Water… peaceful seascapes, water lilies nestling in shimmering pools, gentle streams gurgling in the countryside; all's right with the world. Yet in minutes the peaceful mood can change dramatically and tragically. The disastrous floods in KwaZulu‐Natal in early April in which 480 people died, with several still unaccounted for, demonstrated that too much water is definitely not a thing of beauty. And then last weekend's floods overwhelmed the area again, causing terrible devastation but miraculously with no loss of life. Horrific pictures showed residents being helped out of high‐rise apartments that seemed to be teetering on shaky sand, while those living in ‐rise areas desperately viewed the remains of their homes yet again. And it may not be over yet… (Is it going to rain even more, Gran?)

But what a joy it is to wake up after the flood weekend to normal, sunny skies and a clear view to the horizon. Yet the wide frill of brown mud that joined the blue sea recalls the ghostly mist, howling wind and incessant rain of the past few days.

Domestic travel being set aside for the moment, my thoughts wander far beyond former picturesque local scenic drives. Quirky Gran dreams big!

Rome, city of fountains… Unsurprisingly, Rome has often been the city of choice for film‐makers. The 1950s film, Three Coins in the Fountain, was based on the legend that encourages tourists to throw coins into the Trevi Fountain to ensure that they would return to the City of Love. One coin ensured your return, two for a return and love, and three coins for return, love and marriage! Who could forget the dashing Louis Jourdan and elegant Rossano ? I hesitate to confess that the names of the three ladies escape me! I've paid my coins to the fountain, so I shall return one day… Frank Sinatra sang the song, so it must be true! At the moment travel by imagination is easy, economical, possible and stress‐less.

Roman Holiday with Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck! Both unforgettable! And of course, Fellini's very different, decadent La Dolce Vita, with Anita Ekberg memorably jumping into the Trevi fountain fully clothed — among other incidents. Marcello Mastroianni was one of the many stars.

And Venice! Truly the city of water! Their most recent serious floods in 2019 left a watermark nearly two metres above the average water height. Serious damage occurred to ancient buildings, priceless art works and frescoes that couldn't be moved to safety, as well as books and manuscripts, including some of Venetian composer Vivaldi's music scores.

Venice is also the city of my favourite literary detective, Commissario Guido Brunetti! I travelled with him, entranced, through the Venetian canals, palazzi and slums while he solved his cases. If only his author, Donna Leon, had agreed to film the numerous books in the series…

Truman Capote said it all for me: ‘Venice is like eating an entire box of chocolate liqueurs in one go’. Buon appetito!

Winter — cosy days in front of the television, with a cup of hot chocolate and a deliciously decadent treat near at hand. Bliss… until the advertisements barge in, without even a drum‐roll or clash of cymbals, to change one's mood by interrupting the tennis at a vital point, the news at a crucial moment, or your favourite soapie — is her fiancé really her son? Of course the television and radio stations depend on revenue from advertising, but is it worth the producer's effort and our intense irritation if we don't even remember the product that was being advertised?

In domestic life, the proof of the pudding is in the eating, thinks Quirky Gran, unsurprisingly relating the problem to food! In advertising, proof of success should be in the buying. It's not successful advertising if we remember the advert but not the product.

Quirky Gran and friends were discussing their favourite and least favourite adverts recently. Some of the clever wording has become part of our daily jargon, for example, ‘Serius?’; ‘It's complicated’, and ‘Much, much more’ (to be pronounced in an Edinburgh, not Maritz‐burgh accent). But alas, none of us could fit the advert to its product. So how could they add to the coffers of the product‐maker? Bad mistake…

Top of Quirky Gran's least‐favourite list: That cute, smartly‐dressed little guy who tells us to ‘get our ching’ (What's that Gran?) by subscribing to some insurance plan, I think. And in another advert, he rolls his huge, expressive eyes while asserting that getting straight A's is ‘bo‐ring’ — not encouraging for aspiring students, or their parents, or their teachers. What was he advertising? And why do the advertisers spend so much money and time on writing, producing and finding the right actors — all for a negative approach. (Call Quirky Gran for assistance…) Take note insurance brokers, bankers and funeral directors.

And that's not all. Quirky Gran's latest gripe: we listen to SAFM radio during breakfast, and were startled to hear the news programme presenters ‘seamlessly’ recycle themselves to advise listeners on which particular insurance company to subscribe to. Now I'm generally very partial to the morning programme presenters, who discuss topics of the day and always seem to deal successfully with difficult callers on the phone‐in part of the show. BUT for financial advice, give me a professional financial advisor thank you. Give the advertising actors a chance, guys… you can't be a wo/man for all seasons.

Final grumble. I'm very aware of the background music, which surely should suit the product, but generally has no reason that I can think of to be there at all. In yet another insurance ad (sigh) the lady drives her car (another car advert?) in tandem with many other cars to a perky melody from Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker Suite. Why? I've struggled to find a reason… and can't get beyond Nutty or Cracked. Help!

A message for SAFM: Quirky Gran is available for the post of Advisor, music included, for Advertisements. Contact details available on request.

I've been enjoying the British Master Chef series, and was impressed to read that judges Gregg Wallace and John Torode and had been awarded MBEs in the 2022 Queen's Birthday Honours for their contribution to the profession. I'd recorded the latest competition series and binge‐watched the whole thing one weekend. So I feel as if I really know the judges and contestants: their likes, dislikes and idiosyncrasies! I quiver for the contestants when they place their artistically plated offerings for the judges' perusal with the same trepidation as schoolchildren handing their homework to their school principal. Will they pass or fail?

I can't help empathising with the contestants when a seemingly perfect dish is criticised for reasons totally beyond my comprehension. So many of the dishes and ingredients, especially the spices, are totally unknown to my amateur palate. But then, they are aiming to be professional cooks! Fortunately for me, on the home front, I'm sure that the man in my life would happily swap a delicately flavoured and prettily presented culinary work of art to a familiar, tasty bord kos from the Quirky Gran kitchen. His response to “You should move out of your comfort zone and try something new” would definitely be “Why?”.

Bord kos: ‘Food that's seriously great, without the towers and the drizzles’ (from Food24 in 2011). Someone I know would understand what the Duke of Edinburgh once said: “I never see home cooking; all I get is the fancy stuff…”

Recently I inadvertently created a new dish! Sadly, not one of my proudest creations… I was having one of my Italian moments — spaghetti bolognaise had to be on the menu! I'd already poured the tinned tomatoes into the pot of cooking mincemeat before realising that the tin that I'd opened contained Indian not Italian tomatoes… Not one to cry over spilt milk or mistaken tomato identity, I served it authentically with rice rather than pasta. Okay, so Quirky Gran is definitely not a Master Chef candidate. (Maybe you just need new reading glasses, Gran?)

However, the cook is not always to blame — as the chef of a popular '70s Durban restaurant would confirm. His restaurant was in great demand for communal and family functions. The latest ‘pièce de résistance’ was the croquembouche — made up of éclairs built into a pyramid, elegantly decorated with gossamer‐like threads of spun sugar. A true piece of art. But… read on!

At a certain Barmitzvah reception, the proof of the pudding was not in the eating. The Bobba, fascinated by the delicate concoction asked, “Wos is dos?” (What does that mean, Gran?) while simultaneously poking her finger at and through it. The Chef's spectacular dessert collapsed onto the floor in a mass of pathetic little, gooey, chocolate‐covered choux pastry balls. Bobba was rushed out of the room, the hosts were speechless and the chef's comments unmentionable…

At the next function, the lights in the dining room were turned off, and the crochembouche, lit up with sparklers, was carried in on a special trolley! The lights were turned on and after the guests had ooh‐ed and aah‐ed in admiration, the chef triumphantly cut the spectacular dessert into slices! Culinary peace and sanity were restored.

Once upon a time I was young and energetic, with so much to do — and I would actually get it done. Always time to squeeze in another engagement to my schedule — family, social or work… Life was busy; life was fun!

Quirky Gran and friends survived those hectic parenting days — schlepping the children in Mom's Taxis to tennis, netball, swimming, cricket, and not forgetting chess club and debating society at night. Later, David and I became Friends' Taxi, preferring to fetch and take the teenagers to their social activities — after some hair‐raising experiences where the designated parent had forgotten to fetch the lift‐scheme children. That took care of their schedule. Most of us managed to work, study and perform communal activities as well as the normal housewifely things — including caring for children and parents, buying groceries, cooking, baking and even entertaining. All in a day's work… Those were the days, my friends!

Times have changed. These days I return from the repetitive, boring supermarket drudge (how all prices have surged!) and flop onto on the bed with a restorative cup of tea. Too early for something stronger… Exhaustion seems to be a general problem among our age group everywhere. My friend B in Sydney sighs: ‘I haven't been ill, but I'm always tired.’

At the end of the day I'm ready for bed, often before watching my favourite television programme… too tired to even call a friend (a really bad sign). The spirit is willing but the flesh is ever so weak… I've even turned down invitations to coffee and chats — formerly unheard of.

The fear of Covid may have curtailed our outside experiences and given us time less rushed. But what did we do with the extra time? With hindsight I should have written, read and listened to more music — but these days concentration, both in words and memory, is not always readily accessible. In mitigation, Quirky Gran came into being and I now am a regular challah baker! Grateful thanks also to Wendy Fisher and all at Lockdown University for providing intellectual stimulation to thousands of culturally starved listeners all over the world.

As life returns to some sort of normality, the earlier urgency and enthusiasm is missing… we gratefully creep on, at a slower pace, recalling One Day When We Were Young…

And that's not all… Quirky Gran's world has been turned upside down. Instead of children being told: ‘Ask Granny, she'll know’, it's ‘Ask the grandchildren, they'll know’… For every technological problem — and what else is there? — they really do know the answer. Their superior knowledge may well be the reason for this topsy‐turvy world. As they know so much more than we do about these essential needs, why should they bow to our knowledge on how to run the world? Age and experience no longer provide instant, correct solutions to all problems…

‘Let me see, Gran.’ Tick‐tick‐clickety‐click… ‘There you are! Problem solved.’

I'm delighted, but it really is a puzzlement! It seems that something's rotten in the State of Grannydom.

Quirky Gran comes from pint‐sized parents (What's “pint size”, Gran?), and had become accustomed to being the shortest in the class, always leading the line of children into the school hall and being placed in the front row for school photographs. She'd seldom given it any thought until her children commented negatively on their being ‘height challenged’ — obviously it's a genetic fault. As my mother would have said: ‘That should be their biggest problem…’. I reminded them that ‘The best things come in small packages’, but this didn't comfort them.

Few people are completely satisfied with their lot. My almost 6 foot tall (What's “foot”, Gran?) school friend, P, complained that she saw only the top of everyone's head and had to bend down to see their faces. Very upsetting, particularly at teenage social gatherings, when the local ‘talent’ had to stretch their necks, giraffe‐like, to talk to her. No wonder she became seriously round‐shouldered.

So, Shorties, relax! You don't have to be tall to do great things! Despite being below average height, 5 foot 6 inches tall (What's “inches” Gran?), Napoleon, Wellington and Churchill rose to the greatest professional heights. And does it matter, when one listens to the masterpieces of Mozart, that he stood a mere 5 foot 4 inches in his satin stockings? Sadly, today's criterion appears to be ‘bigger is better’. Eat your hearts out, fans of screen stars Tom Cruise and George Clooney! Your heart‐throbs wear high heels or stand on boxes in order to appear as tall as their peers and film partners. Ag, shame!

Five foot one‐and‐a‐half inch short Quirky Gran (that's 1.56 metres, in case you were born after 1960) recently experienced some strange phenomena. Shelves had changed height…no kidding. I now have to stretch, or stand on tiptoe or even use a ladder to reach contents which had previously been within easy reach. Extraordinary! Clothes hanging in the cupboard, crockery on kitchen shelves and the cords of blinds have mysteriously moved up and away from me… curiouser and curiouser… Was I shrinking… like Alice in Wonderland? But I had definitely not drunk any Drink Me potion. Was I hallucinating? Experiencing a second childhood, or worse?

The strange truth dawned after a doctor friend, whom I hadn't seen since pre‐Covid days, commented that he didn't remember my being ‘so short’. I had indeed shrunk with age — and without warning. No motivational books on Is Your Granny Shrinking? Not even a Shrinking for Dummies. Again, our needs are being ignored.

I'm relieved that shrinking is apparently a normal aging process. So, children and grandchildren, for your sakes, please develop a height‐stabilising pill. One less genetic problem for you to contend with.

People grow up. Some, like Quirky Gran, grow down!

We had just settled down to enjoy a rare family weekend, ten of us, on the beautiful KwaZulu Natal North Coast when an uninvited guest, a monkey, burst in through a closed door (cautious Quirky Gran is absolutely sure she closed it), and grabbed a packet of chips from the table. He raced out and joined his peers in an overlooking tree where he skilfully opened the packet, seemed to leer at us, and guzzled the contents as if to say ‘So wê!’ All this in a matter of seconds.

The non‐local family members were horrified and outraged! We'd all read the signs warning us not feed the monkeys — but we weren't feeding them, they were feeding themselves… on a surely non‐monkey diet.

We immediately secured all doors and windows — now we were caged in, our every move eagerly watched by the monkeys! Quirky Gran wondered if we were taking part in a Netflix film for monkeys… Was this their protest at having been ‘colonised’ by humans and being deprived of their land? S and D, who had recently returned from visiting the gorillas in Rwanda — I kid you not — were amazed. The gorillas there had behaved impeccably in comparison to their southern cousins!

After the invasion, normality was restored with the help of ‘proper’ coffee (what's that, Gran?) made by the family connoisseurs and, unsurprisingly, conversation moved to animals in general. It was announced that, unlike many of their friends, our (now adult) children had never experienced a family holiday at a game reserve — not even at nearby Mkhuze Game Park, far less at the famous Kruger National Park! A son‐in‐law was aghast! Such deprivation…

However, there is a good reason. Quirky Gran has a fear of any animal larger than a dog… So the implied accusation was without substance. What about the visit to the Lion Park outside Maritzburg? I distinctly remember taking our children and their Cape cousins there — once I'd been assured that the lions were retirees from a circus. No clever tricks, not even an MGM roaring lion. (What's all that, Gran?) I'd insisted on being the driver — so that I could concentrate on the dusty road rather than the aged animals. The children, despite ooh‐ing and aah‐ing at the few weary, disinterested lions, complained later that it ‘wasn't the real thing!’ I couldn't argue with that!

In mitigation I must also add that the children grew up with adorable medium‐sized dogs at home: a wire‐haired terrier and a cocker spaniel. However, after the former died, a young nephew kindly brought us a most appealing puppy (aren't they all?) from a friend's litter. Within a few months this Belgian shepherd had grown to the size of a racehorse, and knocked over Quirky Gran's frail mother with a friendly, boisterous flap of her tail… Soon thereafter she was frolicking happily on a farm in the Midlands. In some cases, size really does matter.

Things are happening too fast for Quirky Gran! My 2023 diary arrived today! And I've just got used to thinking and writing ‘2022’…

When I left school my Mother bought me a little blue pocket diary, similar to the ones that she'd written in forever, and being a Taurean, a creature of habit, I continued to order a similar one every year. That makes sixty‐four diaries! Surely I should be eligible for a free one! Oops! Sixty‐three years, as one year I forgot to order a copy, and I'm sure that's the reason life did not run as smoothly as usual that year… I couldn't get used to the different style and format, and ordered my next diary in advance! Although the 2023 copy is larger, and a different colour, I'll get used to it!

Halfway through this year — along with the rest of the country — the Quirky Gran brigade excitedly and nervously returned to some sort of pre‐Covid normality — we resumed our Book Club meetings. The novelty of actually seeing each other and exchanging books again, after a more than two‐year gap, became a refreshing ‘look what's happening now’, rather than a ‘remember when’ moment… Such a joy to be with friends, to catch up on news in person rather than on‐line or on‐cell. And how we'd missed the delicious teas provided by the monthly hostesses! ‘I can't wait to savour M's cheese blintzes again’; Quirky Gran's mouth watered at the prospect! A better taster than baker, she thought that several book club gals could be worthy Master Chef champions!

Oh, and of course, the books! Top priority! Something for everyone…murder most gory for S, unusual settings for R who loves to learn about other cultures, romances that ended happily ever after, for those who enjoyed a mindless but satisfying read, and of course, the latest offering by favourite authors.

Oh for the days of the family bookshop… of being greeted by your friendly bookseller wanting to introduce you to an author that she knew you'd enjoy! In these days of anonymity, how heart‐warming it was to be personally remembered and acknowledged.

Books seem to be written according to themes, Quirky Gran noted — family secrets being one of the present flavours. A letter by an ancestor is found in a hidden trunk, and on research by a curious family member, all kinds of secrets are revealed — some to be welcomed, others to be instantly returned whence they came… Who knows what the grandchildren will find in Quirky Gran's still‐to‐be‐decluttered boxes?!

Books about bookshops are also popular — sheer heaven if you're a bibliophile! (What's that, Gran?) Quirky Gran's well‐worn 84, Charing Cross Road , featuring the correspondence during and after World War II between the owners and staff of a London bookshop and an American customer who sent them precious food parcels throughout and after the ration‐period. Present‐day readers are bombarded with novels set in bookshops in many parts of the world, Kabul, Paris, India, Spain and of course London. Bloomsbury Girls tells of the plight of female book shop assistants in the 1950s and their struggle for parity in salaries while doing the same work as their male counterparts. Eighty years on and things are improving, albeit at a snail's pace. Quirky Gran was particularly disturbed by the fact that after the literary get‐togethers with well‐known authors, a novelty introduced by the bookshop ladies, the male staff left the shop to socialise with the authors while the ladies remained to wash up, dry and put away the tea things… However, do not despair, the worms turned… (Worms in a bookshop, Gran?)

As I add important family dates to my new diary, I hope that the 2023 edition will be filled with happy get‐togethers, activities and tales, some of them even flavoured with spicy tidbits!

Quirky Gran is confused. Why are the lives of ‘social celebrities’ fascinating to most ordinary mortals? Why is the general public obsessed with people they've never seen nor, in my case, even heard of? Do we hanker after strangers' bizarre, exciting lives to brighten our own comparatively dull, daily drudgery? Is that merely wishful thinking?

According to Wikipedia, celebrity worship syndrome is ‘an addictive disorder in which a person becomes overly involved with the details of a celebrity's personal and professional life'. Not guilty! I can just about cope with my own life!

So, Quirky Gran put on her Miss Marple hat at a jaunty angle and set out to investigate this CWS. The social section of local Sunday newspapers seemed a very good place to start. Readers‐who‐care were informed that before her wedding, a celebrity pop singer had her eyelashes removed and replaced with those of a different colour. I hope the bridegroom noticed the difference… As my cousin J would have said, “So?” He was not afflicted with CWS…

Stop Press! The hype continues:

An American film star couple were recently married in an idyllic Italian village, accompanied by hundreds of their close (!) friends most of whom jetted or yachted in for the celebratory week. (They must have downsized to a mere limousine for at least the last part of the journey, but that wasn't mentioned…) Details of their OTT (what's that, Gran?) fairy‐tale wedding were heaven to the media. (The cost of the extravaganza could probably have fed the hungry of a small country for a year.) If you didn't make the list, sob, please refer to popular social magazines for the details of the all‐celebrity guests — including (gasp!) major and minor royalty who change in popularity so quickly these days — who were invited! Dressed by the world's top couturiers, also guests for the occasion — definitely no local dressmaker, or hairdresser from around the corner…

“The bride was ecstatic…” ‘More likely delirious; needing ER medical attention’, muttered Quirky Gran cynically as she read about how the married couple were whipped off to a secret (?!) Caribbean island with a few of their favourite friends… Unsurprisingly, the couple did not live happily ever after. Just a few months later they hit the headlines again (oh, happy media!), glowing radiantly with newer, even more glamorous partners. I bet the village can't wait for their next wedding!

Which reminds me of the true story of a guest who sent an apology to the bridal couple that he couldn't attend his friend's third wedding. ‘I promise I'll be there for the next’ the Master of Ceremonies read out to the horrified bride.

Give me the good old days when marriage was a serious ‘forever after’ event, without an ‘instant divorce’ codicil. Now young hopefuls are encouraged by television programme producers who pay all expenses for a nationally televised occasion. Quirky Gran adds sagely: Marry in haste and repent as hastily… almost a case of ‘We met and married in two days…what's your name again?’ The lure of becoming a national one‐day celebrity seems to over‐shadow all normal thought processes. And what about their parents? Basking in their daughter's success as ‘bride for a day’…

‘You're not ordinary, so why have an ordinary wedding?’ — a radio advert cunningly lures prospective couples to share their special day with the nation. Give me good old ordinariness, with only your nearest and dearest being aware of one's every stumble and stutter.

In our case, Quirky Gran remembers, the photographer forgot to remove the lens‐cap from the camera at the reception, so our historical moments were captured by very amateurish family efforts! (Why did they cut off your head, Gran?)

Just a quirky thought: are these ‘celebrity marriages’ legal or are they, as the song goes, ‘only make‐believe’?

I am a read‐a‐holic… I read everything: bus time‐tables (my favourite one says that the local bus ‘passes this way sometimes’), all kinds of adverts (I won't divulge them) and even food labels. I know of no help‐me‐to‐stop‐society.

Quirky Gran was dazzled by a new, brightly‐coloured advert splashed across a yoghurt container informing us gullible consumers that each 1 kilogram container included two million Bifidobacteria! I wanted to burst into song, based on West Side Story's ‘I'm so pretty, oh so pretty’: ‘I'm so healthy, oh so healthy, 'cos I'm full of Bifidobacteria!’ And TWO MILLION? Can they be serious? (‘Who counted, Gran?’ Good question.)

Then sanity prevailed: Bifido‐what? They sound ominous… What are they? Do I need them? Do I want them? Why would they be telling me about them anyway?

So I did my Googlework and discovered that they are indeed good; they ‘promote a healthy digestive system’, and ‘may also help combatting depression’. That's worth printing in huge letters… I've since noticed that, in the newest cartons, the bifids have been delegated from headlines to the list of tiny‐print ingredients. Perhaps in this case less mention is more effective…

But that's not all. What is cultured butter? Having been brought up on it's ‘Really better with real butter’, I decided that cultured must be really extra good! It has been proved that cows listening to Mozart produce better quality milk (sowaar) — but does this make the cows, their milk, butter or the consumer, cultured? Do the cows prefer light, happy moo‐sic from Eine Kleine Nachtmusic to his poignant Requiem?

And what about the literary‐cultured cows? Do they prefer the stirring sounds of Shakespeare's ‘Once more unto the breach, dear friends’, to his more soothing love sonnets? Something to ponder when you bake and devour your next milk tart, made from fermented, cultured cream which, according to the blurbs, makes your baking even more special! Definitely worth a try!

So many ‘essential’ ingredients are forced into our tummies, and we generally just accept them. ‘Marketing mumbo jumbo’, as a grandson wisely remarks.

During a recent visit from two of our grandchildren, we made an interesting musical‐foody discovery… the famous Elvis Sandwich, which the rock 'n' roll star apparently ate every single day! And we thought he was nothing but a hound‐dog! Nigella, the domestic goddess, gave her approval and provided her own characteristically fat‐full version: mashed banana and peanut butter, spread on buttered toast, and then fried in butter… What does Dr Cholesterol Google say to that?

Having been watching my dairy‐intake, I was happy to read that yummy creamed honey is dairy‐free, despite its name! According to the label, the honey is beaten to achieve its pale colour. Highly recommended by the House of Quirky Gran.

And now for the crème de la crème: cream cheese labels. I haven't got time — or any desire — to enrol for a science degree in order to understand what we are eating. A favourite cream cheese includes ‘Stabilisers’ such as E417, E412, E1422, E440 and E500. Help! Those sound more like bus numbers to me… Are they good things or not? Quirky Gran would like to know, now.

Come on, manufacturers! Plain English may not scare us simple folk as much as you think… or are you hiding something from us? And while you're on a ‘help the consumer campaign’ what about supplying a magnifying glass so we can read what we're paying for?

The Bobba Brigade, whose motto is ‘Ess, mein kind’ — ‘Eat, my child’ — does not want to find out that a little knowledge might be a dangerous thing.

‘It's all too much,’ wails Quirky Gran. ‘When did a simple activity like payment become such a nightmare?’ She hums her children's favourite Betty Misheiker nursery school song, ‘Let's Go Shopping’. Paying with money; hmm; those were the days, indeed.

Things have changed…

‘Hail the credit card! Life will be easier,’ we thought. No more coins weighing down our wallets and handbags. And paper money, though lightweight, can be hazardous for those with failing eyesight. How easy to mistake a R200 note for a R20 one. Could I have paid R200 for a loaf of bread? Mind you, with the cost of fancy breads, however delicious, that may soon not be impossible… My friend B says her husband sometimes doesn't tuck his paper money into his back trouser pocket properly … too flimsy and tempting for light fingers.

‘They say’ you should take only the cards that you will need. ID card, driver's licence, medical aid (you never know), plus all your general credit cards and the shoppers' cards — just the bare necessities… Then you see a huge advert of ‘specials’ at the pharmacy‐plus‐everything‐else emporium. Who can resist a bargain? Alas, Quirky Gran didn't bring that particular card…

She does her intended shopping, and prepares to pay. After triumphantly finding and holding in her hand all the cards called for by the irritating taped message of a particular shop, it becomes obvious that her feeble fingers cannot hold them simultaneously; so, unsurprisingly, she drops one. Oy! She looks in the trolley in vain, and ends up on all fours — or maybe just with her derrière in the air — irritating the rest of the queue as she searches on the floor for the lost card; not a pretty sight. (In future remember to wear jeans or slax when shopping!) She tries in vain to pick up the card while the ever‐growing queue crescendos into riot‐mode. Beethoven's descriptive piano piece, Rage Over a Lost Penny, comes to mind… She wonders how the irascible Ludwig would have coped with a lost credit card?

A kind young teller comes round the counter and picks up the card. Quirky Gran is finally Ready to Pay…tra la! Now for the memory test…

She has to remember which card is accepted by this particular shop and, of course, her particular password. Quirky Gran's diminishing grey cells go into instant non‐active mode. The queue members' groans do not help. She places a credit card upside down, into the machine, needs two attempts to put it in correctly, punches in what she thinks is the password and it declines the card, twice. We all know what happens if your make three incorrect entries… Fortunately she has enough paper money to pay for her few purchases, and rushes out of the store in a near‐neurotic state.

But worse is to come. The parking ticket machine rejects her remaining very grubby banknote, which had been spat out to her by the ATM that morning. Now her blood‐pressure is mounting dangerously; she thrashes around in her handbag for some coins, until in desperation someone in the rapidly forming queue exchanges the damaged note for an acceptable one.

She mentally crosses off ‘Shopping’ from her To‐Do list…

But, never fear, help is near. I'm told by good authority (a daughter) that the credit card is ‘passé’. (What's that, Gran?) A Granny Award awaits any grandchild who can come up with a cardless, voice‐only payment system.

Quirky Gran is a sunny summer‐time gal. So KZN is her happy place, weather‐wise. The fairest Cape is still top of the pops — until winter spreads its rain, gusty winds and bitter cold. So you can imagine my despair, when just last week, in the merry month of May, the pride of the KZN calendar and envy of other provinces, I was forced out of bed by freezing cold. I rushed to the unusually pristine linen cupboard (in preparation for a family visit), grabbed a seldom‐used blanket, upsetting the carefully‐packed contents (colour‐coded, nogal) and threw it over the duvet. Final necessity — my ever‐so‐warm purple and shocking pink woolly socks! (Purple and pink! Gran! Really?!) D slept on, blissfully unaware of the reality of climate change occurring in our flat No 4.

Quirky Gran awoke some hours later to the sound of rain falling fortissimo on the windows. ‘It's so cold that it'll soon turn into hail and snow,’ she thought bitterly. ‘All we need now is loadshedding…’ However, by mid‐morning the sun had crept through the clouds, the birds were cheeping in the garden and all was right with her world.

She had two choices: relax with her latest book club choice, set in Venice, (bellissima) or start on her To Do list. Feeling unusually self‐righteous, she removed the list from the fridge‐door and headed for the garage.

She tried the remote, but the garage door refused to budge. She pressed the button gently several times more, then thumped it aggressively, and, in desperation, angrily tried to kick‐start the door. In vain. She looked around. No one to help a gran in great need. But wait! Not a knight in shining armour on his trusty steed, but a sympathetic young man in the uniform of a popular pizza delivery company driving his van into the premises! Pizzas for No 5 had to be delayed while he gallantly pushed the garage door open manually and held it up precariously. Nervously, I drove the car under the door and out of the garage, ducking my head just in case he should let go of it as I passed. (You may remember my fear of booms dropping down onto my car, and lift doors closing on me…)

Now! Off to the bank to deal with no. 1 on that To Do list: change the password of my credit card. (I'd been so excited when I got my new card that I'd thrown away the covering letter before I realised that I needed it.) ‘Won't take five minutes,’ the receptionist promised me as she took my card. She was right. Fifty‐five minutes later, after my having been passed from teller to teller — there were three of them, as well as the manager who, anticipating problems, disappeared through a mysterious door behind the walls (for her tea break, or to study her Banking 101 manual?) — teller No 3 triumphantly handed me the correctly coded credit card, and I fled.

Well, that was no. 1 on the To Do list. Only five more to go… Priority now a cuppa and a not‐so‐little something to go with it.

Advice: Human tellers are being phased out, so start practising your Robot‐ese. ‘All transactions and queries will be handled(?) electronically from next month.’ So, Quirky Gran Brigade, dig out your coats, boots, hats and umbrellas, pack your padkos and prepare for A Major Protest.

And that, dear grandchild, is an example of how Quirky Gran might spend her day!

Sunday, Comrades' Marathon day, dawned dark and chilly (if you were one of the more than 16,000 runners who descended on the Maritzburg City Hall for the 5 a.m. cock‐crow signalling the start of the race). Our friend B, who lives near Hilton, arose at 4 a.m to drive his running guests to the starting place, then returned home to sleep in! (That's what friends are for…) The Quirky Gran household awakened at sunrise, thought of the runners, turned over and went back to sleep. Ah, retirement…

Our Sunday routine starts around 8am, with my going downstairs — it's only one flight — to collect the newspapers. (Yes, we still get them; do not ask the reason why.) On this ‘Comrades’ Sunday I happened to be wearing slippers, so I decided not to walk and risk slipping — one can't be too careful at our age — so I waited for the lift to arrive, entered, and pressed Ground. The door closed, the lift moved fractionally, then stopped … I pressed Exit but a strange message appeared: THIS LIFT IS NOT IN SERVICE.

Really? It was two minutes ago. No load shedding due. What could it be? I pressed knobs for other floors. No change. I Was Stuck In The Lift. One of my worst nightmares. I pressed ‘Bell’, which elicited a most unmusical screech — but with no result.

For some strange reason I'd brought my cell phone with me. Relief! I managed to get hold of D and also the man who was acting as supervisor (the previous one had been retrenched to cut expenses…) How fortunate that he was in the building and available on a Sunday morning. More relief. He stayed in contact throughout the ordeal, and D and I exchanged messages about the non‐progress.

But it wasn't just the lift that needed attention. I needed help too. I had Tehillim ­— the Book of Psalms — on my cell phone! I opened it at random. Psalm 20 — ‘For one in distress’. I was not alone! Modern technology was helping me.

But still the lift didn't budge. I needed something more to do: something to distract myself. So I scrolled on to the Italian/English dictionary, and, starting at the beginning, with ‘A’, I tried to increase my vocabulary, all the while standing (no bench in the lift) and waiting, waiting, waiting; keeping contact with D and the not‐supervisor…

The lights flickered erratically. Total darkness would have been truly terrifying… One and a half hours later the lift people arrived! But, okay, it was Sunday. Welcome Comrades! Two minutes later, after much banging and shuddering, the lift moved. But where to? For the first time I felt really nervous. I closed my eyes; what if the door opened between floors? Anxiously, I opened my eyes. We were on Ground floor! I heaved an enormous sigh of relief and stepped out of the lift. After thanking my rescuers and the overseer, I opened the door to the outside, collected the newspapers, walked up the stairs and switched on the kettle.

Quirky Gran's message to everyone: Do not move without your charged cellphone, wherever you go. If possible, tell someone where you're going and when you expect to return. It may drive them nuts but you can do the same for them. And you're worth it!

It's one of those rare spring days — the sun is shining, the leaves of the palm trees and shrubs wave gently in the light breeze; there's a welcome feeling of peace and ‘all's right with the world’. Quirky Gran is enjoying her first cuppa tea of the day. The newspaper has been skim‐read, its doom and gloom contents replaced by the tranquil view of the garden and beyond. ‘Much more beneficial’; she nods appreciatively.

The water in the birdbath ripples in the breeze, the sparrows appear, splashing joyously — it's time for their morning shower! Generously, or perhaps wisely, they make space for other birds to have their fun too. Two pigeons nod from their perch on the fence. Then suddenly the hadedas, standing guard on the neighbouring roof, swoop down, shrieking nasally, and destroy the happy scene. They return to their rooftop as the frolicking swimmers fly hastily away… ‘Spoilsports!’ thinks Quirky Gran angrily.

The swallows fly past in air‐force formation. ‘A genuine bird's eye view of proceedings’, thinks Quirky Gran. After a while the leaves of the shrubs begin to shake, heralding the arrival of a group of newcomers, the songbird choir. No need for them to practise scales to get their voices in tune… The combination of bird‐sounds form a counterpoint, some chirping the same tune repetitively, others sounding as if they're enjoying a conversation.

‘If only I could identify their sounds’, she thinks… ‘Hmm, I think I'll add a bird‐vocal recognition course to my bucket list.’ (What's a bucket list, Gran?) Quirky Gran had been fascinated a while back by a David Attenborough documentary on bird sounds. ‘A very good place to start,’ she warbles in her croaky formerly‐soprano voice. He'd said that it was the male birds who made the sounds… There's an interesting thought! Were the hadedas a malevolent male chorus?

Her mind wanders, as it often does these days…

‘They say’ — she recalled the legend — ‘that the graceful swan, who does not sing during its lifetime, sings a sad melody before it dies…’ Coleridge commented cynically (‘and cruelly’ thought Quirky Gran) about an uninspiring vocal performance he'd endured: ‘Swans sing before they die. 'Twere no bad thing should certain persons die before they sing.’

A musical swan gem of a different kind occurred in a 1936 performance of the opera, Lohengrin, at the Metropolitan Opera. The lead, in this case, Lauritz Melchior, possibly the greatest of all Lohengrins, had to exit the stage on a swan‐boat. On this occasion, he finished his aria on stage just in time to see the swan glide off stage without him. He watched it disappear, then asked the audience memorably: ‘When does the next swan go?’ (Who says opera is boring!?)

Quirky Gran pours herself another cuppa and returns to listen to the soothing sounds of the bird ensemble.

2023 ended on a happy note after a call from grandson P: ‘Three of us (in their early twenties) want to visit you next weekend! Is that OK?’ It certainly was! This welcome offer had a domino effect, so that by early 2024 we'd had visits from all five Cape Town grandchildren (ages 18 to 21), some with parents, some unescorted. The overseas family plan to visit later.

‘What did you do with them?’ asked M, astounded. ‘Nothing!’, Quirky Gran replied. ‘They were happy to relax at home, chatting, reminiscing, exchanging news and hearing about our ‘good old days’ and their less distant ones.’ In between they'd catch up with their friends on i‐Pads and cell phones!’

We ate at our favourite restaurants — now, theirs too — and they in turn delighted us with some delicious meals, not only prepared, but washed up and put away in Quirky Gran's kitchen! Our own Domestic Gods and Goddesses. What a win for Quirky Gran!

Real coffee, not Gran's instant, was brewed hourly! Now that's what I call a holiday! And that's not all. Those with drivers' licences braved taking over my Honda — hitherto carefully driven only by ‘one little old lady’ — to visit cousins, go to the beach or even chauffeur their nervous Gran and more confident Grandpa around! They were horrified at the number of drivers who ignored basic road rules and signs — far more than in Cape Town, they said. And our potholes were bigger than any they'd experienced. ‘More like the Kimberley hole!’ gasped T as she wove nervously in and out of the frenetic Friday lunch‐hour traffic.

What fun it was to watch television programmes like Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? and Dragon’s Den together! A welcome change from our normal Darby and Joan fare! (Who and Joan, Gran? Are they more family?) The grandchildren unanimously decided on Grandpa for their Call a Friend option in the ‘Millionaire' quiz. Grandpa knows everything, they agreed. Quirky Gran didn't even come in second place! Sigh…

They're all students now, so we await the next varsity vac with much anticipation!

Travel, one of Quirky Gran's favourite activities, is on hold at the moment. So we're into couch, not coach, travel, via TV. We've visited the World's Most Luxurious Hotels, courtesy of Super Chef Monica Galetti and the unlikely but likeable Judge Rinder! Even visited KZN's most famous game reserve, though I must admit that I was happier to view a candle‐light dinner in the bundu from the safety of our study, rather than possibly provide a meal for the wild life prowling about. Living dangerously is not in Quirky Gran's DNA!

Two very different ‘destinations’ were a state‐of‐the‐art environmentally friendly hotel in Reykjavik, before the volcanic fires devastated some areas, and an Italian village recently built to look like an authentic centuries old villaggio — fascinating, but why not use a genuine hotel in a real village?

And a London hotel that surpassed anything one could ever dream of…being welcomed by the concierge in top hat and tails (What are you talking about, Gran?) (Oh dear, how your education has been neglected, darling); the view of the Thames from your boudoir (I'll tell you later); being driven in the hotel's Rolls to your pre‐booked concert. (What's a rolls, Gran?) All these delights experienced without the hassles of real‐life travel: of booking flights, deciding on hotels, organising transport…

And no more: ‘I'm sure the travel agent said 4pm not 3… It's so irritating that they don't announce the departure times any more.’ ‘My passport! I had it here a minute ago…’ Quirky Gran has a fear of Customs officers, probably from watching too much Border Control ..

Not to mention packing… None of our clothes would be suitable for these deluxe establishments — even if we could afford just one night there…

It's far more comfortable watching in one's pjs; stopping the film while you make coffee and, luxury of luxuries, anchovy toast with tomato. And, for the ultimate, a slice of pickled cucumber! Some of us were not born for total luxury! Must dash; we're off to Italy with Jamie Oliver! Arrivederci!

After months of procrastinating, Quirky Gran has decided that a blog is overdue. So QG is back!

I apparently picked up Covid while holidaying in Cape Town over Pesach. Don't worry … that was a long time ago and I'm quite well again. Symptoms were nothing more than an evil‐sounding cough which I blamed on the unexpected Cape cold and misty weather — having forgotten that winter in the Cape and in KZN need very different clothing.

However on my return to Durban I decided to visit my friendly GP — who surprised me by doing a Covid test, and voilà — I had it! Fortunately, having it mildly, in true Quirky Gran fashion I enjoyed the enforced rest far beyond the doctor's ‘return to normal routine when you feel better’ instructions. We Taureans need pampering!

Writer's Block — in my case, probably laziness — then took over. Yesterday my friend B‐the‐editor urged me to get off the Block and onto the Blog! She'd soon be on holiday in the UK, and I'd be without her listening ear and helping hand! Friends like B are what everyone needs! So here I am at the computer keyboard. The piano keyboard will have to wait…

So I took a little time off to travel down memory lane, stopping at my earliest friends and moving gradually on to the most recent. H, one of my newer friends, recently celebrated a milestone birthday with a delicious tea at her home, set in a fascinating indigenous garden, a haven from apartment living. She introduced her guests, an interesting disparate group, with humorous and sometimes poignant stories of how and when she had met us, and how much we all meant to her. Totally charming, interesting — and a different topic of conversation from the usual teatime chats!

This got me thinking about how important friends are, especially at our age when they seem sadly scarce. I may not remember what I did yesterday, but I can picture the five‐year old E, clutching her nanny's hand as they walked from their house to play with me at 15 Chamberlain Road! (What the grandchildren call a ‘play date’.) I remember my longest‐remaining friend wearing a pretty blue dress with embroidered flowers on the collar made by her mom, Aunty B. (Who's that Gran?) (My answer: That was the polite way of greeting older family friends, even if they weren't related to us. We didn't call them by their first names as some of your generation do…)

Like so many of our friends, E emigrated, and for decades she has lived in Oregon, far more than a mere flight away. She visited here some years ago and also remembered the pretty blue dress! We had so much to catch up! Although we of the Quirky Gran generation may, and quite often do, forget what we did a few hours ago, we have the ability to return to years gone by, remembering and enjoying all sorts of quirky happenings…

Travel is not always easy for some of us. So here's a suggestion: settle down in an easy chair with the obligatory cuppa, for a treat! Find your old hand‐written telephone notebook and, if you can decipher the faded entries, you might even be able to contact ‘old’ friends from various stages of your life... Try it!

Quirky Gran is having New Year thoughts… What happened to 2024? Seems like yesterday when the Beatles so aptly sang ‘Yesterday, all my troubles seem so far away…’ Remember at Year 2000, the millennium, people predicted that planes would fall from the sky and the whole world would be turned upside-down? Now, in 2025, the world is a very different place — no one can dream what tomorrow might bring…

Onto more solid ground — family and friends. We had an unforgettable week celebrating D's birthday! All fifteen of us: an extra six adults, and our seven grandchildren! D and I were wonderfully spoilt, the younger ones (isn't that everyone, these days?!) doing everything — from arriving with home‐cooked specialities for the birthday supper, to preparing, serving, washing up and putting away after meals… All done midst laughter and joy at being together for a special occasion… Naturally this was accompanied by many ‘remember whens’ and good natured contradictions as not everyone's memories synchronised! It seems to many of us, as the song goes, ‘It's been a long, long time’.

There was much discussion about the accuracy of anecdotes about friends and family — from our earliest memories to the present day! Not razor‐sharp like today's digital pictures … more like the faded photographs we used to stick painstakingly with little corners onto the thick, black pages of photo albums. (I'll explain later, darling.) Sadly, they'll gather dust in the store‐room until the next special occasion!

Then New Year! The excitement and novelty of watching the year burst forth in a flurry of spectacular fireworks and lights. Here in Durbs, in days gone by, we'd wait to hear the overture of the ships horns lustily blowing in their own fanfare to another year! Those New Year parties in our more youthful days — I remember battling to stay awake in order to arrive at our neighbours' home at the appointed time of 11.30! These days, we make no pretence, staying at home and dropping into bed whenever the night becomes too long! Môre is nog ‘n dag!

When I was teaching at Wynberg Boys' Junior in the late 1960s, the magic of New Year in Vienna was drummed into pupils and staff by legendary headmaster, Arnold Lorie, who regularly flew off to Strauss's ‘City of the Waltz’ in time for the New Year's Ball… In recent years Andre Rieu has given us a taste of those romantic times.

Visiting Cape Town as a child, I loved the Tweede Nuwe Jaar vibrant ‘Coon Carnival’: the excitement of the music, the colourful costumes and the infectious joy of the community and all around them… ‘Daar Kom Die Alabama’ and so many other traditional songs — though not all as joyful as they sounded. Rather like the background history of the English nursery rhymes we grew up with. ‘Mary, Mary, Quite contrary’, indeed… Years later I discovered that the historical meaning of the carefree verses was often more sinister than child‐friendly.

However, 2025 is here!
Let's be of good cheer!
Wishing you all a happy New Year!