Now for something completely different...

We discovered that Frank's younger brother and sisters had not eaten for days.  Frank is the lazy fourteen year old toss pot we employ to do odd jobs out of school hours in exchange for food for his family.  He is a waste of rations but he is disarmingly incompetent,  I've sacked him I can't remember how many times but he always turns up the next day, works feverishly to pick up any litter and sweep the floor before, after an hour of honest graft, retiring to some lonely corner and going to sleep.  Ah well.

Frank's father is a total waster and apparently had nicked all the food in their house and swapped it for booze.  No point, then, in sending more food down there so we told Frank to collect his brother and sisters and bring them here for a good feed.  Nothing smart, just good honest fried buffalo liver in onion sauce, rice with julienned carrots, sautéed wild cabbage and as much fruit juice as they could swallow.  Bugger me, those kids are skinny and malnourished.  They spent the rest of the evening chomping through my secret store of choc chip cookies while watching Mr Bean on TV.

Eight happy kids

That cheered me up.  Then I received an email from a friend of mine in Europe with details of a second hand vehicle he thought I might be interested in.  I have imported a lot of cars into Angola and usually was able to run them for a year or so and then sell them for more than I paid for them.  Free motoring, anyone can do it.  Can't understand why people buy new cars.  But you need a supply of suckers (or too wealthy to care) in order to have a supply of good used cars.

This one is very nice.  4 wheel drive, (has to be for here, doesn't it?), 4.2 litre V8 with 334 bhp, very low mileage (15,000), first registered December 2012.  Blimey, that's not even run in.  This one has virtually all available extras and is the long wheel base version.  Pretty economical consuming only 13.1 litres per 100 kms (20 mpg) so with the price of petrol here, it would cost me less than two dollars to deliver and collect Alex from school.  Price new?  US$156,000.  Price to me? US$ 30,000 straight from a main dealer.  Wow!  In sixteen months it has lost 80% of its value!  Actually, I am playing with stats a bit.  If I wanted to buy it to use in its country of origin, the attractive price would go up considerably.  The car's manufacturer's warranty would have to be honoured so the dealer covers himself in the asking price; add 20% making the base price $39,000.  The dealer is going to have to find space for it in his showroom and pay someone to sell it and all the time it is sitting there, his money is tied up so add another 25%.  Then there's taxes, add 20%.  The cheapest I could get it would be $58,500 so the vehicle has only lost a shade over 60% which is about right.  Don't forget, exotic extras don't really help a particular model hold its value better, they just make it easier to sell. when the time comes and quick turnover is manna for dealers.  So why am I being offered this car?  Why doesn't the dealer push it out quickly at a reduced profit?  Well, one thing, there are quite a few of these cars on the market so even fully loaded, he will likely have it gathering dust for quite a while.  Secondly, if he knocks the price down, he has to do the same for all his other cars of the same model.  If he sells the car for export, it is cash in hand, no need for guarantees, no special test tickets needed, and it frees up space in his yard or showroom.  That's why I am being offered the car for just $30,000.  It would then cost me another ten grand to transport and import it here so I could be running around in a virtually brand new luxury motor for 40 grand.  The first Angolan with cash who clapped eyes on it would easily part with 60 to 70K for it. 

I checked the petty cash.  I am so tempted!  But, like my dealer friend, it would mean tying up a chunk of my cash for the couple or so months it would take to get the car customs inspected that end, stuff it into a container and have it shipped down here before clearing it this end.  I keep banging on at Marcia about sticking to the project plan, not to be distracted so I could hardly justify having a punt on a car.  Especially a luxury car.  Luxury cars depreciate faster than the Zimbabwean dollar did.  But God, am I tempted.  I know I could shift it quickly.

Anyway, take a look and see if you can guess what it is.  The winner will get a lobster lunch at my place.  If the winner is from abroad, leave your trip here for three months or so and I might be picking you up from the airport in it!




Plenty of legroom for Alex

His own fridge to keep his juice cool

His own TV screens

and plenty of buttons to play with to adjust his airconditioning and individual rear seats...
complete with cup holders and DVD remote

 

My office

I've airbrushed the manufacturer's logo away...

4.2 Litre V8, 334 bhp, top speed limited to 155mph.

Subtle V8 badge on the boot lid. 
Even the boot is airconditioned so your shopping doesn't melt (or bodies start to smell)

It is a hell of a lot of car for the money.  Should I or shouldn't I?  It is late, I think I'll go and sleep on it.

Sheds

A lot of men have sheds.  A lot of men spend a lot of time in their sheds.  Other people, mainly women, either get irritated with, or ridicule men who have sheds and spend a lot of time in them.  Father’s garage was his shed.  He had two real sheds but he preferred his garage.  It was big.  In addition to the cars, it had room for work benches and shelves, neat tool racks, space for whatever carpentry job he was working on (he liked to build garden benches), room for his comfy chair, a two ring hob and a hi-fi on which he used to listen to Richard Tauber.  It was bloody draughty and in winter perishing cold but he liked it.  As young men, I have to confess, we boys thought he was a little barmy.  After all, he could have been sitting comfortably in his wing back surrounded by his beloved books being warmed by a roaring fire. Instead, he preferred his cold and damp garage.  What on earth possesses men and makes them yearn for uncomfortable solitude?  His body was found there after a search party was sent looking for him when he failed to show for dinner.  He had spent all day in there, had finished another bench and had died.

These last few days have been an official holiday in Angola.  Tuesday was Carnival and no-one could expect the Angolans to turn up for work today after a heavy night’s partying so today was declared a holiday as well.  Since there was only one day between weekend and Carnival Tuesday, no one went to work on Monday either.  For the weekend and the next three days, therefore, four of Marcia’s nieces and nephews have been staying.  Martha is six, Fininha is thirteen, so is Ju and Mauro is ten.  Oddly enough, Alex at five is Mauro’s uncle.  They were here to enjoy themselves and keep little Alex company.

This morning, there was a lot of shouting from Marcia who wheeled a very frightened little Alex into the house and demanded that I gave him a hiding.  Regular readers will know that I have never laid a hand on a child.  Apparently, in the shop, he had dropped his shorts and swung his pelvis to and fro as if giving something a good rooting.  I was shocked.  The best thing, as always when dealing with a woman verging on hysteria, is to do nothing so I sent Alex to his room.  Just in case my female readers, of which I know I have many, think I am being sexist, well I am.  I usually punch hysterical men or, if they are much bigger than me, hit them with something heavy enough to leave a lasting impression.  Hysterical women who want to thrash their child with a length of garden hose are protected by law.

Talking to the nieces, slowly the story came out.  Marcia, now calm, had taken the truck to run an errand so it was easy for me to be my normal soft self and let the kids do the talking.

It wasn’t exactly Alex’s fault, they said.  Sure, he had dropped his keks in public but only after Claudio, that snot bag Marcia employs to look after the shop, had shown them all pornographic videos on his telephone.  They used the term, ‘Filmes de sexo’, sex films.

‘Honestly, Uncle Tom!  We did not look at them!’ They pleaded after misinterpreting my expression.  ‘Will Mummy beat me Daddy?’ Alex asked.

‘No one is going to beat anyone.’ I lied.

‘When did he show you the videos?’ I asked.

‘Already on the first day,’ one of them replied.

‘And again today?’

‘Yes.’

They have been here three days.  For three days this despicable pervert has been collaring the kids.

I told the kids to sit down on the sofa and watch TV.  I wanted to keep them busy so they did not witness what would happen next.  Best that this time they could honestly say they did not know.  I made it halfway across the garden, but Alex had followed me so I took him back inside.  ‘Can you make me some corflecks?’ He asked.  So I poured him a bowl of cornflakes.  I knew it would all end in tears if I gave way to the overwhelming desire to drag the scrote into the garden and kick the life out of him.  Better to wait for Marcia’s return and explain everything to her, then surely I would be allowed to cut him.  In the meantime, it occurred to me, he may twig something was up and delete the evidence.  I needed his phone.  I marched into the shop.  He was just making a phone call so I grabbed his wrist, gave his arm a gentle twist and caught the phone as it fell from suddenly lifeless fingers.

Now I don’t know about you, but I am pretty hopeless with phones.  All I want out of a phone is that it rings to let me know I have an incoming call as well as allowing me to make calls.  I had no idea how to access any videos on Claudio’s phone so I asked the girls.  They did not know either, so I persevered and found them.  I have seen plenty of hardcore porn in my time and this ranked right up there with the most explicit.

Marcia arrived home and I told her.  She went mad.  She screamed at the kids and demanded to know what had happened.  Frightened, they said they did not know.  She took them over to the shop to confront Claudio.  Now they had to stare the man they had accused in the face.  They folded.  It was suggested that Claudio had left his phone on charge, they had swiped it unbeknown to him and searched through it themselves.   Marcia insisted I returned Claudio’s phone.  I told Claudio he could report me to the police.  Marcia told Claudio to come to the house where we could discuss it.  I told Claudio if he set foot in my house I would kill him.

This was going to go nowhere so I rang Mauro’s father.  He said he was in a meeting and would call back.  He did not.  A couple of hours later I rang again and told him what had happened.  At least I tried but he cut me off saying he would call me back.  He didn’t.  Marcia came into the lounge and demanded I handed over Claudio’s phone.  I said I needed to talk to someone first.  Marcia laughed and said that if I was waiting for Roger to call, I’d have a long wait; she had already spoken to him and explained everything.  Everyone, she told me, knows I hate Claudio. This was probably true.  He is an oily, thieving, lying git, it is just that Marcia cannot see what I see every time she is away in town.  So that was it.  This was all down to my dislike for the bastard.  She told me it was her job to see fair play.  I told her it was my job to protect the kids.  I gave her the phone.

I could not bear to be in the same room as Marcia so I grabbed my fags and went out into the garden.  I wasn’t going anywhere near the shop so that left me few options.  I strolled across to Stalag Luft III and noticed I had forgotten to nail a section of netting down so I did that.  Then I made some handles for the door.  Inside I nailed up a couple of beams for the birds to perch upon.  With the sun dappling the netting, partially shaded as it was by palm fronds, I realized this was quite a nice place to sit, if only I had something to sit on.  The kids came over and asked if there was anything they could do.  So I made myself a garden bench and they helped.  We sat on it.  The seat was just the right height, it was very comfortable.  I lit a cigarette and took a long drag.  Peace and quiet, the tranquillity of nature, the kid’s faces glowing, knowing that they had helped, that I was not mad at them; it was a little bit of paradise.

Then it dawned on me.  I had made my own shed.

The Considerate American

A while back I received an email from an American lady who said she knew me from my blog.  Oh dear, I thought, I am forever poking fun at Americans and occasionally some touchy feely people in soft shoes confuse my rational views on women with misogyny.   I read on.

Nancy had started reading my blog when she learned that her employers were posting her to Angola.  ‘Tis a sad reflection on the dearth of blogs emanating from Angola that she persevered.  Either I failed to paint a bleak picture of life in Angola or her entreaties to be posted anywhere else fell on deaf ears because come here she did.

She was, she informed me, going back to the States soon and wanted to know if there was anything she could bring back for me?  Well how considerate is that?  My first thought was a full service kit and new air-conditioning compressor for the Jeep but she qualified her generosity by excluding ‘heavy Jeep parts’.  If Nancy knew all about my Jeep, clearly she had kept herself up to date with goings on at Fort Hippo.

I wrote a couple of weeks ago about Alex and his boxing gloves.  Before I actually met Nancy, I did not want to explain on my blog exactly how I got them.  It was Nancy who brought them back for me along with his punch bag, a pair of 501 jeans for Dominic, pills for Marcia, loads of seeds for me and, something I was delighted about, a sweet fig tree (Ficus Hardy) .  The original idea was that shortly after her return to Angola, she would come down to Fort Hippo for lunch, bringing the kit with her.  Unlike me, though, she has a real job and work precluded her coming down for a few weeks so she kindly arranged pick up of the goods by Marcia in town.

Nancy had been worried about the fig tree.  It had been posted from Chicago to Texas during the Great Polar Vortex so, unsurprisingly perhaps, on arrival in Texas, all its leaves fell off.  I knew it was a long shot to try and have brought in a potted sapling and find it still alive at the end of a lengthy journey but Nancy administered first aid and lugged what was now little more than a twig extravagantly packaged in a huge box filled with expanded polystyrene beans all the way to Angola, unpacked it and stuck it on her fridge.  It does not look good, she told me in an email.  I was sad.  There are no sweet fig trees here in Angola as far as I know.  What they call figs here are nasty hard green little things, bitter as hell and more stone than edible fruit.  Monkeys love them apparently but I don’t.  I was convinced sweet figs, originally from the Mediterranean, would flourish in this environment.  They are hardy and drought tolerant and they grow fast; saplings bear fruit within two years.  I know that normally one plants trees for one’s grandchildren but with a fig tree, I stood a good chance of enjoying the fruits of my labour.

The day before Marcia made the pick up, Nancy called me, ‘The fig tree is sprouting two leaves!’  Clearly Nancy wanted the little well-travelled sapling to live too and it had responded to all that love for it Nancy had been emanating around her apartment.

First thing I did when I unpacked it was give it a drink of water and let it get a breath of fresh air on the veranda.  The next day I carefully repotted it in my special mixture of dark soil, fine wood shavings and goat poo.

Where it has done rather well:

 

Finally Nancy was able to visit and brought with her three friends, Rae Anne, Don and José.  Naturally I decided that rather than boring old steak or chicken, I would give them a seafood treat so it was lobsters, fish and clams.  Marcia prepares the best clams in the world; even the juices left in the pan make for a delicious soup.  Marcia is paranoid about her clams having any traces of sand in them so actually lugged gallons of sea water to the house in which she left the clams overnight changing the water twice.  Her effort paid off, they were delicious.  All I did was prepare the lobster.  Not really hard work, all I had to do was drop them a few at a time into a heavy pan of boiling water.

Round the table clock wise from the left:  Nancy, Rae Anne, Jose, Don, Alex

Naturally, Alex had to be the centre of attention so started performing...

I want someone to sculpt this and cast it in bronze for me...
Alex and his home-made bow and arrow.

If you think there is only one obvious use for something, let a child disavow you of that.

But he prefers punching it...

Rae Anne and Don are very musical.  They have their own band, one which they pulled together here in Angola.  It is called ‘ThirteenthFloor’.  That’s a cool name for a band so I asked them how they came upon it.  ‘Because we live on the thirteenth floor’ they said.  Fair enough.  It is still bloody cool, though.  Nancy lives on the tenth floor of the same apartment block so I suggested that if she started a band, she could call it ‘Three Floors Down’.  That’s a cool name too.

I told Rae Anne that Alex had a guitar, a cheap old Chinese job I had bought Dominic years ago.  He was never interested so the thing had been knocked and bashed around and had never been tuned.  I brought it out and together, Rae Anne and Don tuned it.  Don had an app on his phone I noticed.  The app would play a note, Don would hum it and Rae Anne would tension the strings.  Bugger me if it didn’t play!  So we were treated to some songs, all of which I liked.  Sat there in the middle of nowhere surrounded by palm trees I said we all looked like a bunch of aid workers enjoying themselves, the only difference being we weren’t driving top of the range Landcruisers or smoking joints.  It was all very Woodstock.

Rae Anne had delighted us by bringing half a dozen of her world famous scones.  Who says scones have to be boring?  Rae Anne bakes many flavours, exotic in their excess.  Our scones were Cranberry Lemon and Blueberry White Chocolate.  Alex scoffed one immediately and then tucked into another half which Marcia finished off.  That left four.  After they all left, I tidied up the dishes and then just had to have a bite.  As soon as the pastry hit my palate, I was transported back to the West Country.  There was only one way to finish off Rae Anne’s scone and that was with a decent cup of tea.  Not any old tea brewed in a mug, but Zimbabwean tea brewed in a warmed pot and served in bone china tea cups.  I laid everything out, switched on Alex's favourite TV channel and together we had a proper English tea with scones.  That left two.  One went into Alex’s school lunch box the following morning.  That left one.  All day it called to me but I resisted.  Alex arrived home and there in the middle of the table was a plate with one scone on it.  'Is that for me, Daddy?' asked Alex.  'I saved it for you Son.'  'Thanks Daddy!' he said swiping it.  All is not lost, though, for Rae Anne makes scones to order or sells the dough so traditional cream teas will become a feature at Fort Hippo’s.  Those living in Aberdeen, Pinehurst or Southern Pines in North Carolina (I think that is somewhere deep in the backwoods of one of the ex-colonies), can have their scones delivered from Pine Scones where Rae Anne’s team of dedicated professional sconierres is hard at work in her absence.

I had a nibble and then knew I had best immediately take a photo, they weren't going to last long!

Nancy too has talents beyond finding hydrocarbons for her employers so they can extract, refine and sell it.  Nancy made the shirt José was wearing and was half way through making a dress for Rae Anne.  My shirt making ability is limited to cutting three holes for head and arms in a gunny sack.

Jose in his hand made shirt and Nancy

It was a lovely day, all the more remarkable as I only got to meet these nice people through my blog.  You know how parting with, ‘we must do this again sometime soon’ can be laced with insincerity?  Well I was absolutely sincere when I suggested that.  Next time we will go for a walk down the beach, hopefully when Dominic is here as he knows where to dig up fossils and can identify all the varied birdlife.

Nancy, by the way, not only brought me the seeds I had asked for, she also brought me a load of drought resistant flower seeds to, as she said, ‘brighten up the garden and attract butterflies and bees’. 

Like I said, how nice and considerate was that?

Any Colour You Like, Sir, So Long as it is Khaki...

Men's Winter Collection - Angola 1924 2014

Don't know what it is about women and clothes.  Not just clothes, it's shoes, handbags, telephones; they need so many.  Marcia will wear three different outfits a day.  I know because I do the laundry.  Two days of her clothes will leave only just enough space on the washing line for a set each of shirt, shorts and grundies for Alex and I. 

I tend to buy clothes of good quality, working on the principle that quality provides better value for money.  I have shoes and boots I bought in 1984, suits of the same year and even two pairs of shoes and a suit which belonged to my father so God knows how old they are.  More often than not, my motive for lashing out on new clothes is not because the old ones are worn out, but that I have put on weight.  I was a thirty two waist for most of my adult life but as soon as I hit fifty, the inches crept on and I hit thirty six.  Refusing to accept this sorry state of affairs, I soldiered on, fighting my way into trousers and spending the whole time wearing them with chronic indigestion and looking like a sack of potatoes tied in the middle.  I gave in to the inevitable when invited to a wedding last year and coughed up for a new suit whereupon I immediately began to lose weight, I am now back down to a thirty four waist (although I still have an albeit reducing paunch).  I am confident of losing yet more weight but in the meantime, I am between sizes and nothing fits. 

I expect losing these last two inches to be the hardest so really need a new outfit for the interim.  Naturally, I want whatever I invest in to continue to serve the soon to be svelte me.  I decided to turn to the Gentlemen's Guide to Casual Wear in the Tropics for head to toe inspiration:

One of these (note cut brim, not stitched; only pimps, wogs and popstars wear hats with a stitched brim)

Half a dozen of these...

Three pairs of these (note adjustable waist)

Two pairs of these (same detail)

Two pairs of these; a day to day pair and a 'best' pair for Church Parade

Phew!  I am bloody exhausted!  I hate shopping but at least it is over and done with for the next few years.

Stung Into Action

Last night I was stung by a bee.

I can still remember the first time I was stung by a bee, it was while playing in the garden of our house in Viersen so that must have been 47 years ago.  I don't recall the pain, only the fact I hobbled across the lawn shrieking like a girl until Dad caught hold of me and, hoiking my foot in front of my face so I could see my toe better, pointed out how the bee sting was still pulsating, pumping poison into my system.  I was fascinated and horrified at the same time.  I cannot recall ever being bitten by a bee since but always accorded the little blighters plenty of nervous respect.

I think all of us have heard about African Bees, killer bees that swarm around stinging everyone and everything to death.  In documentaries I learned that unlike European bees, African bees will chase a perceived threat for hundreds of yards.  I leant that carbon dioxide in exhaled breath stimulates the sting response.  The film  makers ably demonstrated this by tossing a child's fluffy toy at a swarm who just ignored it.  The next fluffy toy to be tossed in had been fitted with a tube through which CO2 passed.  The bees went berserk and within seconds the toy was buried in a mass if writhing, stinging bees.   Quite clearly the message was, if attacked by killer bees, stop breathing, something I suppose one would, under the circumstances, do quite quickly anyway.  I did witness a mass attack by African bees while clearing mines in Mozambique.  Grown men in absolute panic ran across an uncleared minefield, so frantic were they to escape and so persistent the attack.  That no one was killed, either by bees given their terrible reputation, or by landmines was quite remarkable.

My next close encounter with bees was in Cabinda Province in Angola.  I wanted to buy some wild forest honey and was told where to go and find the Honey Boy.  I found him sitting in his yard surrounded by pots of honey, chunks of beeswax and millions of bees.  Containers of any sort are at a premium in Angola so I had brought with me half a dozen empty 1.5 litre water bottles which he proceeded to fill, honey spilling down the sides of the bottles making them all sticky.  The bees swarmed all over the bottles, him, his hands especially and me.  Any second, I thought, I am going to inhale one of these buggers.  He dropped the bottles into my carrier bag for me and I left with 9 litres of dark honey and half a colony of bees in tow.  Back at camp, I submerged the bottles in a drum of water and tossed the carrier bag before cleaning myself up.  Eventually the bees thinned out and I was allowed back into the communal area.

If what they say about African bees is true, how was it possible that a boy clad only in flip flops and shorts could make a living robbing natural beehives of their honey?

The honey in Angola is the best I have ever tasted.  It is dark, the colour of well brewed tea and, apart from a few bits which float to the top (usually dead bees) is very clear, not at all cloudy.  I make no claims to its properties as a natural anti-biotic but from experience can confirm its efficacy as a salve on tropical ulcers, sceptic insect bites, infected cuts, even snake bites.  Mixed with lemon juice and a bit of hot water, it provides relief for tickly coughs and is, of course, great on pancakes.

With the well I dug, I have access to fresh water and plenty of it gets spilt, notably by the locals collecting their supplies of drinking water and by me when I am watering the beds.  I have placed a plastic bowl under the drain of one of the air-conditioning units so the dogs have a constant supply of clean water with no effort on my part and all this has attracted bees Sir, thousands of 'em.  They come in the evenings, just as the sun is setting and cluster around dripping taps, pools of water, and, if the ice cream machine is in use, its nozzles. I have to keep the kitchen window closed lest they cluster around the kitchen tap or drown in the sink.  I used to drink soft drinks straight out of the can, now I use a glass and insist Alex does the same; in their determination to access fluids, especially sugary fluids, at least one will end up in the drink. 

And yet I have never been stung.  When the bees first started coming, I was nervous.  OK, I'll admit it, I was afraid of being stung.  If the bee buzzing me was too insistent, I would move away.  I wouldn't even try to swat or squish it lest I annoyed it and its mates.  Over time, though, I have learnt to ignore them and yesterday was a case in point.  I had left a can of Sumol, a fizzy fruit juice, on my desk and sure enough, the bees located it.  I sat down at my desk to type out some emails and noticed them buzzing around the can and also, confused perhaps by the brightness, crawling over the laptop screen.  I ignored them.  Engrossed in my task, I did not give the tickle on my neck a thought as I absent-mindedly gave it a scratch.  I felt a hot pin prick, no more than that, and my hand came away with a bee between my fingers. I asked Marcia to take a look at my neck and sure enough, sticking in the flesh was a sting which she pulled out.  And that was it,  A momentary irritation, a slight swelling and then nothing to write home about.

So why am I blogging about it?  Well, if that was the sting of the terrifying African Killer Bee, it explains how kids in shorts and flip flops can shin up trees and steal honey.  If kids can get honey, why can't I?  Until I moved here and dug the well, I hardly ever saw a bee let alone loads of them so just assumed the area was far too arid and flowerless for them.  Instead I have found there must be millions of them and if there are lots of bees, there must be lots of honey.  And I like honey.

I am getting bored see, this is the problem.  Time passes very slowly when you are sober and I am running out of things to do and everything that I do do ends up with me having to wait.  I cleaned up the whole garden, have bought a bag of grass seed but must now wait for the rains so the seed takes and grows strong enough and quickly enough to survive the arid season being fed only with water from a hose.  Same thing with my raised beds.  They are all done but again I must wait for the good soaking the rains will bring before planting out all the herb and vegetable seeds I have waiting, unlike me, patiently in my drawer.  I have finished Stalag Luft III but must now wait for the chickens and Quail to be available.  I rarely go down to the other site as there is little I can do there, I just have to be patient and let the Filipino carpenter, who is doing an excellent job, finish the huts but he, in turn, is having to wait for the electrician who thrice has failed to show so I am now looking for another electrician willing to travel this far out of town.  I paid a Chinese contractor to bulldoze the rest of the land flat at the restaurant/lodge site but two things happened: firstly the bulldozer broke down and secondly, the Chinese foreman fell off some scaffolding and fell three floors breaking an awful lot of his little oriental bones and scuffing his yellow skin to hell.  I have to wait until his replacement arrives.

Last night I was stung by a bee and this morning I stumbled across this blog: Brixton's Bounty.  It is entertainingly written by some bloke called Oliver Riley who lives in Grantham, not Brixton, and is a nice mix of gardening, cooking and bees.  Unlike most UK apiaristas, he's gone for a top bar hive, more commonly seen in Africa than Lincolnshire.  Clearly this was a sign from God (or the Devil wishing to find work for idle hands) so I read loads of his posts and then refined it (after learning a sure fire way to make sauerkraut) to all his beekeeping posts.  A very useful guide to Apiary for Dummies.

I have absolutely no idea how to trap a swarm of bees but while I wait for inspiration, I am going to build a top bar hive and put a welcome sign in bee language over the entry hole.  I will make sure the top bars have some beeswax foundation and sprinkle lemon grass oil in there (apparently they like that) and maybe even a bowl of sugar water. 

All that will attract bees, no doubt about that but worker bees on their own aren't much good.  What I really need to learn is how to attract a queen.

A Little Out of Joint

I am getting a bit pissed off with falling off ladders.  Still, the work will not complete itself so I have to take my chances balancing on a flimsy Chinese step ladder and trying to hammer nails into unyielding wood.  Next time I fall off, and I have no doubt there will be a next time, I shall try to resist the instinctive urge to stick my hand and arm out to break my fall as landing on it has left me feeling distinctly out of joint.

 

My elbow is a little uncomfortable as a result and I can no longer straighten my arm.  Fortunately, it is my left arm and all I ask of my left hand is to hold the nail steady while I hammer it home so I see no need to inconvenience Marcia by asking her to drive me into town for an X-ray.  A visit to the tailor is also unnecessary as I am adept enough at sewing to shorten my own jacket sleeve should it prove necessary.

Last night as I was sitting behind my laptop talking to my brother in Germany via an unusually well behaved Skype, I received an unexpected visitor which, after circling the room, settled on my laptop keyboard.  The first thing such visitors do when settling down is have a poo but this one, seeing my hands suddenly still, hopped onto my finger.  Well I never!  I thought.

A most welcome surprise visitor, a Collared Dove (Streptopelia roseogrisea)

I used my laptop to take a photo of it fearing that at any second she may take fright but she seemed perfectly content in her new and no doubt unusual surroundings.  I placed her on my printer on top of which lay my old beret into which she settled. 

Alex came in from the shop and I showed him our new guest.

'Can I hold her Daddy?' he asked.

'Don't grab her,' I said, 'just stick your finger out in front of her,'

To his delight (and mine, I love to see him happy), she hopped onto his finger and stayed there.  So I took a photo with my camera.

I left the windows and the doors open all evening.  Occasionally, she went for a little walk all around the house but always came back to my desk where I would pick her up and return her to my beret.

This morning, I made a cup of tea and sat out on the veranda as usual.  As I sipped my tea, she stuck her head out of the open door, saw me and flew up to the veranda rail which she walked up and down cooing away as if having a conversation.  Then, with one last look at me, she said something else and flew off.

I Googled a translation of what she had cooed in parting.  The result came back as:

'Not a good day for climbing ladders.'

Bulls Testicles with Peaches and Dill Cream Sauce

There was a big argument in Britain a while back about what constituted a ‘National Dish’ and, given there are many worthy of the accolade, which dish it should be.  Should it be the traditional English Roast Beef and Yorkshire Pudding Sunday Dinner (eaten at lunchtime)?  Should it be Steak and Kidney Pie?  Roast Gammon?  Roast Leg of Lamb?  Fish and Chips served in newspaper?  Bangers-n-Mash with Mushy Peas?  The humble but ever so enjoyable Bacon Sarnie?  Or perhaps the unarguably world famous heart-attack-on-a-plate, the traditional English Breakfast with all the trimmings?

The discussion became heated, tempers flared and feathers flew.  The scots banged on about their beef and salmon.  The Welsh reminded everyone of their close affinity to sheep and rarebits.  It all became rather distasteful until one, hitherto silent participant suggested, quite reasonably, that a ‘national dish’ was surely the most often eaten, most popular dish within any given country.  You cannot argue with the logic of that, after all things do change.   When Homer penned his Odyssey, he was surviving on acorns which can hardly be considered the national dish of Greece pre austerity.  In America, apple pie is out, shrimp and grits are in.

A national survey was conducted and the results came in.  Nothing, apparently, better satisfied the British palate than a damn good curry.

Marcia had just left to take Alex to school this morning when I received a phone call from Manny.  She manages Rico’s place, the lodge next door to where I am building mine.  She has, bless her, a distinctive South African accent, all the more remarkable because it is wholly incomprehensible to all but her fellow Boers.  Before my morning cup of tea, I stood no chance.  All I understood were the words ‘rubbish’ and ‘impotent’.  Now this confused me as, to the best of my admittedly shaky recollection, I had never slept with her.  Still, I thought it wise to climb into the truck and drive down there.

‘Ah!  Tank gudnis u ev aroived,’ she guttered, ‘de impotent visitah is to aroive any minit an oi needs to get rid a all de sheet and ar trrike iz bust!’  The way her lads thrash that little three wheeled motorcycle pick up, I wasn’t surprised it was tits up.

‘You said something about rubbish, Manny,’ I said relieved that her visitor was important and I presumably normal.

‘Yah!  I call da boy nar,’ and she hurried off.

I hauled two truckloads of rubbish and kicked it all off at the dump with the help of da boy.  Stinking, foetid rubbish, well stewed in overstuffed and torn plastic bags heaving with maggots.  Even trying to bounce beer bottles off snuffling feral pigs at twenty paces did little to raise my spirits.  I was in the middle of an African rubbish tip under a hot African sun, birth place of every bloated fly in the universe scooping up the putrefying remains of countless meals with my bare hands.  Instead of a full nuclear, biological and chemical suit complete with respirator, I was dressed in shorts, T-shirt and sandals.  Some people find the sensation of maggots squirming between toes interesting.  This was a shit job and it got even worse when the head of my broom fell off and refused to screw back onto the handle, so I had to get down on my hands and knees to sweep the truck bed clean of the last of this biomass.  Still, I thought as I jumped out of the back of the truck, I was lucky not to have cut my finger on a piece of broken glass, that really could cause a nasty infection.  I landed on a broken wine bottle and gashed my foot instead.

Rico has a special cottage for VVIP’s.  It’s a house really, with its own separate kitchen so that meals can be prepared exclusively for the guest staying there.  Clearly Manny had left giving that a good root out to the last minute as well because as I drove into the lodge to drop the boy off, I was treated to the sight of cases of empty drinks bottles and dozens of fat black bin liners stacked up outside it.  The boy was knackered.  I was knackered.  Neither of us had eaten, it was now nearly three in the afternoon and if I looked as disgusting as he did, it was reasonable to assume that he was as pissed off as I was.  I’ll give him that though.  Having loaded on another truck load, he made to climb into the cab.  ‘Forget it,’ I said, ‘I’ll do this one by myself.’  He was very grateful but I wasn’t being charitable.  If he went with me, I would have to bring him back.  God knows what I smelt like but I could not stand the smell of him so I reckon we were both happy to part company.  Besides, this was fresh rubbish, nicely crated up or bagged.  This run would be easy.

As I left Rico’s and turned onto the road, four local fishermen flagged me down and asked for a lift to the main road.  I told them I was going via the dump and then onwards only as far as my place.  No problems, they said, I could drop them off at the turn to the dump.  As I drove, I realized that with four healthy blokes in the back, they’d have the rubbish tossed off in seconds.  As I pulled up at the turn, I offered to take them all the way to the main road if they helped me dump the rubbish.  ‘No thanks’, they said, ‘we’ll walk’.

Bastards.  They’ll happily scrounge a lift but if they have to do something in return, they’re not interested.  I flew down the track to the dump and had the last bag off before the first had even landed.  I caught up with them still two clicks short of the main road.  I drove very sedately up behind them. 

‘Oh!’ they said when they saw me, ‘can we have a lift?’

‘Vai te fuder.’ I replied.

When I got home, I saw that Marcia had a house full of Angolans who were to stay the night.  This meant Marcia had been cooking and the nice clean kitchen I had left in the morning now resembled the rubbish tip of recent acquaintance.  Misinterpreting my expression, Marcia hurried to explain that although she was cooking Angola fare, she was preparing English food for me.  Now I like some Angolan food.  Not all by any means but quite a few dishes appeal to me so I was strangely irritated that she would lump all Angolan food into a category disliked by Europeans.  Her motive became clear to my cynical mind when she translated this for her guests in a manner which called attention to her Goddess-like preoccupation with her husband’s wellbeing.  I was like a child, unwilling to try anything new or unusual so she had to prepare me a ‘special’ meal. 

As I had climbed the steps to the veranda, I had every intention of stripping off my vile garments and striding naked through the lounge to the shower to douse myself with oven cleaner.  I had instead remained clothed and was now paused in the lounge so that I could exercise the last remnants of civility still within my gift and now Marcia, having humiliated me now addressed me as if I were a child returning home after playing on a dung heap. ‘Thomas!  Go and have a shower!’  Thus dismissed, I entered the bathroom and found my towel had disappeared.  I checked the bedroom.  No clean towels.  Now this was annoying, hadn’t I just put them all through the washing machine yesterday?  Had I not used my clean towel this morning and hung it on MY rail?  I chased Marcia down.

‘I need a towel.’

‘They are in the bedroom.’

‘No they’re not.’

‘Yes they are.’

‘You go and look then .’

‘I am busy Darling.’

‘I am dirty.’

‘Yes I know, go and have a shower, dinner is nearly ready.’

Marcia turned to her companions, ‘He wants a towel.  Honestly, men!  Unless they fall over whatever it is they are looking for, they cannot find it!’  Everyone tittered except me.  I was reminded of scenes from Reggie Perrin.  I went into the spare bedroom and found it unusually tidy with all the towels neatly folded on freshly made beds.  Clearly Marcia’s visitors were impotent as well. 

I came out of our bedroom stripped with a towel around my waist.

‘Your food is ready,’ said Marcia.

‘Just stick it on the table,’ I replied, ‘I’ll be right out after my shower.’

Clean, I dragged on some fresh clobber and reappeared.  There was no one in sight.  Lonely on the dining table was a covered plate flanked by a knife and fork.  The TV channel had been switched from incessant bloody soaps to the Winter Olympics.  Typical!  Only when they have something else to do that interests them more, do they switch the channel to something I might like.  I stuck my head out of the veranda door.  At a beautifully laid table sat my family and our guests.  Was I expected to eat alone at the dining table?  Was it a case of foreign food inside, Angolan food outside in the fresh breeze and setting sun?  I had a look at what they were eating.  Moamba da Galinha.  I love Moamba da Galinha.  It is chicken casseroled in a peanut cream sauce, it is divine.  I went back to the dining table and peeled the cover off my food.  Two pieces of filet the size and shape of testicles, three chunks of a quartered boiled potato, and two thin slivers of fried aubergine.  I checked under the aubergine but my first impression had been correct, there was no sauce.

Well bollocks to that, I’d show these bastards what strange food foreigners like to eat!  I went to the fridge and took out a carton of fresh cream.  Pouring some into a bowl I added salt and pepper and some chopped dill.  I took out a can of peach halves and opened it.  Rooting among the pans on the stove I found there were more testicles in the frying pan.  I heaped them onto my plate.  I then arranged a peach half on each, poured cream over them and then drizzled the beef tea from the pan over the potatoes and aubergine.

‘Room for one more?’ I asked as I strode out onto the verandah.

‘Don’t you want to watch the Olympics?’ Marcia asked me, ‘the channel changed automatically so I knew you had saved a reminder.  We came outside to eat so as not to disturb you.’

‘Oh,’ I said.

‘There’s more steak in the pan,’ Marcia went on, ‘it’s just that I know you like Moamba da Galinha so I only put a bit of steak on your plate to leave room.’

‘Righto,’ I said making my way down the table to sit next to Alex, ‘that was very kind of you.’

‘What have you got there!’ Marcia asked in astonishment as the plate descended below the level of her eyes on its way to land on the table, ‘are they peaches?’

Naturally everyone at the table had to have a look.  No Moamba for me, I was going to have to finish what was on my plate or really lose face.

‘I don’t want this!’ said Alex pushing his plate of Moamba away, ‘I want what Daddy is eating!’ confirming in the minds of the Angolans present that we Europeans eat some odd stuff.

Alex and I proceeded to polish off the plate.

‘What is it?’ the visitors asked having been persuaded to try some.

‘This,’ I said, good humour fully restored, ‘is England’s National Dish,'  I paused long enough to allow them to swallow, 'Testículos de boy com pêssegos e molho de natas com endro.’

Rocky Marciano Jr.

Alessandro Manuel (to give him his Angolan name), by Tom 'The Bomb' Gowans (undefeated Light Middleweight), out of Marcia Francelina da Graça Manuel.

When is a boy old enough to learn to box?

Recently I had occasion to ask Alex if there was anything he wanted.  I was thinking of something small and lightweight, easily hand carried.

'Boxing gloves,' he answered.

'Do you know what boxing gloves are, Son?'

'Yes Daddy.  I want boxing gloves.'

'Are you sure, Son?  Wouldn't you rather have a radio controlled car or a colouring set?'

'If you don't want to buy me boxing gloves then don't.' 

How the hell did a five year old learn to pack so much into a simple sentence?  He was simultaneously calling into question the reason for me even bothering to ask what he really wanted if I was then going to argue his choice, and demonstrating his complete indifference to a negative response.  There was no doubt about it, his little heart was set on boxing gloves.

That evening I told Marcia that Alex had asked for boxing gloves.

'Nem pensar!' she said, shocked, 'he is far too young and besides, he has too much energy as it is.'

I would have thought her last point was a damn good reason to get him the gloves.  He'd soon get knackered swinging six ounce gloves around.

So I ignored Marcia and got him the gloves.  I not only got him the gloves, I got him a proper punch bag as well.

The bag is made of a very heavy canvas and is designed to be filled with sand.  That would make it weigh a ton, Alex might as well be punching a wall and that would be both painful and not very realistic.  If he punched someone his own size, that person is going to give a little (or, hopefully, give a lot and fall down) but if he punched an immovable object, Newton's third law says it'll damn well hurt.  Alex weighs in at half a Bantam weight and ideally the bag should weigh his body weight plus around 30% to give him something to punch against without breaking his arm.  I decided to fill the bag with wood shavings mixed with sand.  First, though, I needed to work out where to hang it.  The veranda seemed the best place but there were no conveniently exposed beams so I had to put one in.  Naturally this attracted Marcia's interest, she still didn't know I had the gloves and bag.

'Hanging baskets,' I told her, 'they'd look nice here.'

Beam up and tested (if it'll hold up to me swinging on it, it would do as an engine hoist) I waited 'til the next morning with Alex in school and Marcia in town before going into the garden and filling the bag.  I think I overdid it a bit because my legs felt pretty wobbly as I climbed the stairs up to the veranda and there was no way I could hold it up at the right height for Alex with one arm and get the wire over the beam and through the shackle suspending the bag with the other.  I had to prop it up on a chair and wire it up that way.  Out of curiosity, I fetched my fish scales and weighed the bag, 35 kilos (77lbs).  Lighter than it felt, I must be getting old.

Alex returned home from school, saw the bag and immediately started punching it.  Marcia rolled her eyes heavenwards and tight-lipped stalked into the house.

'Hang on a sec, Son, you need these,' I said producing the gloves.

'Boxing gloves!  Thank you Daddy!' he said giving me the biggest hug ever.  Any doubts I had about the wisdom of this evaporated.  The gloves were real nice, as pro as junior gloves could be; good wrist support and a stitched thumb to avoid injury.

'OK matey, give it a go,' I told him and he let loose.  Most kids of his age would tend to slap, not punch, and then they would only throw one, pause and then throw another.  Not Alex.  He not only punched, he threw blisteringly fast triple combinations and had the bag flying about all over the place.  OK, he lacks any form of technique, obviously, but these are things that can easily be taught.  What impressed me was the instinctive way he put his weight behind the punch, the force of his punch and his footwork.

I hope it will burn up some excess energy, which he has in abundance, as well as building up his confidence.

I set my camera to shoot several frames in sequence and asked Alex to thump the bag for me.  Bear in mind, the bag weighs 77lbs and was static when he hit it with a single punch.  Take a look at these:

And he never took his eyes off it. 

Looking at this, I need to raise the bag a bit. 
I'll get the boy to lift it while I make the adjustment.

So to answer my original question, when is a boy old enough to learn to box?  I would say, when he wants to.