Race Against Time

One again loadshed time approaches at speed, and the internet is going at all the rate of a lame slug.  ‘Highlights’ of the day have been going fifty miles across Death Valley to fetch our new garden labour force (Mondays only) and show him some of the ropes, then taking Much Better Half to the doctor.  She has to go for an Ultrasound tomorrow, again the other end of town.  Health! Taken for granted until it stops, and then the devil to pay.

The rest (lots of rest!) of the time I have been filled with a strong ambition to lie down and do nothing; and that is what I have done with much energy and dedication.

Now, I think I have run out of time to get a picture in here. Oh well. One word tells a thousand pictures, or something like that.

© February 2020 Colonialist
Posted in Africa, Colonialist, verse, writing, music composition, fantasy, Africa, journal., Personal Journal | Tagged , | 5 Comments



For Jan the first a Really Awful Rhyme
Was meant to indicate that it was time –
Or such had been my definite decision –
To see the year with Twenty Twenty Vision!

Over an entire month blogging has become impossible. When I have the time and opportunity, I don’t have internet. When there is internet plus time and opportunity, there is a power-out due to load shedding.

After being without a phone for weeks, it was finally fixed on Friday. Guess what. Today (2nd) it is down again.

The current government is the most useless waste of air and rations ever to exist. They have managed to destroy a perfectly good power utility, a smoothly-operating railway and airline, a reliable telephone service, and a well-running public service and health administration. In their place is anarchy, wanton destruction by those who appear to suffer under the delusion that the way to gain something is to destroy it, and absurdity piled upon absurdity.

In fact, the only thing that the present regime is any good at is forming working committees, holding summits and discussion groups, and generally to exacerbate the current heatwave by generating lots of hot air. Conclusions or solutions don’t happen.

• © February 2020 Colonialist
Posted in Current Affairs, Humorous rhyme, Really Awful Rhyme | Tagged , | 6 Comments

Four Cases Solved by Sherlock Colonialist

A Shelved Project

Apart from a brief spell in the middle of the month I have been without internet and email for the entire time; reasons being too complex and numerous to list. The latest loss took place about a week ago when one of our local residents with grabbing habits swiped our cable – seen and diagnosed today by a an overburdened and frazzled technician.

Trying to catch up on everything over the past month will be a hopeless task, so I’ll just have to pick things up from here.

Anyway, the picture shows one of my projects to accommodate books written/published/edited by me, undertaken at the beginning of the month. If you think it was easy to assemble those shelves I have news for you. One plank the wrong way round and the whole thing had to be re-done.

© Colonialist January 2020
Posted in Books, Personal Journal, Wordplay | Tagged , | 13 Comments

Colonialist Died in 2019

It brings home how fleeting and transitory blogging relationships are that only two people seem to have noticed.

Anyway, a Lazarus act was effected today, as may be seen.

The reasons for the sudden departure are many and complex, and involve the effective scrapping and replacement of two computers and the total loss of internet for the period. For some time, every forward step to correct the situation involved two backwards.

Many activities have been indulged in during the ‘missing’ period, some of which may be reported upon in due course.

Swimming and Shelves featured a lot in activities over the first half of January.
© January 2020 Colonialist
Posted in Africa | 32 Comments

A Striking Day with Hit Tunes

My Christmas Day main gift with the one it replaces. Constructed on 26th. The old one’s adjustments packed in years ago. The new one is thrillingly adaptable!  As Rhiannon discovered, by pulling out the adjustment lever it becomes a rocker. Variable heights and tensions, and most comfortable!
Though fisticuffs is not a sport
Strikes one to hit upon with gifts,
One day does beat up such support,
And pugilism spirit lifts;
To have a bash is not a sin —
While punch-drunk too, no doubt —?
Hit on the chin to make it in
And when it’s in, he’s out?
The ring does have one on the ropes,
With bells that strike out loud
And for a count of ten one hopes —
Such gifts would please the crowd!
To fight for right with what is left
From day before is fun,
So no-one left out is bereft,
With wins for everyone.
The Noble art I practise now,
With others, hand-in glove,
With tape included in, somehow,
All fitted from above.
What do you think is such a hit;
Pray give to me the reason?
That’s when we make the next day fit.
To end our Festive Season!
Though Christmas Day main gifts we give,
Majority are kept,
For Boxing Day is what we live;
At giving, then adept!
© December 2019 Colonialist
Posted in Africa, Humorous rhyme, Personal Journal, Really Awful Rhyme | 9 Comments

Christmas 2019 Worth Thousands of Words

Prelim Snacks

Prelim drinks outside

Hostess Robyn takes a break



Festive Board Ready

Festive Board unpopulated.


Merry Christmas — Cheers!

© December 2019 Colonialis
Posted in Africa, Personal Journal | Tagged , | 4 Comments

The Impossible Gift

Merry Christmas Everyone!

(Sorry, I don’t DO Happy Holidays.)

A story written previously that I thought was worthy of a repeat for this Christmas. It has now mysteriously vanished from the original blog, Facebook, and Word, perhaps due to the fact that I highlighted it for copying. I think my computer is jinxed. So, I’ll have to re-write it completely, and to make sure this post doesn’t disappear, I am publishing it with the story still to be added. Hopefully, that way it’ll stay put.

The little girl on my lap looked up at me shyly. I remembered from my association with the orphanage as a board member that her name was Cindy, and that she did not really fit in.

‘Ho, ho, ho!’ I said. ‘And what do you want for Christmas, Cindy?’

She leaned close to me and said earnestly, ‘I want my mommy and daddy, please.’

I swallowed awkwardly before saying gently, ‘But they went to Heaven after being in a car accident.’

Cindy shook her head. ‘They weren’t my real mommy and daddy.’ Then she would say no more until I got her to settle on a doll as her Christmas present.

The conversation stayed with me, though. and in January I did some checking to discover that the ones killed were, indeed, adoptive parents from babyhood. The true parents were apparently unknown, as the baby had simply been dumped at the orphanage.

Shortly before the next Christmas I had one of the many visits I get from people enquiring about adoption. Something about this couple seemed hauntingly familiar, and I found myself thinking of Cindy, although the Matron said she was unsuitable as an adoption candidate.

‘What made you decide?’ I asked the couple.

‘We have always wanted children, but Ellen can’t have a baby after having had one far too young. Her witch of a mother freaked, and simply snatched it away, and I later found out that the kid had been adopted, so that was that.’

Wild thoughts were churning through my head. Could it be possible? No, of course not. And yet . . .

More questioning elicited that the age tallied, and I said, ‘I don’t want to get your hopes up, but I think I may know where your actual daughter is. Her adoptive parents were killed, and so she is available. She might be a fitting candidate anyway, even though she is set on finding her own parents.’

Ellen and Doug became excited and insisted on doing DNA tests immediately. Cindy thought hers was to keep her well.

The tests came out completely, unquestionably positive, and arrangements were concluded with the orphanage.

‘Hold it!’ I said to the wildly excited couple. ‘Don’t grab her yet. Tomorrow is the orphanage Christmas Tree again. Let Father Christmas make the announcement.’

When it was Cindy’s turn to come up on my lap, I beamed at her. ‘You remember asking me last year to find your real mommy and daddy?’

Her face froze. ‘Yes,’ she murmured, ‘but I know now it is impossible.’

‘It isn’t, and I have!’ I announced triumphantly. ‘Ellen, Doug, come and meet your daughter’.

The two stepped forward hesitantly, not sure quite how to handle the situation. Cindy took the matter out of their hands. Bursting into tears, she rushed at them and hugged them in turn as if she’d never stop . . .

It was already an extremely happy little family I spent Christmas Day with as special guest. ‘I like you,’ Cindy said. ‘You are just like Santa.’

© December 2019 Colonialist
Posted in Africa, Children's Fiction, Flash Fiction | 19 Comments

Shelved and a Totally Week-ed Week to Leave One Weak

1 of two newly assembled and installed wardrobe-top book shelves for own and edited novels

Let us hope that this time, I am able to post this.

What a week! On Monday, I was preparing to stay in bed and assemble shelves there when a call came from a friend down the road who wanted to drop in for a chinwag. I dressed frantically. He left at 13hoo, so the shelf assembly got put off a bit.
The next event was an announcement from the Cape that Nevie has a bad abscess and had to be put on antibiotics. The Cape is bad for her; every time she goes there she has some issue or another!
Then, in early afternoon, came a call from Sister-in-Law in tears. Her husband has been getting sicker and sicker over the past few weeks and is always too busy/unwilling, scared to go to the doctor. The symptoms struck me as really serious, and I refused to entertain anything like, ‘Maybe After Christmas’ excuses. I said bluntly that he could be dead by then, and I pulled my Senior Member of Family act. I told S-in-L to book a GP appointment for him ASAP, and then relayed the message that in need I would come and fetch him personally and take him there. At this, he caved in, and to cut a long story short was sent straight to hospital.
The diagnosis in due course was acute kidney failure, and the specialists agreed that without immediate intervention he wouldn’t have lasted much longer. He will definitely still be in hospital over Christmas.
Much Better Half had to go and stay with her sister, leaving me in sole charge of our Estate and of the weeping horde of four-footed inhabitants. Our Maid is currently off, as well. This would have to arise at the height of the latest Chemo effects, but I simply got on with it.
The bookshelves are duly on a wardrobe ready to take my own stock of published novels, and then I assembled two office chairs ordered online to go with the new ‘office’ of the kids. It looks great.
R and kids are returning tomorrow, a day early. The maid should report for duty. So life will return to normal apart from a missing wife.
Oh, and stacks of credit go to Sis-in-Law. Her car packed in five years ago, she decided she was scared of her husband’s large and fancy vehicle, so she simply hasn’t driven for ages. She decided needs must, so she got in and mastered it in no time. She has been ferrying MBH and herself to hospital, and here for visits, with increasing confidence. It is a sick breeze, as they say . .
It is unwise for me to go, because of the risk of infection.
So now, in case anyone wondered, you’ll know why I have taken my longest break from blogging in AGES!

P.S. 23 December: Another day, and more of the same with brass fittings. A further post will deal with that in jew coarse.

© December 2019 Colonialist
Posted in Personal Journal | Tagged , , , | 14 Comments

Woe and Whoah!

 Typical of today, I did a whole long post wailing about its mishaps, but when I tried to add a picture it simply went away never to be seen again in draft or any other form.  I give up.


Posted in Africa | 12 Comments

Colourful and Breezy

On the day of departure of the kids and their mother, Jeneva started singing this song to me. She had learnt it in choir.

I was amazed. Her diction was flawless, she had no chopped-off notes which kids are inclined to do, the expression of what she was singing shone through, and her pitch was perfect. She did the entire song from beginning to end – all verses – without any hesitation or mistake and I was struck by the sheer beauty of it

When she reached the end, she looked at me and said in some glee, ‘I made Les cry!’

So she did.

© December 2019 Colonialist
Posted in Africa, Grandchildren | Tagged , , , | 8 Comments