‘I promised you a rose garden’ Rubbish Day

It has been a bit of a week. A work deadline came and went. There was much celebration with much wine. The small people are on school holidays again. There was much wine.

I feel these days that the time between holidays is so fast. The small people are becoming big people too fast. Winter turns to spring turns to summer too fast. Perhaps spending all day looking at huge periods of time, looking at people coming and going over periods of hundreds of years, makes a month seem like a whoosh! and a ‘where did that go?’. And I could spend some time musing over the flowers that my charming husband bought me now having withered and died. Fleeting beauty and all that.

Or, I could put on a pair of floral trews, a floral jacket, floral shoes, and even the floral knickers; I could recruit myself a little flower fairy and cause a ruckus in the street on the Sunday prior to Rubbish Day Monday. Today was especially raucous. One neighbour came to visit en route to another neighbour’s house with another neighbour’s dog. Our Charlie dog was fairly interested, as was Beatrice Bloodhound. We made a scene but if ever you make a scene, do it as a rose garden I always say.

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Dancing to the Belle Epoque Rubbish Day

I adore the early modern dancers of the Belle Epoque, Loie Fuller twirling with so many yards of fabric. I love looking at any photographs of the thoroughly beautiful Isadora Duncan. Swirly twirly Rodin sketches made flesh.

“Let them come forth with great strides, leaps and bounds, with lifted forehead and far-spread arms, to dance.”

~ Isadora Duncan

In looking through old images of dancers on Friday, I came across this photograph and immediately thought it just the sort of a dance I could do with the bin.


The neighbours working in their gardens braced for more dancing impact. My arms were spread wide. There was leaping. There was a little bounding.

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Back-to-school Parade Day Rubbish Day

Today the charming, funny, entirely wonderful boy-child went back to school and I’m not going to lie, Internet, I am beside myself with joy. Working from home with wildlings is not easy. To celebrate this day of high-fiving boyish reunions and parental giddiness, I donned a party frock (it’s creased because, frankly, it’s all I’ve been able to do to keep up with the constant picking up of scattered yoghurt tubs this past 6 weeks), I put on a party fascinator (we’re all out of party hats. December does that to one’s supply), I ribboned up, and marched to the parade-beat of my own drummer.


And imagine my excitement at discovering that today there was even a “crowd” in the street with whom to celebrate!



Happy Wednesday everybody. May it never rain on your parade (unless you live in Jo’burg and your lawn is as crispy as mine)

All Things Must End Rubbish Day

So, the summer holidays are nearly over. We are limping, dragging ourselves bodily towards back-to-school day. I love my children with the chest-popping, growling, big Love but it is time for them to spend some time more than a metre away from me. It is time!

This is the way the holiday ends. This is the way the holiday ends. Not with a bang but a whimper (apologies to Mr Eliot)





This morning’s Rubbish Day photos were taken by the madly talented, extremely wonderful friend, Germaine DeLarch. She came for tea and we forced her out into the road with only an iPad and a vision of our discontent and dustbins. Thank you 🙂

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.