Archive | 14:09

Madam & Eve: An Antidote To Sentiment

14 Feb

I thought I would plug an old favourite.  The above cartoon is South African.  I have been a fan since it came out in 1992, poking fun at Apartheid and all kinds of South Africans, as well as world events.  My favourite cartoon is the one where Mother Anderson is stockpiling beans, water and candles before the first democratic election in 1994, so they can live in the cellar for three months in the event of civil war breaking out.  Eve, considering the beans, says, ‘If ever there was an argument for peace, this is it.’


I have been buying the collections since the first one cost R30 in CNA.  They weren’t famous then and a good copy sells for about R300 now.  I wouldn’t part with mine; it’s a narrative of South Africa’s recent history.  And hilarious.

There’s a link to the right if you fancy a look.

In TillyBudLand, Every Day Is Valentine’s Day

14 Feb

I’m bored with all the hype surrounding today.  Blame the Hub: once he put the idea into my head that you don’t need a special day to show your love; if you love someone you should declare it every day, then I stopped seeing the point of Valentine’s.

The man is as good as his word.  A random scan of my kitchen revealed the following:

   I often open my diary to discover a little love note.  He likes me to start my day with a smile. 


  This is from my noticeboard; he found a piece of sponge and cut it into the shape of a heart. 


  This was from last year’s anniversary; he cut out and numbered every heart, then strung them together:


  This is on my fridge.  The heart was cut from a spare piece of card he had lying around.  The flowers are from copper wire the kitchen workmen left behind.

I’ll be honest: he’s stubborn; he’s annoying; he’s always right; and he hangs on to every bit of crap he can.  But when a man demonstrates his love every day in tiny ways, not just leaving love notes, but the caring touches, like plaiting my hair every night before bed; dragging himself out to walk the dogs with me when he’s feeling ill; telling me every day that he loves me, then he’s worth hanging on to.

I poke fun at him every day in my blog and to his face, but he’s the love of my life.  So, if a non-soppy, non-showing-how-much-she-loves-him person can’t use Valentine’s Day to say, ‘I love you, darling,’ then she doesn’t deserve him.

Normal service will be resumed immediately, because I feel quite nauseous from all of this slop, but for now:

I love you, darling.  Thank you for loving me.

A Housewife’s Work Is Never Done; That Must Be Why We Don’t Get Paid

14 Feb
1957 - Ouch!

Image by clotho98 via Flickr

If you could go back in time and have a 5 minute conversation with yourself ten years ago, what would you say?

‘Don’t wait to get a degree before applying for jobs.  Trust me: it will only help if you’re already in work.  And think again before eating every Malteser on the planet: a billion past the lips means inches on the hips…heart disease…diabetes…a crane hoist.’

Why is it only work if it’s paid?  Cooking and cleaning and tidying and child care and child minding and child ferrying about from school to club to friends’ to doctor/dentist/hospital, the decorating, the shopping, the clearing out, the nursing, the ironing, all of it: why is it ‘work’ if I pay someone else to do it; but not if I do it myself?  The twenty years I’ve spent looking after my family and all the volunteer work, is not really ‘work’ because I never thought to ask for payment.  Silly me.

According to a study in 2008, I should be on £30,000 a year for my ‘nine-hour days’ (nine hours – I wish).  Okay, I might not quite make the regulation 71 minutes of cleaning and tidying – or even 7.1 minutes, if I’m honest – and if a chambermaid takes fourteen minutes to make a bed then I should be on a bonus for my 1.4 minutes per bed (mine; the kids make their own); but I should be good for at least £25,000.

I don’t mind that I don’t get paid for it (that’s why God gave me kisses from my children, after all); I mind that it’s not considered work.

It doesn’t matter anyway, because I don’t need a degree for the job I really want: this one, advertised on the Arts Council’s website.  Imagine the look of consternation on the face of everyone who ever asked me what I do for a living, and I could reply: Freelance Didgeridoo Artist.

If I’m going to make that happen I’d better get back to my carpentry; the roof extension won’t build itself.

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