Freek Robinson recently on radio interviewed two journalists of a well known woman’s magazine on an advertising campaign they launched to enhance awareness on abuse on woman.

The controvert part is that they did not go the “o so boring “ route and portrayed woman with punched faces and blue prints all over their bodies. They presented well known models and public figures in what one caller interpreted as close to pornography.  The journalists’ uptake was that the photos were taken with the models consent and that it had a definite result in enhancing awareness on abuse.

I wonder if there’s one person on earth who ignored a lucky packet as a child.  I could not.  A lucky packet would regularly beg at me at the local Portuguese café. My own begging eyes did nothing to my father, with the result that a lucky packet never lost its allure. I ended up with a permanent and lasting fixation on lucky packets.

I always thought of herbs as strangling wild flowers in boring plastic pots, but I recently read Gillian Hasmal’s The Herbal yearbook and discovered the mysteries of herbs. Gillian links flowers and herbs to flavor, aroma, beauty, special meanings and old superstitions. I was entranced by the power of these wild flowers. I discovered that the month of December was associated with fragrant wreaths decorated with spiky rosemary, glossy bay leaves and “pink, blue and mauve rock hyssop”.

“This wind is driving me crazy”, my friend complained to me yesterday, It’s killing me.” “It depresses me”, I heard another friend say. Someone staying in our house on the hill got so frightened after a weekend of howlingness and vowed not to look after our place ever again. Anna, who lived in our house before us, always called the October and November wind a “mannetjieswind”, because it is so un-gentlemanlike in its approach.

When my children fall (which happens often) they beg me for plasters with pictures of Mickey Mouse.  If they could, they would cover every uncovered part of their legs, face and arms. They never mind screaming “ouch!” when getting rid of a sticky plaster on hairy skin. They find the action of putting on a cute plaster as nurturing and comforting. For them the process of a caring figure putting on a plaster, symbolizes the balm of healing (and they like pretty plastic).

Have you ever tried to catch the rainbow while driving in Summerstrand? The rainbow never fails to catch me! It is not the bow and the size of it across the hills of Port Elizabeth, but the magical colours exploding and shimmering in the changing sky, that’s catching to the eye.

I decided to have a look at information on colour on the internet. I came across different theories and interpretations on colour: Theories scientific in nature and theories relating to man’s soul. The different theories reflected the complexity of colour and its diverse impact on all areas and different contexts of human life. It made me think about the function of colour in our lives and how there is interaction between colour and our thoughts, feelings and behavior. I discovered that there’s a link between colour and our socio-economic contexts. It was also fascinating to discover a link between our sense of spirituality and our perception of colour.

“I do not like woman with flat bums”, my friend Michael remarked dryly, “it is an indication that they can’t sit still in a relationship...”  “Your ex has a flat bum”, I looked at Stephen in his early twenties while relaxing with them (bum hidden) in the winter sun.  His girlfriend has just dropped him for another guy. “Jaaa, but I like it...” he groans. “What?” Lola asks, "the bum or the fickleness?” “Aaah, that’s it”, Michael grins knowingly like a wizened old hunter, “You think this one is wild. I will tame her. She won’t get away this time...”  While they take stock of their rows of bum less ex-girlfriends, my friend Lola and I quickly and wordlessly measure our bum sizes.

Walking down the corridor, I choked on a  musky blend of orange blossom and ocean mist. My daughter (10) was in “the office” doing a test run on the effects of different air fresheners. I had to yell at her to stop her testing, but she was entranced with the power of the fragrances swirling around her, which appear to have the wonderful ability to wipe out traces of sulphur in the air.

Cherry Blossom, our baby budgie, fell asleep and off the perch when I sang to her one afternoon. It made me think about the power of music in our lives.  I believe that music can be used as a tool to reflect on, assess and enhance our lives.

As a qualitative assessment tool, music can convey a lot about  a person’s developmental phase, personality type, moods and soul.  I attended a 40th birthday party recently. Music of the 80’s was playing.  I saw some of the female guests (also about 40), sitting quietly at one of the tables, evolving in front of my eyes into a playful girl.  Watching her, flicking her hair back, sparkles of  youth lighting her eyes, I remembered  how I  used to two-step as second year student in hostels with a huge disco ballight flickering over us.  In an instant I was back in that hall and I felt my own youth again.

After my funeral there won’t be a lot of clothes or even jewelry to be taken to the hospice’s second hand shop. My children (still in primary school) have already taken ownership of my belongings. The one thing they will have a problem with, is all the papers and lists that I have accumulated over the years. A genetic tendency I possibly have inherited from my granny. She sleeps scrunched up on her single bed to make place for all her books, daily newspapers and lists.

I have always thought of rituals as things we do in everyday life situations, like taking a long refreshing bath with music and candles (and a partner). On the internet I found a shop called “Ritual shop” with tempting names and things to buy that would frizzle my husband’s budget into bubbles: Handmade and luxurious tea boxes, soaps and creams to delight, energize and give worth, like Scented secret and Message from heaven.

I call it my Daisy de Melcker days, except that I don’t feel the need to poison someone. It’s more a case of incidents being poisonous to my over-sensitive system. It’s the days (usually round about full moon) that my hair grows wilder than normal and then I allow each strand to stand its own eccentric way. The hair usually goes with the need to howl like the mother-in-law in the movie “Monster in law”.  My problem is that I don’t have anything in-law, but that’s beside the point.

On Tuesday, l just put my head mindlessly on my arms on the unknown office desk and allowed the white fog to swirl around me. I was in my new office, at an institution of higher education, newly appointed. a Faint question beeped through the fog, like an alarm going of obsessive-compulsively: “What on earth am I doing here?”