July 19

I have spent the last week writing and I've done a few thousand words, but am still not finished.  My brain is quite pickled though and I feel I will need a break soon.  Going from online teaching to writing a book is quite hard and I feel I just want to do nothing.  I had great ideas of setting myself up as a proofreader and I haven't got round to that either.

The good news is that the man who runs the piano tuning course that John wanted to do is alive and well.  He was not the dead body found in the car at an airport in Chicago.  However, the chances of John being able to do the course are waning as certain things have to be sent to him before he can start and these are likely to take months to get here and he may be charged duty for bringing them in.

More good news is that my nasturtiums are doing very well.  In fact, they are positively proliferating. We used to have two perfectly good wheelbarrows, but last year on my birthday, Ellie decided to fill one of them with plants as part of a surprise for me.  I didn't have the heart to take them out and so there they have stayed, much to Elizabeth's annoyance as she says it is her favourite wheelbarrow out of the two.  She used to use it to wheel the dustbin outside to the road every week.  Elizabeth is very much a creature of habit and refuses to use the other wheelbarrow instead.  I am sure she has been waiting for every single plant in it to drop dead, but unfortunately for her, they are doing very well.

I used to like petunias.  In fact, I still like petunias, but I find they grow a bit like weeds.  Sian gave me a packet of lupin seeds for Christmas and I planted a whole lot in a pot, watering them every day and singing them all sorts of lullabies.  I was so excited to see the little shoots come through and the plants begin to grow - until I realised they were petunias.  They are doing very well, but I had no idea what happened to the lupin seeds - unless it's a case of theft or even . . . murder.

July 18

Eunice came into work yesterday.  Although we have no one staying in our cottage, we try and give her some work when we can.  She cleans my dad's cottage and also helps Elizabeth with the ironing.  Yesterday, she gave the lounge a big spring clean which is great - except that she left all the pictures at an angle so I feel like I am on a ship being tossed on gigantic waves.  When I straighten all the pictures, Sian tells me that I am OCD (I have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder).  

She may be right, although I don't know how many people could put up with pictures at the wrong angle.  Surely it's quite natural to want them to hang straight?  There are other things I might be a bit OCD about.  One is that I cannot, absolutely cannot, go to bed with the cupboard doors open.  Even as a child, I could not do it.  If I see a drawer open, I will close it and I like plates to be stacked in such a way that the largest are at the bottom of the pile and the smallest on top.

I always shake out the car mat before I get in, even if I am not driving and I don't like crumbs in the jam.  I also have to remove dead leaves off plants if I see them and I have even been known to 'clean' rocks.  When I see a collection of leaves, dirt or sticks in the cracks and hollows, I love cleaning them out.  When it rains and mud splashes up onto flower pots, I also love wiping the dried mud off.

One thing that drives me completely bananas though is when people don't hang clothes properly on the line. Trousers must NOT be hung upside down, pegged on the bottom of the trouser legs; shirts must not be pegged on the shoulders and everything, besides socks, needs to be pegged on the line with two pegs and pulled quite taut.

Does that make me OCD? Probably.

July 17

Facebook seems to know every aspect of my life.  If I google Croatia, the next thing I get adverts for holidays in Zagreb; if I google the meaning of certain Latin words, I am offered language translators to download and, if I have researched yoga positions for back pain, I am inundated with adverts for all sorts of online exercise courses.

The trick is not to click on any of these, however interesting they may seem, as they just appear to multiply. Now I am offered walking tours of the Baltics, an online Classics course and yoga at every level and for every need: to relax, for energy, for stress relief, for sciatica, for pregnant women, for seniors.  The list is endless.

The yoga goes onto spirituality: daily inspirational quotes, Bible verses, messages from the Dalai Lama.  Then there's positive thinking in all its various forms: how to clear clutter, how to become more assertive, how to follow your dreams.

Some of it is interesting, but a lot of it is just another form of commercialism: Download Tibetan Monk ringtones for your phone; 75% off Clearing Negative Energy; Unlock Your Inner Potential for $299.

Today, I click on an advert for face yoga and instantly regret it.  I feel like I did in Egypt with all the vendors hassling me.  The advert has now multiplied and comes up all the time.  There's a woman with a beautifully smooth face who takes in delight in telling me over and over again that she is 55 and is always mistaken for a 20 year-old because of her beautiful skin. For only $25 a month I can look like her, too. I take a deep breath and smile.  Those Buddhist chants might come in useful after all.

July 16

My phone has become quite psychotic.  It sometimes just switches the voice over on without being given any instruction to do so.  The phone can be on the other side of the room and suddenly it will say: 'Calling eye specialist' in this really creepy, robotic voice.  I have about half a second to leap across the bed and wrestle it to the ground in order to switch it off.  I turned over in bed one night and the next thing it was called Hillside Police Station - at 1am!  I hadn't even touched the thing. I just don't know what is wrong with it. You don't know how many people phone me saying they saw a missed call from me and I have to make up some sort of pathetic excuse.  I can hardly tell them the truth - it wasn't me; my phone just randomly decided to call you.

It is another freezing day. Ellie has made a fort outside and invites me to come and sit in it.  I must say that it is very nice and cosy and I could quite easily stay there with my book and a cup of tea.  I used to love making forts as a child.  We also had a wonderful tree house that my dad made.  I used to spend hours up there, reading and eating biscuits. We used to pretend it was the Faraway Tree.

There is great excitement today when I notice our Sabi Star has produced its first flower ever!  I am so excited about this.  I bought it as a tiny plant some years ago and took it to Zambia.  It then came back with us and seems to have taken ages to flower. I never know whether I am giving it too much water or not. Between the African Violets and the Sabi Star it is a wonder anything lives.

July 15

John has been asked to remove a sink from a building in town that is being cleared.  The owners finally managed to evict the tenants after seven years of not paying rent.  How people don't pay rent for that long and get away with it amazes me.  

John comes home and cheerfully announces that he was given two old lawn mowers and has them in the back of the car.  The wheels on our lawn mower are a bit dodgy so his plan is to replace them with the wheels off one of these.  I try to look as delighted as possible in response to this news, but already I am beginning to envisage the garage full of old lawn mower parts.  This is the garage I have tried to clear of this sort of stuff.  

The weather has changed and it is really cold.  It must be snowing somewhere in South Africa.  On Monday, Ellie actually jumped in the pool.  Ellie is a bit nuts anyway, but it was lovely and warm outside.  Today, i don't think even Ellie has plans to go swimming.

The government announces the fact that it is likely to introduce stricter lockdown measures.  What a surprise.  Schools are unlikely to reopen either.  I am all for living in the moment, but sometimes this idea of a blank future is very unsettling.

July 14

The electricity is still off and all calls to Zesa prove useless.

Me: Hello, I would like to report a fault in Hillside.

Zesa: It has been reported.

Me: Do you have any idea what the problem is.

Zesa: We have not been informed.

Me: Do you have any idea when it will come on again?

Zesa: We have not been informed.

When it does come on again, I do my Thank You, Zesa dance.  This involves a lot of jumping in the air and shouting, 'Zesa, you're the best!' Due to the acute shortage of water in Bulawayo, we only get municipal water twice a week and the rest of the time rely on our tank - but the tank won't work without electricity. If I had to choose between the two, I think I could probably live without electricity, but I cannot live without ready water.

I did a very foolish thing recently: I bought two African Violets.  African Violets and I do not do well and the only reason I bought them was because I felt sorry for the vendor selling them.  Feeling sorry for vendors is one of my great downfalls in life.  When we lived in Ndola, there was a vendor outside one of the shops who always sold wooden spoons and so I always bought them.  I bought so many, I used to give them to people as presents.  In the end, John had to take me aside and tell me, in no uncertain terms, that I had to stop buying them.  The funny thing is that no long after that, we went on holiday to the UK and I bought wooden spoons from a homeless man selling them on the pavement.  They are the only wooden spoons John has approved of as they are very nicely carved.

In my first year at university in the UK, I bought an African Violet in the misguided belief that it somehow connected me with home.  My mum always had African Violets on the windowsill in the kitchen.  Unfortunately, despite all my valiant efforts, the flower died and I have had a great fear of having one since then.  I don't like fussy flowers, the type whose roots only must be wet (how on earth do you manage that one?) or who must be in full sun in the morning but shade in the afternoon.  This is all far too much hard work.  I just want to throw some seeds in the ground, water it a couple of times a week and see flowers bloom. Why then have I just bought two African Violets?

July 13

In the morning we go to my friend's house and she gives Sian a maths lesson whilst I give her children an English lesson.  Social distancing is taken seriously and all lessons take place in the garden with many metres between us all.  At the end of it my friend tells me that she ordered some chocolate and tea for me with a runner, but doesn't feel she can give them to me as the runner did not pack her order very well and Handy Andy spilt onto both items.

Because prices are so high in Zimbabwe and the range of goods so limited, many people pay runners to buy their groceries in South Africa, where prices are lower.  They generally add around 30-35 per cent onto the cost of the goods which is still often cheaper than buying them here.  Because the border is closed to everyone except cargo and returning residents, I am not sure how shopping is being done at the moment.  I have heard that orders are squirelled away on long distance lorries and so it is not surprising that my friend's order arrives in haphazard fashion: heavy items on top of easily breakable ones, lids not screwed on properly and no separation of goods so toiletries, detergents and dairy products are all lumped together.

However, being a desperate Zimbabwean, I do not mind at all that the cover of the Lindt chocolate was damaged or that the box of tea got squashed.  I will take them!  English breakfast tea is English breakfast tea after all and a real treat for me.

Back home, just before lunch there is a loud bang that seems to come from the direction of our neighbours.  They are a rowdy lot, zooming around on motorbikes and playing Bryan Adams very loudly at the weekend.  It is not unfeasible that they have shot each other and in many ways that would be a relief.  However, the electricity goes off at the same time which is not a good sign.  We may be in for a long, dark night.

July 12

I am a bit like a dog trying to make itself comfortable.  I walk round and round my 'bed' in circles before deciding it is good enough to sleep on.  I do this by tidying up.  Our one great failure as a family is clutter.  I don't know how it happens, but we seem to end up with these piles everywhere.  A pile of books, a pile of clothes, a pile of piles. The piles usually stay where they are during the school term and then, on the first day of the holidays, I blitz them.

I walk around the house with a pile of things, saying, 'whose is this?' and 'whose is this?' and 'put this away, please.' Everyone hates me while I do this, although they ultimately benefit from a happier me once I have settled down and am content with my environment.

I've read all about clutter and what it represents - all those things you have to come to terms with in your life - and I don't want it anymore.  I would be content to be a minimalist.  At the beginning of the lockdown, we did a big clear out and it was just such a wonderful feeling to get rid of a lot of things we didn't need or want anymore.  

However, whilst I am quite good at throwing rubbish away and the girls are not bad, John is hopeless.  A typical man, he sees a use for everything - that screw found behind the fridge covered in fur, that broken towel rail, that piece of string lying in the bottom of a drawer ('It is a very good piece of string.  They don't make string like this anymore.  It will come in useful should we ever need five centimetres of string in a hurry.').

I had put on top of the SPCA shop pile, a tape.  It is a copy of Aha's Greatest Hits or something along those lines.  Someone made it for John in 1984.  We no longer have a means of playing tapes and I am sure it would be easier to download the album from the Internet than try and convert this to digital or whatever people do with old tapes. 

I deliberately don't ask John if I can give it away or not because I know what the answer will be.  He won't miss it or look for it.  He won't even think about it if I just quietly give it away. If I ask him, it will become his most prized possession in the world and one that he would struggle to exist without. It is a mistake, of course, to leave the tape on top of the pile for the next time I look, it has gone and I can only assume it is back in a corner somewhere, beginning a new pile.

July 11

We have been at home for nearly four months.  We began with a slightly longer holiday in which we couldn't do anything and then went into a school term in which we stayed at home and did everything online.  In that time, Sian and Ellie have seen friends on a couple of occasions, but for the most part have had to endure each other's company and have actually got on really well.  Now, it's the first day that both of them are on a break and they are at each other's throats.

Coupled with the rants at each other are the cries of 'I'm bored.  I don't know what to do.'  Isn't it funny that we often don't know what to do with freedom?  There is a security to be found in routine and following instructions. In the afternoon, they both go out and see friends.

We also decide to break with the mundane and go and visit friends in the evening.  It is great to get out and talk to real people rather than just messaging them.  One thing I have realised about myself over this lockdown period is that, however, much I might claim to not be a terrifically sociable person, it really doesn't do you a lot of emotional or psychological good to cut yourself off from the world completely.  A couple of people have asked me if I would ever give up my job as a teacher if I could make it financially as a writer.  I think the answer to that is 'no'.  Interaction with others is good for you.  I don't think it is beneficial to anyone to cut themselves off from the world.

July 10

It is a beautifully balmy day with the warmth (and wind) of August.  It is the kind of day that gets you thinking about digging up old plants and planting seedlings. John and I go for an early morning walk and find it is too hot to wear a jersey. 

When we get home, I am immediately accosted by Sian and Ellie who want to know what we are doing today.  It is a pity we have such different ideas of what the holidays should be about.  I envisage days of sitting in the garden reading novels whereas they always want to go somewhere. 

Friends of ours have offered us a weekend at their farm and we plan to take that up.  However, the problem is that the government look intent on reimposing a stricter lockdown which means that we may not be able to travel outside of town.  The lockdown has nothing to do with safeguarding people against the coronavirus; rather it is a means of quashing political unrest as there are growing calls to have a stayaway at the end of the month.

I work on my novel for a couple of hours and then start preparing supper.  It is a spinach dish, but we don't have enough spinach and I have picked all that we have growing in the garden.  I google broccoli leaves and discover they are safe to eat.  I have not eaten them before but apparently they are edible.  I am so proud of my little broccoli that is growing so well, that I know I am not going to want to eat it when it is ready.

In the evening, we watch Call the Midwife.  We are now on season 4 so are only four years behind the rest of the world.

July 9

I often wonder, when I am standing in a long queue, why everyone in front of me takes such a long time to complete whatever the transaction is, whether it is buying groceries, paying a bill or even getting petrol.  When I am being served, I seem to take a couple of minutes at most.  What are people doing - chatting, reminiscing, discussing the meaning of life - what?

However, today I see why transactions sometimes take a little longer than usual. I am at the till and my bank card is declined twice, even though I know it has 'sufficient funds'.  The teller asks one of the assistants to fetch another swipe machine and she saunters away as though she is trying to kill time before going on a long lunch.  About five minutes later she is back and the card is still declined.  

I then try and use my Ecocash account and find that Ecocash is offline so I dig around in my bag for some cash (always in short supply) and find that I have enough to cover some of the groceries, but not all of them.  The cashier then has to call the manager to put in some sort of code so that the items can be removed from the bill.

The cashier at the nearby till then leans over and says Ecocash is back online so my cashier now adds the items he has just removed. Finally, I leave the shop with my groceries.  Did I discuss the meaning of life with the cashier?  No, but I certainly could the next time.  If anything, living here, teaches great patience and fortitude.  It is really no use getting angry with people for a system that is beyond their control/

July 8

The newspapers are full of headlines such as 'Bulawayo is New Epicentre of Virus' and 'Bulawayo Takes Lead in Virus Cases'.  I point these out to Sian and Ellie as we are driving along as examples of the way that the press sensationalises news.  I am not downplaying the threat of the coronavirus, but I don't believe that an extra 25 cases (not deaths) justifies the hype.

I also don't believe that it is right for the press to create and spread alarm and nor should we, as the public, buy into the fear.  For it is this fear that is worse than anything else. I feel that same feeling I used to have playing hide and seek and knowing someone was 'coming to get me'.  I know we have the added problems here that our health care system is collapsing and private care, even for people on medical aid, is prohibitively expensive, but I don't feel that living with the expectation that millions are about to die is good for us either.

Some say our figures are grossly underestimated and that far more people are infected than we know, and others are skeptical of the figures because they do not necessarily take into consideration other factors such as the general health of the people contracting it.  Whatever the case, you can probably be quite sure that towards the end of the month, when strike action has been planned to protest against government corruption and ineptitude, our cases will drastically increase and a stricter lockdown will be imposed.

July 7

In the morning, I have my weekly lesson with a young boy who needs help with his English, mainly spelling.  One thing my mum was very keen for me to do was train as a remedial teacher and I did consider it for a while.  If I had done, I would probably be in great demand as there is such a need for remedial assistance in schools.

I have never been a good speller. Part of the reason, I think, is because I moved schools quite a bit in my early years and the lack of continuity affected my learning.  However, perhaps I would never have been a good speller anyway.  When I was ten, I was sent for remedial lessons at school.  I remember my mum being worried that this was a sign that there was something wrong with me or that I was a bit slow.  I was an avid reader as a child and loved writing, but my spelling was atrocious and would always let me down.

The lady I was sent to was an absolute godsend for me; she taught me more than I think any other teacher ever did and I looked forward to my weekly lessons with her so much that I was quite devastated when I was told I didn't need them any more.  Her room was on the far side of the playing fields, away from everyone else and there was a great sense of freedom, running across the field, away from my teacher and the rest of the class.

My remedial teacher had lots of exciting things like word games and I remember little tiles with letters and vowel pairs such as 'ie' and 'ei' that I had to use correctly when making words.  I don't remember writing at all, although I may be wrong, but I feel the technique was aimed at taking the pupil away from writing and rather concentrating on how the words were put together.

I was a very messy, clumsy child with a tendency to day dream and not listen to instructions so inevitably I got into trouble for doing the wrong thing.  I don't have many particularly happy memories of primary school and only recall being very anxious, but my memories of my remedial lessons are all very happy. I believe the teacher had the ability to look deep inside each child and bring out the best in them. She kept all her games in different boxes and small suitcases and always insisted we put everything away properly.  One day, I was trying to cram everything back as quickly as possible and force down the lid and she made me stop and do it all over again. Her words have stayed me and I still recall them on so many occasions: 'Bryony, if it all came out of there, it will go back in.'  I've even repeated these words to my own children when seeing them try to do the same thing.

Unfortunately, that teacher later died of Alzheimer's.  It was a very sad way for someone extremely clever, knowledgeable and patient to end their life.

July 6

Sian asks me if I have always wanted to be a teacher.  Well, what she actually says is: What did you really want to be when you grew up?  I didn't want to be a teacher at all; in fact, my 16-year-old self would have been horrified to have found out I had become a teacher.  I didn't even want to be a teacher when I became a teacher.  I wasn't the right sort of person.  For one, I didn't believe enough in the rules I had to enforce and nor did I want to become one of those old, bitter teachers I remembered from my schooldays.

So, what did I really want to be? I always wanted to be a writer, but I also felt that I needed something else, especially when starting out.  Writing is something you do on the side until you can make enough money out of it for it to become your focus. When I left school, I wanted to be a journalist, but I lacked direction and dillydallied quite a bit.  I didn't want to be a newspaper journalist; investigative journalism sounds exciting, but I am sure it is also quite dangerous and I am not prepared to lose my life for anyone or any cause.

I would have preferred to have worked for a magazine, especially if it was to do with travel.  However, I was never one to do those very one-sided syrupy promotional pieces: Come and stay at the magnificent Wild Africa Lodge.  Set in the breath-taking Honde Valley . . . I really find that sort of thing quite insincere.

The thing is that the one job I would really like to have had is to have been a detective.  Usually when I tell people that, they can't stop laughing.  Maybe it's just me they're laughing at.  Perhaps I am the most unlikely person you could ever imagine climbing through windows and hiding in rooms, making getaways in fast cars or following suspects.

I think I would have made a great detective because I don't look like a detective.  I think people look at me and see a dizzy blonde so I would be an ideal person to hand over secret papers or trace suspicious people.  In a way, I have become a detective because writing involves some of the same skills: people watching, plotting and trying to think of numerous reasons why a character is where they are, what they are doing and thinking.

In fact, being a detective is not unlike being a teacher for it pays to be a natural skeptic.  Pupils are always full of stories and discovering the truth often involves the questioning of suspects and the laying of traps.  It may not (thankfully) involve fast car chases but can be equally rewarding.

July 5

John and I take the dogs out early for an extra long walk around both the upper and lower dams.  The water level is very low, but it is still a lovely walk and great exercise.  The dogs are in seventh heaven, crashing the bush and chasing the odd rabbit.

I have invited a friend of my parents round for tea.  It is the first time she has left her house to go anywhere besides shopping over the last three months.  Although she lives in a retirement complex, she has not seen many people at all and life has been very lonely for her.  Like many elderly people in Zimbabwe, she has no family left here as all her five children live in different parts of the world. When her husband died 18 months ago, only two of them managed to come to the funeral.

In the morning I make some scones.  I used to be terrible at making scones until I used a Mary Berry recipe.  They are something that should be quite simple, but many modern recipes make them  difficult.  I like Mary Berry because she cuts out a lot of the nonsense associated with cooking and baking nowadays.  The ingredients are simple and so are her instructions.  The worst kind of recipes are the ones found on the net which come with a story attached.  If you want to find out how to make lemon meringue pie, you first have to wade through the writer's description of what a cold winter's day it was and how the chickens on her farm were doing really well and how they then went for a walk with the dog and came back and cut some roses from the garden . . . blah, blah, blah., blah, blah.  Just tell me how many lemons and how many eggs I need, please!

My dad is in an unsociable mood.  Every day he asks me what we are doing, where we are going, who we are seeing and today, when we actually are having a visitor, he decides he doesn't want to see anyone and goes and sits inside his cottage.  This is until I tell him if he wants a scone and a cup of tea, then he needs to come and be polite. Unfortunately, there is no cream for the scones as there was none at the shops, but the missing bits no longer seem to bother anyone.  

John takes Sian and Ellie out for a driving lesson up at the Forestry reserve.  Sian comes back stony-faced and I guess that John has been teaching her to hill starts or emergency stops.  I am half right - it was parallel parking this afternoon. I think John jumps the gun a bit, but he insists that there is nothing serious about the lessons.  I'm not so sure that Sian feels the same way.

July 1

I have never been one of those people to ooh and aah over Kariba.  For many in Zimbabwe, a trip there is equivalent to a sojourn in heaven, but I have generally viewed it as a hot place with a big lake.  Unless you are a keen fisherperson (note the use of non-sexist language), there is not much to do there except float about on a houseboat.

When I was a teenager, I swam in the middle of the lake as I had erroneously been told that the middle was too deep for crocodiles and hippos.  Now that theory has proved to be wrong - I am just glad I am still alive. 

I always found that the kind of people who lived in Kariba full time were a bit cooked in the head.  Too much sun and booze and not really much else going on in their lives.  I'm thinking of one couple in particular who had such a  wild look in their eyes that you immediately hid all the knives and any other sharp objects when they approached.

However, this afternoon the image I have of Kariba is redeemed somewhat.  We go to a launch of a book about the lake called (surprise, surprise) 'Kariba'.  There are not many people there and it is a bit chilly but the short talk given by the author is quite interesting and I begin to see the lake through different eyes.

The construction of Kariba was a great undertaking, costing a huge amount, not only in terms of money, but also in terms of lives and livelihoods.  The Batonga people had to be moved and thousands of animals rescued when the dam was created.

This year commemorates the 60th anniversary of the opening of the dam wall by the Queen Mother.  I remember a film we were often shown at school about the building of the wall and how legend had it that there were people built into because  - I think - they had fallen into the cement and couldn't be taken out.  However, apparently, that is not true.  Some people did die but their bodies were repatriated back to Italy.  Thinking about it now, that story always was a little suspect.

Another thing I discover is that Nyami Nyami, the river god, apparently does not look anything like the carved wooden pendants that you can buy from curio sellers in Victoria Falls. I'm not sure what he does look like, but it's not like that.

Kariba was built to produce the cheapest electricity in the world and it should still be that way if it weren't for all the corruption and mismanagement.  How unfortunate that so many Zimbabweans cannot afford electricity when it is actually produced very cheaply.

June 30

Sian's phone is not working so she has to use mine.  This means that I receive a lot of messages from her friends written in text language.

What tym cn u cm over?

Hv u got e notes?

R u comin ovr?

Did u tlk bout it?

BTW, u 4got yr bag.

C u l8er.

The worst one is hbu - how 'bout you?  I am sure it takes longer to decipher these than it would to write them out properly. I could blame the youth of today, but unfortunately many adults write like this as well.

Sian knows better than to reply in a similar way.  She knows she would never hear the end of it.  I often ask the girls to write messages for me when I am driving or when I just can't be bothered to write them myself. Sian gets irritated me because I type messages with one finger. She despairs because it takes me much longer than using two thumbs, but I have yet to master this art.  

Sian is not good with punctuation though and often I read what she has written on my behalf with a sense of horror, watching as each sentence merges into another. I now get her to read the message back to me, with punctuation, before she sends anything.

Ellie is better at punctuation and it is quite funny to see her read something that Sian has written, shake her head solemnly and declare: 'You can tell Sian has written this.  No punctuation at all.'

I always say you will know that I have been kidnapped if I ever send a message in text language and the same is probably true of  punctuation.  

June 29

It is nine months since I started this blog.  I do get behind sometimes and I did miss a week or so in February, but otherwise, I have generally kept up with a daily entry.

It began as a commentary on trying to run a b&b in Bulawayo in the current economic crisis whilst also making mention of some of the guests we have had stay.  The idea is not of make fun of people or to tear them apart, but rather to show some of our funnier moments as well as some of the more intriguing, frustrating and sad ones.

Unfortunately, I chose the wrong year to do this as we haven't had guests since March.  We had a young man stay for about five weeks, but he has now moved on and the cottage is once again empty.

I don't like commenting too much on politics, mainly because it dominates our lives in so many ways, I didn't want to make it the focus here, too.  Life in Zimbabwe is very hard and there is a tendency to just focus on the negative, the daily struggles that we all contend with. However, I don't feel many people want to read about that all the time and, anyway, there are other writers who have those sorts of blogs.  

I try to find the humorous side of life.  Sometimes it is not always laugh out loud funny and often there is humour in sadness.  Over the past couple of months, I have found myself writing more and more about myself  and my observations on life.  This was not what the blog was intended for, but if I was just writing about the b&b, I would have had to have stopped ages ago.

A big thank you to everyone who reads the blog, who comments or shares it.  I have really enjoyed writing it and hope it will return to a b&b blog soon.

June 28

It is a usual quietly comatose Sunday in Bulawayo.  One of those days when you can hear every leaf drop from the trees, every rustle in the bushes and every creak of the roof.

As usual, however, Sunday nights seem to bring out the kind of people who enjoy racing up and down the Burnside road.  All we can hear, besides our neighbours' dog who never stops barking, is the sound of wheels spinning and fast cars.

At times like these, I am so happy to be 45. I am so glad that I have gone past the age where I might think that driving, or being a passenger in, a fast car is fun, daring or exciting.  Although I have not ever been one to enjoy that sort of thing, there are other equivalents in life and I am glad they are behind me.

When I was much younger I used to subject myself to going to night clubs and parties and I just wasn't the sort of person who enjoyed them.  I was always a great romantic and I would have dreams of meeting some poet in a coffee shop or perhaps he would be the leader of some great revolutionary artistic movement, or on the run from the government and we would have to meet in the dead of night and exchange coded messages.

The problem, of course, is that these people are hard to come by and difficult to meet even, I imagine, if you are a insurrectionist yourself and mix in anarchist circles.  So it is that I would inevitably end up at some party, the music so loud I could not hear myself speak, surrounded by people who weren't really interested in what I had to say anyway, and find myself longing to go home as soon as I had arrived.

At some point, thank goodness, I decided that this was not for me.  However, even as I have got older, I have always found certain social events quite difficult.  As I am quite a shy person, I often struggle to speak to people and can often be misinterpreted as stand offish or snobbish.  One thing John told me once before we went out to a party and I said I never know what to say to half the people at these things, is always ask people about themselves because then you'll never run out of conversation.  It is a piece of advice that has been quite useful as most people do enjoy talking about themselves, but often that is also quite a strain. Conversation is a two way thing.

Nowadays the only difference between a week night and a weekend night is that we watch a dvd on a Saturday and during the week, I am usually in bed by 9 o'clock.  If we are invited somewhere or have invited people round, it usually completely throws me out.  I struggle to stay awake past 10 o'clock and my idea of living on the edge is having Milo before I go to bed.

However, am I happy?  Yes.  Most definitely.  When I hear what I imagine are BMWs with shiny hubcaps, tinted windows and blue lights revving their engines and doing wheel spins, I'm quite glad that I have decided what I want and don't want from life.

July 4

I buy a DVD that I just know I am not going to like - Agatha and the Curse of Ishtar - but I am sure you all know why I bought it - yes, because the Agatha is Agatha Christie.  I know I am not going to like it because of the title.  It is an attempt to make the film sound Agatha Christieish, but actually it sounds more Enid Blytonish.  Enid Blyton or Indiana Jones - one of the two.

The story is supposedly set when Agatha Christie visited archaeologist friends in Iraq after the failure of her first marriage and her subsequent breakdown.  It clings loosely to the truth for this much is true, as is the fact that it was at this dig that she met her second husband, Max Mallowan, also an archaeologist.

Like the film on Tolkien, there is a lot I could write about this film, despite the fact that it is obviously just meant as a bit of fun and not as a correct record of Christie's life.  The acting is hamish: over-dramatic and silly; each of the actors behave as though they are at a murder mystery dinner and have to act as suspiciously as possible.  The plot is difficult to follow, not because it is complex, but because no one really seems to know what the actual mystery is. And then, of course, there is the romance. 

Now this is my take on things.  If I was going to make a movie about any aspect of Agatha Christie's life, I would at least research it, and when I say research, I don't just mean the sort of things like  she arrived in Baghdad on the 29 April 1929. I mean I would research her character as well  - and Max's and anyone else with a real life counterpart.  

Agatha Christie was an incredibly shy, unassuming and private person.  I personally don't feel she is the sort of woman who would lock the door of the tomb (yes, tomb doors can be locked) so she can let Max (far too good looking) rip her clothes off and they can have a quickie amongst ancient artifacts.  Here, once again, is a classic case of viewing the past through modern eyes and ascribing modern behaviour and sensibilities that are out of sync with the time depicted.

Nearly five years ago, I sat next to Agatha Christie's grandson at a dinner for winners of the Write Your Own Christie Competition.  I happened to mention to him how I disliked the TV adaptations of Miss Marple (which are more drastically changed than Poirot) and his reply was that the producers had to try and capture a young audience.  I have heard this argument before and don't agree with it.  In fact, I think it demeans the audience because it assumes that they have limited expectations.

So much on television and film these days has to be in your face obvious.  It would be more interesting, and indeed more exciting, to see romance just suggested: hands touching, demure looks exchanged.  That might not sound terrifically exciting, but nor is rampant sex with lots of huffing and puffing of the type we see over and over again.

Although John tells me I am reading far too much into it than the film warrants, he keeps coming up with things that don't make sense either.  The house in which all the characters stay is far too grand and beautifully furnished.  Agatha and Max usually rented local Arab houses, used upturned crates as tables and slept on the floor - but then, you wouldn't know all that if you hadn't done some research.

July 3

Today is Ellie's last day of online learning for three weeks.  Luckily, she has got all her work up to date and can relax without the threat of work hanging over her. 

The last two months have made me question why anyone would actually choose to home school their children.  In Zimbabwe, there are many people who cannot afford private schooling and, with the standard of government schools not being anywhere as good as it used to be, have decided to home school their children.  I can understand this reasoning completely, but I don't feel that I would actually choose it if cost wasn't an option.

In my experience as a teacher, the key to good homeschooling lies with the parent/s.  It is something you have to take very seriously and treat as you would a job.  What I have seen, especially when I worked in Zambia, is parents who are trying to do another job and be the teacher, so the children are left on their own for long periods to teach themselves or told to just read a book or do a maths worksheet.  Inevitably, there are huge gaps in their learning.

There are also some rather dodgy home-schooling courses out there, like ones that provide multiple choice question papers at the end of a module and require no writing at all.  The absence of a real teacher, as opposed to tutor who marks your mark and sends it back with a few suggestions, also makes a remarkable difference.  A number of people I know whose children are home schooled say they spend a fortune on extra lessons and running their children between lessons is also time consuming and expensive.

The worst thing for both Sian and Ellie has been not seeing their friends on a daily basis, working more or less in isolation and not being able to play sport or take part in activities.  i just hope we get back to normal school life as soon as possible.

July 2

In the morning we go to a friend's house.  She is a maths teacher, although she does not work at the  moment, and she helps Sian with her maths whilst I help her children with English.  Her children are very bright and do not need help with English at all, but it makes me feel better, thinking I am doing something for her in return for the help she gives Sian.  

My friend is very generous and gives us two bars of chocolate when we leave.  One is a bar of chilli flavour Lindt and the other is a bar of Cadbury's Dairy Milk.  I cannot even recall the last time I ate good quality chocolate.  Sometimes I buy a Pascal Nut Log or Mint Crisp (the ones apparently made with pigs' blood) and that is considered a treat.

In the afternoon, I take Sian horse-riding and afterwards we go for a bit of a drive.  I have had this yearning to carry on down the road to where we used to live at How Mine, but I know it's too far and a bit pointless, so we just drive to what we used to call Wagon Wheels.  Just near here there used to be a small cricket club called Stragglers.  It was very busy at the weekends and people would come from town to play.  Now, it appears to be part of a farm. There is a turning to the right which my mum always used to say would go to Hope Fountain, one of the oldest missions, although I don't ever remember going there.  My French teacher lived on the corner and she invited us to her house one Saturday.  I don't remember much about it except that it was winter and she had horses.  We drive past the farm and it looks very run down.

I reckon that if we take the turning to Hope Fountain we will eventually get on to Bulawayo Drive and then be able to take the Burnside road back home.  However, the road becomes narrower and narrower until it is just a track.  I really don't feel like having a puncture or being lost out here so we turn around and come home.

The road seems to be crowded with memories.  At one turn, I can remember my dad going to fetch my grandparents to stay the weekend with us; on another piece of road, I remember an accident we had on the way to the drive-in.  Petrol was not a big issue back in those days and we would often drive from the mine on one side of Bulawayo to Matopos on the other for a picnic.  When we were in school plays, we attended every rehearsal, whatever time it finished.  

So many memories but so much has gone.  Sian cannot believe my French teacher lived in what now looks like a ruin and that people actually drove out of town to play cricket in what now appears to be a field. Sometimes it is better not to revisit the past.

June 27

Ecocash issues a statement that they have not been suspended and that the minister who announced this has spoken out of turn.

As I would prefer to work on a hard copy of the book I am to proofread, rather than on screen, I go to a photocopying and printing shop to see how much it will cost.  This is a place I always use as they are usually very reasonably priced.  

The man quotes me Zim$3 per sheet.  Now yesterday, this was the equivalent of US3c.  However, because of the Ecocash crisis, the rate has changed, making each sheet the equivalent of US6c.  The man at the shop won't accept Ecocash even though they are still operating.  He obviously doesn't believe this and fears, quite rightly, that his money will be stuck in an inaccessible account.  If I had been able to pay with cash or Ecocash, it would cost me Zim$840 (yesterday this was US$8.40) but with the drop in the rate, today it will cost me US$18!  That is more than the book will be sold for when it is published, printed, bound and on the shelves of the bookshops. This is how ridiculous life has become here.

June 26

Today I get my first piece of proofreading work - and it's fairly big.  This is quite exciting, although I am quite nervous about it at the same time. It's to proofread a book and obviously I want to do a good job. 

In the evening, we hear that the government has suspended the use of Ecocash.  If this is true, it will have a devastating effect on everyone.  Everyone in Zimbabwe is dependent on Ecocash.  It is a way of paying using your mobile phone.  You have an account on your phone to which you can move money from your bank account or by someone sending money to your phone number.  because we cannot get more than the equivalent of a US dollar out of the ATM each week in cash, everyone depends on using Ecocash.  In developed countries, most people will use their cards to make even the smallest of payments, but here the informal market is so large, that having a card is quite useless if you wish to pay a vendor or to buy something that is being sold privately by someone.  Some shops, particularly the smaller ones, don't take cards either so, if you ca't use your card and you don't have cash - you need Ecocash!

At the moment it feels as though the government is stumbling from one stupid plan to another, like a drunken elephant, crashing its way through the bush, obliterating everything in its way.  They refuse to see that they need to deal with the corruption at the heart of the system; instead, they blame everyone else but themselves.

June 25

Sian is back horse riding now and so once a week we drive out to the stables on the old Esigodeni road for her lesson.  Although the road is not too good, I enjoy the trip out there and often consider carrying right on down the road. The stables are quiet and peaceful as not many people have resumed lessons.  A goat tries to butt me when I get out of the car, but otherwise it is nice to just relax and watch Sian ride.

There is great excitement as the broccoli I have been rowing has formed a head.  For ages, although the rest of the plant is quite large, there did not appear to be much development and so I am now so happy that something is starting to happen.

Somebody contacts me and asks if I will give an older lady English lessons.  She can speak English, but wants to improve her written English.  I am not actively looking for work at the moment as I want to concentrate on my writing over the next few weeks. I could probably make a fortune at the moment through extra lessons, but i would have no time to myself or for my family.

June 24

Sian has decided to become a retro girl.  She loves the 1940s and 50s and spends ages googling fashions, hairstyles and . . . er, music.

Now, I am a bit of a retro freak, although probably more in terms of objects like typewriters and record players than clothes - not because I don't like the clothes, but because it is difficult to buy anything like that here unless you are prepared to work your way through ginormous piles of clothes at the bendover market.  The shops tend to sell cheap Chinese stuff.

Sian, however, would love to go the whole hog and must be the only fifteen year old (possibly in the world, most certainly in Bulawayo) who studies whilst listening to Vera Lynn and the like.  Every time I go past her room, I can imagine a couple from the 1940s waltzing around before pouring themselves a whisky and soda and discussing when the war is going to end.

I read about a woman in the UK who was so obssessed with living in the 1940s that she actually had black out curtains that she would draw every night.  I can't remember if she had an air raid siren or not, but it did seem a little excessive.  There are quite a few people apparently who love a certain age so much, that they dress to suit that era and won't have anything in their houses if it is not true to the time.

I have an article I've kept on a man in London who dresses as though he lived in the eighteenth century.  Apparently, he has a lot of followers; the irony being they only know about him through his Facebook page.  He also receives lots of online orders from all over the world to make clothes like his.

Maybe Sian can do something similar - invent a Retro Girl label and make and sell clothes online.  Th only problem is Zimpost - by the time you get your order, you might be in a different era altogether.

June 23

Today, I make a mental list of all the things I am grateful to the lockdown for.

Number one has to be not having to get out of bed in the cold and the dark to get ready for work.  Secondly, being able to get up and have the time to do a bit of yoga has been great; it is the best way to start the day.  Similarly, I am also able to go for a walk early in the morning, although we generally go in the afternoon.  I do love early morning walks though and that feeling of freshness and newness about them.

I have also enjoyed Sian, Ellie and I working together every morning and being able to help them with their schoolwork - well, some of it anyway.  They don't ask me for help with maths any more.

While we are on the topic of maths, here is a little thing that annoys me about Americans - why do they say math?  It annoys me so much, I struggle to listen to YouTube videos that Sian watches, explaining quadratic equations and the like, because I cannot move beyond that one word.  The video has finished by the time I have stopped ranting about math.  It just sounds so wrong, like when people talk about their trouser instead of their trousers or their short instead of their shorts.  And it's towards, not toward and forwards, not forward. I just want to follow them around hissing 'ssssss' until they say it properly. Please, America, you have messed up the world enough without having to obliterate poor defenceless 's' sounds.

Fourth on my list is that the work I am getting is easier to mark because pupils use spell check and I don't have to contend with bad handwriting.

Fifth is that I don't have to do afternoon activities or wait at school until Sian has finished waterpolo or swimming.  I have been able to spend more time in the garden and with my dad who gets a bit lonely with no one here during the day.

One of the best things for me is having more time to write and I have made great progress on my third novel, The Dying of the Light.  Two years ago, I was a recipient of the Miles Morland Scholarship.  I received a certain payment every month in return for writing 10 000 (a month).  It was hard work indeed, made considerably more difficult by the fact that i started a new job in the same year and my mum died tow months after the scholarship began.

I have spent the last few months editing what I have already written, adding some new stuff and bringing it all together.  It is the fastest I have ever worked.

June 22

Many people seem to think that the coronavirus is going to change the way we think, feel and behave.  We are going to value time and friends and family and no longer prioritise work and money.  However, I am more cynical.  I am afraid that the picture of us all running hand in hand through poppy fields (in slow motion, of course) doesn't quite hold tight.

We are, after all, human beings and, although we have the capacity to change in the short term, this is not true of the long term.  We are the same savages who lived in caves, occasionally killing each other over a chunk of meat and choosing mating partners by knocking them over the head with wooden clubs.  Self interest rules.

The impact of the coronavirus has been vastly overestimated, with some comparing it to life in the Second World War, suggesting that when we emerge from it all, we will have discovered who we really are and what we really want.  People talk about not wanting life to return to the way it was and that Mother Nature has spoken, showing us that the natural world is far more powerful than the urban one.

But it has not taken long to see litter back on beaches - where do all those masks and plastic gloves have to go?  Look at the queues outside shops in the UK and the US; all everyone wants to do is spend, spend, spend. Have we seen the end of war or famine?  Have we seen corrupt governments fall? 

No.  We have seen an outpouring of hatred though.  We have seen people dying alone, people being forgotten about or ignored because everyone is so busy with the process of self-preservation, that they have not checked up on their elderly neighbour or that person down the road who lives on their own. if anything, we have seen who we value in society - and it is definitely not the elderly; ageism is the one 'ism' not many will go on marches to protest.

If it's any consolation, it's that the world will continue - as it always does.

June 21

It is Father's Day today, but it is also International Yoga Day so I am going to a yoga and meditation session. I have therefore decided to make a compromise.  I will only go for an hour or so and won't stay for the whole thing. I am not sure I am up to the whole thing anyway as it involves a silent retreat and, despite my growing interest in yoga and meditation. I don't know how to just 'be'.

The girls make John a lemon and poppy seed cake with Swedish curdled cream cheese icing.  Actually, there is nothing Swedish about it: Ellie didn't realise that lemon juice would curdle the cream cheese icing. 

I am often sad when I think that the girls are growing up too fast.  I must admit that I found the early years something of a challenge.  At times, I felt I was drowning in their dependency on me.  If I went anywhere on my own, there were always tears and I had to include them in everything I did.  However, one of the positive results of this is that both girls can cook and bake quite well and I am sure it's to do with all the times I drew up a chair for them to stand on in the kitchen and got them to rub butter into flour for pastry or stir the macaroni.

It's lovely now to be able to trust them in the kitchen.  I am so happy when they offer to make supper - sweet and sour chicken.  I would never have done this at their age.

June 20

Hillside Dams reopened to the public a few weeks ago and it is something of a disappointment that we now have to share our walks with others.  Having been a regular walker there for the past three to four years, I can safely say I have not seen it visited as much as it is now. There are joggers, power walkers, dog walkers, picnickers, nature enthusiasts and wailers (at God).  Unfortunately, the BMWs with tinted windows and shiny hubcaps are also back.  I have yet to discover what these people actually do as they don't get out their cars.

If there is one thing I may start a crusade against, it is litter.  I hate it and I don't understand it.  If you choose to take your drinks and snacks and go and sit somewhere lovely and quiet, then why do you leave your rubbish for others to pick up?  Did you not choose that spot for its beauty - because you can relax and enjoy the environment?  Then why not take your empty cans, bottles and wrappers home with you?

There are two contributing factors here - one is the prevalence of maids in Zimbabwean society.  Everyone has a maid; even maids sometimes have maids.  Therefore, there is always someone to clean up after you.  The prevailing thinking is: why should I clean up when someone else can do it?  Even if the bin is less than a metre away from where I am sitting, why should I (because I am so important) get up and move towards it?  Someone else can do that.

The other factor is the way people see their cars.  In Africa, cars are almost worshiped. When we lived in Zambia, we were amazed that it was the norm to wash your car every day.  This is more difficult in drought ridden Bulawayo, but there is still this thinking that says: rubbish?  I'm not taking that home in my car.  I've just cleaned it.  My car must remain pristine so let me chuck all my rubbish out onto the road.  The road, the bush, the picnic site is 'dirty' and someone will come along and clean it anyway.

I hate to sound like I live in the past, but litter was not an issue when I was a child.  You could be fined for dropping it and it was positively discouraged. I remember that when we went to the movies, there would often be a short film before the main feature about litter bugs. There wasn't so much to litter with as well.  Cans didn't really exist as soft drinks were sold in glass bottles and the bottles were valuable as there was a deposit on them.  Now everything is disposable and valueless.