunrise greeted the Mother City, the heat thick and stifling even in the early hours.
Sublime Summer down south.
Sublime Sunday for seeking out sun, sea and surf.

I mounted the motorbike swinging my legs carefully over the padded black, straddling the beast as it came to life with the flick of his hand. I grabbed on, fingers interlocking as we moved forward over speed bumps, gripping tar and curves as we headed out to the False Bay coast.
"A quick run," we said.
"A swim and back," we said.
The morning was still young, the year new and the motorway heading out of town was deserted. I closed my eyes, allowing my body to move with his, feeling the wind brush over warm skin, riding the road like a wave.
Eyes closed; holding on - I lived the ride, swaying with each bend and turn...
Hospital Bend passed by like a heartbeat and the M3 stretched out tantalisingly ahead  of us all the way to the blue.

Words disturbing peacefulness. 
"We going down!" he said.
Disjointed words making no sense in instances of fluid motion.
I opened my eyes and saw the white German giant weave towards us traversing white lines and clipping our wheel.
A rush of knowing descended:
Knowing we'd hit tar.
Knowing that the tar would burn and break and scar.

Adrenaline kicked in in a flash of blinding white light .

Matt black Top Box was flung against concrete barriers spewing flip flops, suntan lotion and festive beach towels. Glancing at our possession and at our spilled blood on asphalt, I heard him call to me through clenched teeth: "Are you alright?"
I turned to him, saw his arm stretch towards me at an odd angle.
I moaned trying to make sense of entangled-us:  my leg caught under his; the bike with wheels still spinning pinning us down.
"Get it off!" he shouted, echoing the voice screaming inside my rattled head.
They came!
Two men, biker men clad in black, removing helmets to reveal kind faces.
Our fraternity creating a safe space on a dangerous highway for two broken souls gathering bruises like badges. 
Calming with their huge presence and big hearts.
And as the sirens wailed, and I layed strapped down to steel table hurtling towards the hospital, I thanked god for sending us these samaritans on our darkest of days.

The moon cast it's glow in the night skies in a month of Sundays.
A stream of samaritans brought the light to our darkened door.

My 50th year marked by the remarkable!
Scars on skin:
A map of the world sketched down the length of my left limb as if by a casual, negligent hand; hurried, almost careless in it's creation.
Naked & raw it is propped up on pillows, elevated to aid healing, exposing the damage inflicted by accident.
Often I view it with detachment, allowing curious eyes to explore this new, unwelcomed territory. I find it strange (when the meds have kicked in and the pain is dulled to a soft hum) that this is me.
Toes peek out from white linens like curious onlookers; specatators to a brutal sport, leaving pain to dart down the expanse of me, toes numb and left slightly swollen by bandages pulled tight to hold torn flesh in place.
I wiggle them deliberately, purposefully rebelling against being broken.
I pay for my rebellion with white, hot seething and close my eyes momentarily to regain strength.

Other times I look down and sadness engulfs me and I curse under my breath.
5 weeks and my foot looks mummified. 
"Stupid foot!" I cuss at it, look at it accusingly, "too long, too weak!"
I wobble now, down passageways, down steps...
I miss my heels.
I miss my swaying hips.
I miss walking without forethought, without pain, without struggle.

My calves are whole, but muscles threaten to waste away in this body with half a century of living clocked on it.
On the right side up, red, purple and pink weave patterns on caramel skin.
"I'm too vain!" this, my new mantra, invades my thoughts daily,  
I'm angered by the angry scars that mark me.
I'm bothered that it bothers me.
I'm scared that it scares me.

"Be grateful!"
"Could've been worse!"
"Could"ve died!"
I nod, "yes" to all these sentiments.
Half-heartedly believe it.
Whole-heartedly accept it.
But don't have the heart to put my scars on show.
Vanity overshadowing common sense.

Final Destination dreaming; Two weeks of monochrome movies playing like old-fashioned pictures in my fevered brain. 
Dreams of darkness closing in; of white faces with black eyes black staring at me. And them, my warriors:  my mom, my dad and my gran long since gone, fighting off the black angels who are trying to draw me into the abyss.

So many guardian angels!
My wounds will heal because I journey through this life with giants by my side.

I celebrated my 50th birthday in absolute awe of my communty of family and friends. I found renewed hope and faith. I am lucky to have people in my life to uplift me, sustain me, and care for me.I have been given the greatest gift: the realisation that life is beautiful and there is nothing more precious than the connections we have.

I dedicate this blog post to every single one of you (you know who you are) who filled our days with light and love xx

Popular posts from this blog

Right here, Right now.

The wind whistles & howls, shaking up Cape Town ; waking her weary chidren.

Dazed I wake up for a second time, opening heavy lids to find that Monday had dawned softly. Ribbons of red are slowly beginning to caress the darkness as I stretch out lazy like a cat, lying in the middle of the kingsize bed, my thick winter frame engulfed by fleecy bedding the colour of candy floss.
"Sweet!" I utter out loud to an already empty house as soft light filters in through aluminium blinds making stripes like tattoos on my pale skin.
I should get up, but I am perplexed by the day which stretches ahead of me demanding nothing!
I'm at odds, not used to so much time on my hands, "busy" being my usual setting.

I'm beginning to like this new reality.
The ticking clock by my bedside sets a steady rhythm, as all around me the world is on the go, moving in circles. It's as if the world's forgotten about this one, tiny space. In my cocoon I groggily sit up, twisting m…


Furrows deep and pronounced line my brow. I contemplate them,  willing them away, stroking them gently, each stroke meant to iron them out. I am their canvas, they are my storylines.

I seize my ironing, and listen to their tales.
I feel the cold to my bones!

Not the usual Cape Town cold I grew up with in the Southern Suburbs, but an iciness matching any day spent in Tewkesbury more than a decade ago in the UK.  The kind of cold that requires down feather jackets and knee-high fake fur boots.  The kind of cold that leaves sleet on windshields, and soup pots full.
Central heating!Pah! Our homes in Cape Town are ill-equipped for this kinda torture!
I hug my hot water bottle to me like a long lost lover, it's squishy, and pot-bellied and jiggles when I squeeze it. Raising the white mug to my lips, I slurp the almost scalding coffee quickly. My fifth cuppa and it's only 10:42am. Two bars glow bright orange at me. Mikey hogs the heater, and Georgie sits on top of the TV cabinet like a …

The Road to Al Dhaid

I wake up from a deep sleep, startled by silence and a bed devoid of him. I lay spread eagled, entangled in white cotton sheet, a sense of solitude overwhelming me as soon as I open my eyes.

The desert heat clings to my body while a pale moon tries it's best to break through thick, brown silky drapes. I drag myself up, feeling a twinge in my lower back and pull the clawing nightdress down thick hips and thighs.
Middle age bringing unwelcome changes.

My feet hit lukewarm tiles as I stumble the short distance to the window, hanking the brown open to reveal the the mosque the colour of sand.  In the distance it's soft lights are alluring against a dark sky.
The call to prayer begins as I stand silently staring out at University City Road. No screeching tyres, honking horns, or irate drivers to disturb the peace. Only an ocassional early morning traveller making his way along the quiet streets of sleepy Sharjah.
The adhan is soothing and I am instantly alert, a sense of urgency gu…