The Durban July – not for the faint hearted.

I felt very privileged to be invited to attend the Durban July at Greyville this past weekend. To a box, nogal! Having never been to the races I had no idea what to expect so here is a virgin race goers account of a day at the races.....

The theme of the day was “A blooming day at the races” so that kinda meant that sticking a flower in your hair and wearing a florally dress qualified you as being dressed appropriately. Okay, that is what I thought. How wrong was I! Yes, there were some very elegantly dressed folk and there were some eye catching outfits that were a tad over the top but still tasteful. Then there were some scary apparitions! How any mother/husband/boyfriend/friend could allow some of those ladies out of the house, never mind into the unsuspecting public, I have no idea. I cringed with embarrassment for some of them....

Anyway – no one in our box was dressed like a freak so I will not allow that to dampen my overview of the experience.

On to the horses. I like horses. What is not to like about a horse? I prefer them at a distance though. Let me just explain that I was thrown off a horse when I was a youngster. The horse I was riding on was spooked by a foreboding looking wheelbarrow that emerged from a side road. The key problem was that one of my brothers was also riding the horse with me at the time. I suffered not only the pain and indignity of landing on my arse but also having my youngest brother falling on top of me!

So, how did I relate to the horses at Greyville? Exceptionally well, thank you. I could view them from my perch high above the crowds and marvel as to their beauty and power (and the pretty colours worn by the jockeys).

I soon realised that, in order to get the most out of the day, I would have to go against every moral fibre I have and place a bet or two. Knowing nothing about horses or the dark world of gambling, I had to rely on everyone else’s opinions. The “race card” that I was handed looked more like a miniature Yellow Pages and was just as dull to read so I gave up on the idea of making any decisions based on that. I placed a few bob on a horse or two to “run a place” (I liked that idea – leaves the possibility of winning something wide open) but alas – all my expert advise led to naught and I lost all the boodle. No money flowing into my grubby paws from the helpful young tote dude.

What was flowing in abundance though was booze. When I left and had to pass through the marauding masses to walk the +-12 kilometres to where the car was parked, there was hardly a sober person in sight. Young and old, black and white, freaks and gentry – all totally trashed! I can understand though. The adrenaline rush when the horses pass the finishing line x 12 races + the amount of one’s life savings lost on donkeys ÷ by the number of frightening outfits = a darn good excuse to get wasted. Phew, I hope they all crawled home safely.

One downside was witnessing a huge brawl which I later learnt resulted in 2 people being stabbed. Hubby was delayed in picking up the Alien because he had to dodge the flying fists and cop vans in order to get out of the place. Yes, Chicken Man was there but he was not in the box with me. He had to slum it amongst the plebs as he was tasked with entertaining clients. Okay, so he was in the Sharks tent rubbing shoulders with rugby legends and being plied with food and Flasher girls. He too was a Durban July virgin and declared the whole experience an absolute pleasure even though there was not a Black Label in sight and he had to drink some other headache inducing beer.

So, thank you Lauren and Rob for facilitating my blooming great day at the races. I may have lost a few bucks but I have gained some wonderful memories spent with great friends. Now if I could just get some of those awful outfits out of my head.....

An open letter to the creators of the teenage female aliens.

Before anyone gets all huffy with me – let me say that I love and adore my daughter with all my heart. She is the most important part of my life and that is why I can say what I say without any guilt or fear of a call from Child Protection Services.

If you do not have a teenage daughter – this could alarm you. I feel obliged to warn you in advance. Sensitive readers should turn away now.

Teenage girls are scary, believe you me! However, it is not their fault. It is because they are not really human...

At some point (round about when boobs start to appear and zits mean that bank balances are drained by cleaning and beauty products) sweet, innocent young girls are abducted and taken away from us! It’s true! Can you imagine the horror? Of course, all hell generally breaks loose and parents the world over want their daughters back.

So the abductors kindly give us a substitute. There is a note attached to their ever expanding chests saying:

We thank you for the use of your darling child for ongoing research into the human species. We hope that this replacement will suffice in the mean time. Your real daughter will be returned to you after a process called Puberty

The aliens sure got a lot wrong with the programming of these replacements. Some of the standard default settings need urgent adjusting.

So, to the folk who create these replacements – here are a few tips for future models

To: Whomever it may concern
Address: Some or other far away and seriously peculiar planet somewhere.
Subject: Suggestions, defects and upgrade requirements for current teenage models.

Humans generally maintain a particular mood for periods longer than 5 minutes.

Parents do not suddenly become idiots and ignorant morons. They probably were from day 1 but unfortunately on our planet they still have to be listened to and obeyed by their offspring.

There is a clear difference between a bedroom and the rubbish bin.

By its very definition, a bedroom requires the use of a bed to sleep in. A bed is not just a depository for every item of clothing the replacement has been begrudgingly supplied with. (Your planet must be quite backward. Us humans nailed the use of cupboards vs the floor and beds many years ago)

You got the cleanliness part right. They will spend hours in the bath. So why do they choose to wear dirty inappropriate clothes? Yes, maybe placing clothes in a washing basket is a tall order but could you install something called self respect into your next generation upgrade? It would be great to not have to send them back to change 5 times before they look decent enough to leave the house.

Their hearing is clearly defective. Repeating the same command over and over again should not be necessary. Once you have fixed this manufacturing fault, please could you do a recall of existing models to rectify?

Is it a necessity that they be plugged into some form of electronic device 24/7? Surely you can make their battery life longer so that they can step away from cellphones, TVs and computers for longer periods?

There are pitch and volume issues as well. When speaking to parents they tend to mumble and slur and yet when there is a human male within 10 meters or a picture of some vampire- wannabe boys in a magazine, their voices become high pitched and inappropriately loud. I’ll let you off the hook regarding the strange words and language that they use as this seems to be a universal phenomenon. Male teenagers are just as difficult to understand.

Please change the default facial pose from pouting to smiling. This could alleviate a lot of aggravation.

You are welcome to take my model back for a few days if this will assist you in making these changes.

I look forward to your speedy response and getting my own daughter back in due course. I really do miss her and besides, all the wine I have to drink to calm my nerves at the end of the day is making me put on weight.

Yours Sincerely

Mother to a teenaged alien.

Now everyone is a soccer expert

The World Cup has been amazing for South Africa. The camaraderie between everyone is so inspiring.

Jumping into my car and going anywhere these days is much more fun when one sees all the flags flying from homes and car windows. I have the obligatory SA flag flying on one window and the German flag flying on the other with South Africa mirror socks attached to my side mirrors. It’s no wonder that all the tourists to our beautiful country are raving about the friendliness and “ubuntu” of South Africans.

There is something that has been fascinating me since the World Cup started though. Just how many people have suddenly become football experts overnight!

Sure, get behind a team a two and show your support by wearing their jerseys, colours, facepaint, flags, wigs…but does that support really transcend into knowledge? I have to stop myself from laughing when I hear people, who clearly never watched a soccer match before the WC, start sprouting their opinions and analysing the players, the teams and the referee.

Don’t get me wrong. I think it is marvellous that the so-called “beautiful game” suddenly has so many experts but what happened to all those people who never supported soccer in the past? Have they gone into hibernation? Left the country? Or are they too embarrassed to admit that watching 90 minutes of blokes running around a field kicking a ball backwards and forwards bores them to tears?

Okay – so I will admit it!

I have never watched the full 90 minutes of a soccer game. When I make a serious attempt to do so I still think that the game is over at 80 minutes (I watch rugby, you see) Those extra 10 minutes are just superfluous in my opinion.

What is with these blokes falling down all the time? Grimacing and clutching parts of their anatomy in complete agony when I swear no-one touched them. Acting skills must be a prerequisite for being a soccer star.

And off-sides? I haven’t a clue what the rules are but surely the players know? So why is the whistle constantly being blown for off-sides? Stay on your on-side, dudes!

It is a very loving game, I must admit. All that kissing and hugging that goes on….very sweet.

So, shoot me down in flames for being honest. I have made a momentous effort to watch the games where the result interests me but I still cannot profess to know what on earth is going on in the beautiful game. I love seeing photos on Facebook of friends attending the games. That is Ayoba enough for me.

I’ll stick to watching the highlights packages and the post match analysis on Super Sport which is always entertaining.

The drone of the vuvuzela’s + 8:30pm kick off time = #1 sleeping tablet.

Wrinklies Are Doing IT Too.

I had to smile when reading an article by Laura Spencer (see my Outsourced Communications page) where she writes about senior citizens getting active on blogs, Facebook etc. My 72 year old father Paul Chalupsky may have just learnt how to switch a computer on, but he has joined Facebook! I nearly fell off my chair when he made some reference to my blog the other day. I did not think he knew what a blog was let alone how to find my one.

Sure, he responds to about 1 in 20 e-mails that he receives (if you are lucky) because it takes him an hour to write a 1 line response but who cares? He is trying. He is getting involved. He has taken on the challenge.

My Dad is no stranger to challenges. He immigrated to Australia at the age of 65 as his wife wanted to be near her family. Moving to the other side of the world to a strange country at any age is a scary prospect. I can just imagine what it must have been like at 65, leaving ones comfort zone, all ones friends and of course, the majority of ones family.

Obviously when his wife Betty died, life became very lonely for him. During his visit to South Africa last December I encouraged him to sign up on an over 55’s dating site. Sure, I had to do all the writing and uploading of pictures but he was extremely enthusiastic about the idea. He had more faith in the idea of online dating than I did…

Well, to cut the possible Mills and Boon future novel short, he met the most wonderful lady. She has given him a renewed zest for life and will hopefully be the catalyst to inspire him where all his children and grandchildren have failed – by making him return to South Africa to enjoy his twilight years surrounded by friends, family and loved ones, both old and new.

So Dad, if you are reading this blog, I am proud of you. You have always been a hero to me but your embracing of modern technology has been the cherry on the top.

Do Good Things

I recently read a quote from a friend’s Facebook wall which ties in beautifully to what I wish to share with you today.
The quote reads:

Remember that people will judge you by your actions, not your intentions. You may have a heart of gold - but so does a hard-boiled egg."

How true is that? What I find so inspiring is the number of people that one meets that are doing good things. Doing things that we often do not give a moments thought to, but which effects so many lives.

Top of mind is organisations like TAFTA (The Association for the Aged). Unless one investigates what they do or require their services when you have an aged relative – you don’t give them a second thought. I have needed their services and they ensured that a potentially traumatic and difficult experience turned into a smooth and pleasurable process (I know what you are thinking… No, it was not for me. How rude!)

I met with Jenny Thompson who works for a WESSA organisation called Stop the Spread. I was fascinated by the facts that she shared with me regarding alien invasive species. Global warming; water wise; threats to biodiversity; the future of our planet – all catch phrases that we hear so often and yet we are unknowingly promulgating the problem in our own back gardens.


I got a book from Jenny called “Invasive Alien Plants in KZN.” I immediately did a reccie around my garden and was astounded to find at least 5 invasive plants. I can hear you thinking - so what? It is just a few plants in your garden, who cares? How is that going to affect the world? But that is just the point. If everyone does their little bit and eradicates these nasties from their little patch of land, together we can ultimately make a difference. (Think how effective mass strike action is in SA!)

I had a giggle when I saw the Syringa tree had a Category 3 invasive status. Some of you may recall that my Syringa decided to get up close and personal with me and came knocking on my door during a storm last year. Although the tree was cut down to a stump – you cannot believe how quickly it started to grow again. Yikes, it is actually quite creepy seeing the speed in which it grows. No wonder they have the title “invaders”



If any of you wish to borrow this extremely well illustrated book from me and see what is lurking in your garden – you are more than welcome to.

Let’s not end up with egg on our faces because we have ignored our hearts of gold and failed to turn good intentions into real action.