Today is going to be a busy day. We have . . . drum roll, please . . . the Stamp Club social followed by the pantomime. Before anyone asks, it's John who belongs to the Stamp Club and I am just tagging along. I am a bit worried that everyone will sit around discussing the differences between the half penny and the one penny George V stamps from Papua New Guinea, but John assures me they do talk about 'normal stuff'.
We have a pleasant couple of hours, munching mince pies and sipping non-alcoholic punch and no one even mentions stamps. Talk inevitably turns to the subject of the rain that is due in the following days. The owner of the house invites John and I to have a look at a weather programme he has on his computer. We spend a few minutes looking at low pressure systems, cyclones and lots of green, red and blue swirls that are hopefully going to drench Zimbabwe in rain in the early part of next week. Back in the sitting room, the rest of the Philatelists discuss the pros and cons of plastic and copper rain gauges. I have to make excuses for John who, by this time, is almost writhing on the floor in rain gauge agony.
In the evening, my dad, Sian and I go to the theatre to watch the pantomime. I can't help but give in to what I refer to as the burden of memory. Because everything is in a state of deterioration, it is hard not to find oneself thinking back to better times. There are about thirty people here tonight; we all sit in the front three rows. There was a time when every performance would have been sold out and you had to buy all your tickets well in advance.
When I was a child, we lived on a mine about thirty kilometres from Bulawayo. As the mine manager's wife, my mum had to organise the Christmas party for the children and the trip to the pantomime. We would go a Saturday matinee performance and then walk across to the park where the Christmas lights would be on and you could walk around, go on the little train that ran through the park, play miniature golf, or have something to eat at the cafe. The lights are still switched on every year, but they are the same lights, so many of them don't work. The banner that should read Merry Christmas now reads e r C r tma and the train has been replaced by a tractor and trailer and only runs a couple of nights before Christmas. I wouldn't advise walking round the park during the day, never mind the night. The same nursery rhyme inspired displays are put out every year, but they are increasingly dilapidated. Old Mother Hubbard has lost her head and the scene is more like something out of a horror movie than a child's rhyme. The Nativity scene is the most disturbing of all as Joseph looks like a fully paid member of Al Queda and Mary is close on his heels.
One thing I always associate with the theatre are boxes of Charons mint chocolates that I never saw sold anywhere else. I even look out for them tonight, but they have sadly disappeared. The bar at the theatre, where people used to order their drinks for interval and would go after the performance to meet the cast, is now little more than a shebeen. I don't like the atmosphere in it; the theatre, which has struggled financially, rents out the bar to a private individual. There is a tv screen with various women gyrating away in a very aggressive manner and the drinks are served in plastic cups, probably because the present clientele either break them on a regular basis or take them home afterwards.
There is also a cafe which sells cokes and chips. Gone are the days when people had a cup of tea in a brown Willsgrove cup and saucer. I find myself thinking about the mine Christmas parties; how my mum used to form a committee to help her, how every child was supposed to have a present that was dropped off at our house and put into a big sack that Father Christmas arrived with. I used to love helping her prepare for the party, whether it be decorating the Christmas tree or getting the tables ready with crackers and hats. I played the Angel Gabriel in the Nativity one year and a pirate another year (that was not in the Nativity in case you are wondering). I also have a vague memory of my dad dressed as a squirrel for some sort of Chritsmas show.
The life of the District or the mine in Rhodesia and Zimbabwe is one that has been barely documented. These very small places were as busy as any town in terms of their social life. There may not have been a shop, but there was a Club and, around that, revolved life itself.
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