Too sexy for the Harvards

New Zealand's accent has been voted the most sexy in the world and South African as the second most sexy. So what does that mean for me? I was born in South Africa and people say that my accent is still evident, but I now live in New Zealand and my accent has become a mixture of the two countries. I qualify for both the most sexy and the second most ... mmmmm, don't know if this is going to be important in the grand scheme of my life. But I did think of the different accents within New Zealand and South Africa. The nasal drawl of the Johannesburg area and the Maori 'yeah bro' accent of Northland. Neither one seems very sexy to me. So who did the judging? Obviously not me. I was listening to a podcast of an old friend in Zululand and I thought 'Did I ever speak with that thick an accent?' Because really there was nothing sexy in the sound of my voice then or now. I remember a boy saying to me when I was 16 years old that I had a lovely voice. Nah mate, that was just your hormones shouting in your ears and drowning out your common sense ... and mine, because I was actually quite pleased with the compliment. I once met a French man who had a really intriguing accent that had girls drooling over him. But he was awful as a person. To me an accent does not dictate who is sexy and who isn't. Have you watched those programmes about being married at first sight, or temptation island? Both of them show males and females at their worst. People who are amongst the most good looking in the world but act like the ugliest. My Grandma told me that handsome is as handsome does. And yes, I agree. No sexy accent can outweigh the bad conduct of anyone. Kind words folks, that is the trick. And lots of compliments but perhaps not about the accent. Beauty is skin deep ... oh, okay I will stop muttering platitudes about good looks and how true beauty is something that shines from within. And let me just say that muscles do not make the man. Or tattoos, or even clothes. Be nice to everyone and you will always be gorgeous. I promise. Just look at me. Oh okay, I am not always nice. Ooops.

Today our doctor made a house call. Yes, in New Zealand, well our part of New Zealand, they still do that. I remember as a child lying in bed with measles or chicken pox or something similar and being visited by Dr McLaren. He wandered into my bedroom, stuck a thermometer under my tongue and pulled down my eyelids to peer at whatever doctors peer at. Time went on and doctors seldom ventured into homes. When our daughter, Colette was diagnosed with a faulty bile duct, Leon van der Berg popped around to hear how I felt about being told my daughter was dying. And even that was a surprise visit that I had not expected. No matter how dire the circumstances, I never thought our problems were so serious as to require a home visit. I can't actually remember him coming to pronounce her dead, but he must have done. The facts of that particular day are a bit fuzzy. I can count on my one hand the amount of times doctors have knocked on our door. To hear a knock this morning and see Keith standing on my back doorstep was a surprise. For a moment I wondered if I had remembered to brush my hair .. or my teeth? But he was not interested in my personal hygiene and went to see how his real patient was doing. There was no thermometer or eyelid pulling on this occasion, just a 'how are you doing?' and lots of listening to Barry's concerns. He gave suggestions and asked if Barry had got his affairs in order. Now that is ominous! When a doctor asks if you have a funeral plan it is a bit of an eye opener. A red flag of how serious the visit is. We told him that the coffins were ready, the cemetery plot was purchased, the bank accounts sorted and the will updated. He then asked about our children. Wow, where has this guy been hiding all these years? This caring, concerned approach was not the expected modus operandi for our local GP. Usually you go in, he pokes and prods you in various places and you walk out five minutes later with a prescription for whatever medication is required. But he seemed unhurried and interested in whatever Barry had to say. So nice. I could get used to this. Reminded me of gruff old Dr McLaren all those years ago. Our own little time warp.

Talking about time warp.... the local airfield is one of those country style aerodromes. Air sock at both ends, grass runway and horses and sheep in the paddock. Limited facilities is the best that can be said. Yes, there is a fuel station and a few hangers, but nothing too fancy or flash. But all of a sudden there was a flurry of interest in our little airfield. Someone was looking for buried Harvards from World War 2. At the end of the war the planes had been unceremoniously thrown into a hole and covered up with dirt and sod. What is this fascination with WW11 stuff? My Dad was a radio mechanic in the air force in Egypt and Italy during the war and his stories were not romantic or sexy at all. Many of the planes were fuelled with Castor oil and as the oil burned, the fumes would find their way into the cockpit .. causing havoc with the bowels of the flyers. Not so romantic after all. Men with courage to shoot down or bomb the enemy, battling with their own inner toilet demons. In the town where I lived in Zululand, our Dad would tell us stories of the air force having a station at Lake Mzingazi just down the road from us. Where flying boats would dock after patrolling the coast for enemy vessels. 262 Squadron were tasked with these patrols. This all sounded very romantic to a young girl but one look at the lake with its resident crocodiles and hippos and I changed my mind. During a year of drought the lake was almost emptied of water and three bombs were found on the lake bed and detonated. There was a spectacular crash on the lake when I was a three year old child. A Sunderland plane smashed into the lake and two crew members were killed. The other crew managed to escape and made it to shore. Dad told of watching the plane being salvaged from the water when the crocodiles took an interest in the bodies of the two crew that were still trapped inside. Some enterprising person collected the wing of the Sunderland and made it into a boat of sorts. It looked more like some strange Jules Verne contraption with a perspex dome and a V8 Ford engine to power it. I think my Dad secretly wanted to own something so exotic but had to settle for a dingy to sail on the harbour instead. Richards Bay in those days was wild and woolly and people did strange things with whatever came to hand. My Dad called that Heath Robinson engineering and he always got a certain smile on his face as he said it. Today the harbour is the deepest harbour in Africa and Mzingazi lake is now almost civilised and normal. No one would know its war time history unless they went looking for it. Oh dear, I seem to have totally got lost and gone off the track of the Harvards of Te Kuiti airport. Never mind. When or if they dig them up, I will keep you apprised of their progress. Can't imagine there would be much left after all this time underground. But who knows. Look how long King Tut's tomb lay undisturbed ... yup, I do know that the conditions in the Sahara are more conducive to preservation than the ground around New Zealand.

So in my best and sexiest voice I will bid you a good day and happy travels. Just not in a Sunderland and not on Lake Mzingazi. We certainly do not want you receiving or requiring a home visit from your GP.