The last lecture.

My life has been a series of ever-evolving lessons. Lessons taught and learned from amazing people who have been both mentor and ally. It has been a journey where lecturers have imparted invaluable wisdoms and learnings that have fortified the cache I delve into when life throws some of its unexpected curve-balls my way. The lectures have been many, the lecturers even more so. God-willing, they will continue to present themselves as I continue on the path towards my final destination. For it is only at that time that will I take heed of the final lecture; when my final call comes, when I close my eyes to what I hope has been a remarkable life, one that I will be happy to leave my earth body to. For only then, will that final lecture have true meaning.

Why softball?

I get asked this question often. For me it's pretty simple. It's something I have to do. It's something that feeds my soul, the core of my being. Ever since I was first introduced to the game as a snot-nosed nine year old by a much loved aunt, I've been mesmerised. I love how through the sport I have formed and continue to develop life-long relationships with some pretty amazing people; how the discipline learned has influenced my thinking in so many other spheres, how it has aided in shaping me as a person; how it provides a platform for young children to reach greater potential - kids who if left to their own devices would otherwise succumb to society's ills; how it teaches that team work is much more effective than singular efforts; how it checks out of kilter egos; how it makes me feel alive; how it allows me to make a difference in a way that matters; how it provides a sense of accomplishment when a hard-won skill is finally mastered; how it brings people and even countries together; how it has a home for comic moments (and there are many, the first photo being testimony to how crazy and absurd it can become); how it rewards those deserving; how new rules and regulations keep emerging and evolving to make it a better sport, and the list goes on. Softball has always played such an integral part in my life, that it would be unthinkable to even imagine an existence without it. For what is life without softball?  Oh God, take me now before that happens as a life without the beautiful game would be inconceivable.

My big fat Big dream.

My dream is not just big and fat, it's obese! But in a good way (if obese can ever be good). I dream of starting my own PR and events management company and I feed that dream as only an overindulgent parent can.  I've been studying for close to a decade to have the necessary qualifications that will lend credibility to the dream.  For the more fertiliser I add to the mulch, the more I am guaranteed a crop of outstanding quality. Ripe for the picking. And pick they will! Soon, very soon my big fat dream will be realised and when it does I will live the dream with all the gusto the years of preparation has afforded. Hopefully then there will be room for another big fat dream to take its place. One that will be equally, if not more spectacular; and one that will need as much nurturing and attention as its predecessor did. But one that will gladly take centre stage when its cue is called.

The legendary masala steak & egg toasted sarmie (aka The Fix)

Anyone who's ever experienced that horrid, green feeling (aka the dreaded hangover) borne from a night of overindulgence, will know that there is only one sure quick fix - a slap up, greasy breakfast followed in quick succession by a petrol bomb (aka a Jive 2 litre). Okay, anyone that's Coloured that is (sjoe I can just see the PC brigade klapping me down with this one). But this is how my people have been doing it for years and gone on to tell many a 'hair-of-the dog' tale, but inevitably it all boils down to 'The Fix' - a masala steak and egg sarmie with everything.  Everything, being slap chips, salads and that special sauce. All this towered together between two toasted slices of white bread (sorry, but brown bread just won't cut it for the purposes intended). And don't forget to include that 2 litre petrol bomb, for how else are you going to wash this magical concoction down. All this to be had as soon as the first dodge takeaway joint opens. You know, about the time when the shakes meets Japie (this could get vile so I'm going to limit the description to being 'sea-sick'). Where then would you find 'The Fix' - well, having tested quite a few places (for research purposes obviously) I would have to say that The Farmstall in Ottery stands unrivaled. Man, they make a mean 'Fix'.  Don't believe me? Next time you have a need for a hangover cure, give it a shot.  Ons praat weer.

To the manor born.

"It's a dog's life" - often said with derision, as if it's bad, lowly or downright shitty. This pundit would therefore have no meaning for our Mr Bean - zero, zilch.  Rather, if the truth be known Mr Bean has a life of sheer indulgence, decadence and unimaginable luxury. I would sooner go without to ensure Mr Bean has that outfit that "he simply must have because this is so Bean". In fact, the non-existence budget gets shifted and shafted so that Bean gets fed only the best puppy food, rests his lovely head in a crib fit for a prince and has enough toys to ward off boredom. Why? Because that's what the vet said and my countless research on pugs has recommended. Remarkably, my husband has bought into this madness.  This from a man who is usually strong-willed and not easily swayed by that he deems fickle or frivolous. But Bean is our proverbial "laat lametjie".  You know, that one that comes late in life and rather unexpectantly takes up a big portion of your heart, and before you know it good reason flies out the window and you find yourself doing things that you would not ordinarily do. In our defense, I can however say that Mr Bean is the beneficiary of the unadulterated attention and time our earlier years of parenting did not allow.  Where those earlier times were taken up with trying hard not to kill our two elder kids with newly learned, yet dubious parenting skills, stressful and exhausting jobs and a myriad of activities that kept us on the merry-go-round of our life back then; we're now more restful and able to give our youngest more of ourselves.  Youngest? Of course, Bean is our youngest child. I look into those soulful, bulbous eyes and see a remarkable resemblance to his dad. Not to mention some of the familial quirks and characteristics - he snores just like his father, has a wicked sense of humour like his mom, farts up a storm like his brother and is quick to affection like his sister.  Yep, Mr Bean is definitely part of the Royal Raisin Clan and like anyone of regal bearing will know, he is without question 'to the manor born'.

Sleep...what's that?!

I swear I cannot be held responsible for what I do anymore. My defense? I have not had a full night's sleep since...oh, let me think...1987.  I kid you not - I refer to my whacked out state as 'LAH-T-H (Life After Harry-The-Helicopter)'.  Now you may be thinking, "who the hell is Harry".  Well, Harry's that unwelcome guest that only the sleep deprived have the bad fortune to have as resident in their non-existent z-land.  My Harry, aka as 'the husband', takes off without fail as soon as his head hits his zzzz-pad and sticks to his flight plan with stubborn zeal that no amount of thumping, pushing, prodding or a wrench shoved between his blades will cause him to deviate. No sirree, Harry flies, er snores, while I listen to the continuous drone that does my head in until I can take it no longer and reluctantly rise from the warmth of my bed to do arb things like write this blog. And the cheek of it all is that right on schedule each morning, he wakes up and says, "I didn't snore last night love, so you probably slept well". In my mind I go: "do I kill him now or later?!" I've done my research - in the State vs Cohen 1956, the defendant got off on a murder charge based on the premise of temporary insanity. Okay, so I made that up and am just kidding around (then again, I'm sleep deprived, maybe I'm not).

When you're her age, (over 80) what will matter to you most?

I'm going to turn this one on its head a bit, and make it 'when you at the end of your life, what will matter to you most?' and it is based on a conversation I had with my mom when she was on her death bed and had an urgent need to impart her final lesson to me. She expressed her intense sorrow at not having lived her life more in the way she would have preferred rather than the way she felt was expected.  It was so sad to see the one I knew to be so vital looking so crushed and defeated.  More so when she let me in to that pit of regrets as she knew the sands to her hourglass were running empty and there was no way she could do it differently. Nothing short of a miracle that is to give her that one gift she knew she would never have again - time.  Time to take long, leisurely walks on those foreign shores she passed through in her many travels, time to relish and not hurry those moments with loved ones, time to dance more, time to savour a joyous moment and not worry about anything else, time to be more feminine, time to let romance balm her soul, time to educate herself so that we would be more proud of her, time to live in the moment and just be, time to be a better mother, wife, sister than she thought she had been, time, time, time. She pulled me closer and rasped that if there's one thing I take from her, and try and make more of it is time. I feel that I fail her at times, even though I try hard to honour that promise extracted under such dire circumstances, and when I do I catch myself - for the one thing I know after seeing the life ebb away from my mom, is that when our time is expired it can never be retrieved. I can only hope that my consolation prize at the end of it all would be to have lived a life that mattered, where I can close the book to my earth life with satisfaction and contentment.