The Bumper Halloween, Angelina Jolie, and Bushveld Rubbish Days

I have been prancing about the street (and elsewhere) like a loon as per usual but I have been distracted by a few work deadlines so I only posted the pics to my Facebook page for my nearest and dearest. Never fear though, we now have the bumper Rubbish Day for the blog.

It starts with our trip to the bush, where they encourage recycling by making you use see-through bin bags. If I look a little jumpy in the photos, it is because we had just seen a rather beautiful, rather large male leopard about 500 metres from the riverbed in which I stand. The francolins (or spur fowl as we are now to call them according to the ever-ready-for-change nomenclurists) were making a terrible racket in the grass and much of my energy was focused on not dying with a bin bag full of tins in my hand in the middle of nowhere.





Upon our return from the bush, Mrs Young suggested an Angelina Jolie shoot was in order. My brood was at school, so the dolls stood in for them while I pouted up a storm as Mrs Smith.

Warning: severe duck face shots and the worst background-removal photo edit in the history of Rubbish Day follow





From Mrs Smith last week to Mrs Frankenstein this one. 23Thorns and I celebrated our 13th wedding anniversary this month, so I hauled out my wedding dress and got 23 to wrap my arms in bandages before trying to move in the street like a reanimated corpse. I’m not sure I was entirely convincing as Bride of Frankenstein but it was great fun to wear a train on tar at 8 in the morning.







Happy Halloween to all.



Mary Poppins Rubbish Day

Thank you to the completely delightful 23Thorns for nominating me for the blog hop. I will attend to an appropriate response soon. Today though, I have a kite to fly. I’m going to send it soaring, up to the atmosphere, up where the air is clear etc.

The beautiful girl-child was a suffragette in her nursery school’s end of year production of Mary Poppins last night. “Votes for woman! We will not be held down by men! We deserve our freedom!”, she shouted while marching across the stage militantly. My heart could have popped with the pride of it.

I have ever been fond of a musical, much to 23’s horror – he has still not seen The Sound of Music! – and I am especially fond of wonderfully peculiar Mary Poppins. Since last night I have been belting out my favourite numbers at full volume while strutting about the place. There was no choice really in terms of who to be for Rubbish Day.

Oh, it’s a jolly holiday with Mary
Mary makes your heart so light
You haven’t changed a bit, have you?

When the day is gray and ordinary
Mary makes the sun shine bright
Oh, honestly

Oh, happiness is bloomin’ all around her
The daffodils are smilin’ at the dove
When Mary holds your hand you feel so grand
Your heart starts beatin’ like a big brass band
You are lightheaded

It’s a jolly holiday with Mary
No wonder that it’s Mary that we love

Have a wonderful week everybody. I am going to try to be here more regularly again. Since the change of rubbish day from Wednesday to Monday and sometimes Tuesday it has been difficult to keep up. As 23 pointed out in his blog too, I have been obsessing about wars again. I have decided today though that a-lot-of-war-writing time is the perfect time for a spoonful of sugar or two. It does help the medicine go down.








Little Sparrow Rubbish Day

Edith Piaf was 1.47m tall. That’s 4ft9-ish. She was really exceptionally tiny. When she died of liver cancer at the age of 47, her last words – “Every damn fool thing you do in this life, you pay for.” – were probably not very much in the spirit of ‘Non, je ne regrette rien’.

But today is Little Sparrow day. It is indomitable tiny person with huge voice day. It is don’t regret the bad things day, or the good. It is all of these things because I bought caged bird earrings, and then I needed bird shoes to match, and then in walking around the shops for the first time in a week because I was without wheels pending an expensive clutch replacement, I noticed quite how dreary winter is. Black shoes. Brown shoes. Beige coats. Grey scarves. In defiance of beige, I have taken to the skies. I am a bird. With goosebumps and shivers and vertigo. I’m more of a carnival bird than a little sparrow and I’m 17ft tall on the dustbin. But what is lacking in accuracy and grace is made up for in enthusiasm and colour-clashing of epic proportion.







Singing in the Rain but not Rubbish Day

oh dear! I published this on the wrong blog. Apologies.

It has been raining. A lot. It has rained consistently for 10 days or more. Our house is starting to smell like a cave, the dogs are always wet, to say nothing of the children, and I am developing concerns about the black mould that Dr House so often looks for as the cause of near-certain death growing in secret damp corners.

I woke up this morning to another grey day and thought, “Gene Kelly! I can rock a song and dance”. 23 Thorns has gone back to work in a 9-5 job, so I was short a photographer. I took the rubbish out with my snazzy hat but there was nobody to record it. Most fortunately, on contacting a friend, I discovered that it was plastics day in Fourways Gardens. Into my mom car I hopped and off I dashed, for another travelling rubbish day. Most unfortunately, by the time I arrived, the sun had come out for the first time in weeks, so I present to you Singing in the No Rain. Thank heavens for puddles!









Happy Wednesday everybody! If the rain never stops, Puddle jump more. It’s wicked cool 🙂

This is Sparta Rubbish Day

So, I am still online gaming up a storm. I am now fully accepting of what this says about me. It says I am a giant, pasty nerd and I have no social life because I have two children and two jobs and 25 villages to run. That embarrassing admission out the way, I can now tell you that I am a Spartan. Yes, people. I am a Spartan.


I do not, however, leave small children out in the cold night to die or beat young boys to within an inch of their lives. (Both kids were home today – school holidays – and survived a Spartan strut in the street with me.) It does mean that I have a new clan in my war game. We mean business. In that spray-painted on abs kind of way.


Please note the unmolested small children ignoring their mad mother with as much determination as the rubbish guys.


But later this morning, the children are going to granny’s for the night. And as I said to my charming husband 23thorns, tonight, TONIGHT WE DINE IN HELL!


Not really. We are going to the local Greek. Or should we perhaps go Turkish?

The Flintstones’ Rubbish Day

Last week Thursday we had an apocalyptic hail storm in Johannesburg. Since then 23Thorns, the two apples of our eyes and I have been living in the Dark Ages. The really dark, no-electricity, dark ages. We have power for, on average, about 8 hours a day. It is annoying beyond speech. The delightful folk at Eskom now tell us that cable thieves are causing the havoc. I want to beat both the cable thieves and the malfunctioning pylons with a giraffe bone.

And so it is, I present to you The Flintstones’ Rubbish Day. Welcome to our new, very ancient world. We have gone feral, I’m afraid.


Please feel free to drop in for dinner. The stove and microwave are on the blink but, ever crafty, we have made a plan.


Giraffe is on the menu and unless you work for Eskom, I promise we won’t bite.



Happy Wednesday everybody. May yours be filled with light and laughter.

Dirty Dancing and Fruitcake Rubbish Day

Today is a special double bill rubbish day. It is the fault of my charming husband, 23Thorns, and his new-found obsession with watermelon. Watermelon is a good summer fruit and I enjoy a slice or two myself but 23 has gone watermelon wild. I am sent off on late afternoon watermelon shopping sprees as he honestly cannot be without one for more than a few hours. Breakfast. Lunch. Supper. He is just all about the watermelons, so today I am a watermelon.


This watermelon frenzy of 23Thorns’ and my subsequent pink and green number have had the unfortunate side-effect of taking me back to the days of my youth. You see, I cannot say the word ‘watermelon’ without going all Dirty Dancing on you, because Baby carried a watermelon. She carried a watermelon! If you are either too young or too old to remember the wistful teenage longing all teenage girls felt who wanted to be Baby to Patrick Swayze’s Johnny, I’m afraid this next little bit is going to be a bit weird. More than usual. But I know that Baby wore denim shorts. I know that nobody put her in the corner. I know that she carried a watermelon. I know that Johnny taught her that lifty move in a dam. I know Dirty Dancing. Now too do the neighbours (with dirty dustbin standing in for Johnny).


“I carried a watermelon”


Now sing it with me…”Now I had the time of my li-i-ife”.

Happy Wednesday!

The Rubbish Day Liza Minnelli nearly broke my spirit

For those who are new to this, I dress up for rubbish day. This week, by the special request of a lovely friend, I present Liza Minnelli in Cabaret. Sadly and for reasons I cannot understand, my charming husband did not want to put on a pair of short leather shorts to join me as Emcee.

I’m not entirely sure that I nailed Liza but I hit hooker and drag queen on the head. I knocked those two right out of the park! It was, to say the very least about the whole underwear in the street debacle, a little stressful. There were plenty laughs though albeit of the nervous giggle variety.


Ta da! My jazz hands froze with the anxiety, I’m afraid.


Imagine the bin is the chair, if you will.


There was some traffic on the street but thankfully today the neighbours hid themselves particularly well.


Today should have carried a PG rating. My nerves! They are finished. Happy Wednesday everybody.

‘The sun will come out tomorrow’ Rubbish Day

I was feeling a little out of sorts this morning. It might be the moon. Maybe I’m desperate for rain. Perhaps it was just a lack of sleep and dancing. There’s just never enough dancing, is there? You can all rest easy though because I have pulled myself towards myself by singing a little musical number from Annie and I am now almost convinced that the sun will indeed come out tomorrow.


That’s Charlie. Charlie’s his name, if you please. If you don’t believe me, ask any one of the fleas.


This is Sandy. Sandy’s his name, if you please…


You really are never fully dressed without a smile. You’re never fully dressed…


The sun’ll come out tomorrow. Bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow, there’ll be sun. I certainly hope so because we really need to paint that gate of ours.