November 11

John has lived in Africa for twenty eight years and many people don't even know that he is English. A woman in a post office in the UK asked him if he was South African. The answer was lost in the sounds of her being throttled. However, despite him being 'Africanised' over the years - his driving is quite on par with that of a tshova (minibus/ taxi driver) - there are two things that to me still define him as English.

One is the fact that, despite being a very good cook, he is quite hopeless when it comes to a braai (barbeque). I am the one who usually ends up turning the (chicken) sausages over and involving myself in braai banter. An African braai is very different to the British version where someone wheels their little gas stand out onto the deck on the one day a year when the weather is good, has a glass of prosecco, follows a Jamie Oliver recipe for sizzling Moroccan prawns with tiramisu for dessert, and then packs up quickly before the rain sets in.

No, in Southern Africa a braai is so much more. There is a whole culture to it. Men and women sit separately, for example. Men are required to balance their beers (wine and spirits are for women and sissies) on their beer bellies whilst recalling some great, largely exaggerated, physical achievement and turning over huge slabs of meat (often it's a case of the rawer the better). Never make the mistake of announcing you are a vegetarian or suggesting that stuffed cabbage leaves are quite delicious with a pomegranate sauce. Jamie Oliver’s sizzling Moroccan prawns would be equally frowned upon.

The other thing that John just doesn’t get is what he refers to as the Zimbabwean obsession with rain gauges. My parents always had a rain gauge and I have even gone as far as putting it on my Christmas wish list (to no avail, sadly) and I know a number of people with them. After the rain yesterday, Facebook is alive with comments such as:

 ‘So how many millilitres did you all get? 44mls in Hillside.’

‘52mls in Suburbs,’ boasts someone else. John does not get excited about rain in the way that the girls and I do; it is not in his blood. It’s tolerable to a certain point and it keeps the garden going, but it definitely doesn’t warrant the purchase of a rain gauge or a diary recording how much has fallen to compare to previous years. He’s strange.