Murderous fairies

I have no idea if my parents or grandmother read us stories about fairies. And I have no idea why they inhabited my life as a little girl. I certainly can't remember my parents reading to us at all. But I do remember believing in fairies. I saw them sitting on the back of starfish in rock pools. Riding sea slugs and exotic fish in the dappled light of an early morning swim and once I even thought I saw some fairies paddling on the back of a delicate leaf that had lost its bulk and was just a skeleton of golden lace. I saw the little people in the forests at Nkandla peeping through the leaves, swinging on vines at Dlinza nature reserve near Eshowe and at the bottom of my mother's garden next to the resident snake. They spoke to me and sang songs when I was sad. They listened to my childish woes and softly brushed my hair to sooth me. As I matured my fairy friends vanished, and I missed their company. Fairies were replaced with science and physics and other stuff that I couldn't understand and offered me little comfort and never sang to me as I lay in bed scared and needing support. Recently my youngest granddaughter, Evanna, and I decided to remedy the sad state of affairs in my present garden and paint some fairy doors. Will this encourage the little people to visit or become a snack for the voracious possum or wandering hedgehogs? We don't care. Evanna and I spent a happy hour painting fairy homes to be glued to fences and trees and when my grand nephews visit, we will take them on a journey of discovery through the fairy forest of our home. We will weave stories of the Fairy Queen dressed in the satin and silky robes of petals and a Fairy King so powerful, his very glance can change a slug into a mighty steed. What would life be without imagination? Recently the grandchildren went to a theme park named Rainbows End. As they hurtled down the log flume, a rainbow formed over their heads to form the perfect photo opportunity. And what is a theme park if not a magical place where we imagine we can fly or swoop or glide? I personally would not be keen to fly, swoop or glide on the rides because I have a deep fear of sharing my lunch with my fellow travellers. And not in a good way. My husband went on one of those stomach churning things soon after getting his prosthetic eye and he said afterwards that his greatest fear was that the eye would become dislodged and disappear into the crowds below. He spent the whole time gripping to the rail with one white knuckled hand and the other hand firmly cupping his eye. My grandchildren will not have memories of fairies living in strange places, but they have great imaginations that will colour their world with wonder. My own children have different childhoods to mine and the grandchildren will have totally different experiences. All we can do is instill in them a love of beauty, of wonder and awe. Of being able to look at the mundane and discern the miracle of life.

My latest murder mystery is leading me on a merry dance. If you think that as an author, I have control over the characters in my books, you would be sadly disappointed. I start writing with a vague storyline in my head. A central character or two and then I let the waltz begin. The characters dance to my tune for a moment and then, like a flamingo on Ritalin, they start to misbehave. My fingers may be on the computer keys, but I am led by the nose by the murderer and the victim. And I seldom know who the murderer will turn out to be. In the beginning I think, "Yup, the butler did it." And then the butler turns out to be too nice, or have flaws that I empathise with and I can't bring myself to turn him/her into a cold blooded killer. I know the reader is thinking "Hah, it has to be the butler." But he is the red herring, the patsy, the false lead. It feels like a wander through an interesting garden with surprises around every corner. And I love the journey. When the murderer pops up, I am almost as surprised as my readers. Which is really, really fun. I have started doing theme names in my books too. The latest starts with a gardening ghost and it inspired me to name peripheral characters with floral names. We have Florence, of course, and Petal, Rosaline and Poppy. My only problem is trying to find names for the men that sound floral. It's not really a masculine thing is it? Clem from Clematis? Cedar from the tree? Ash sounds good. Jared is the Hebrew name for Rose. But I already have a Rosaline, so, no. Oliver from Olive? Or Watson from Watsonia. Okay, you are most probably telling me that no one in their right mind would even notice the trend I am trying to get. But I know, and that is good enough for me. It adds another layer of fun to my already funny mind games. I wrote five novels two years ago and I am struggling to finish them and get them edited and published. My amazing daughter has designed the covers and helps me, but ultimately, I have to get off my butt and get busy. I am a professional level procrastinator. Give me a job that I do not want to face and I will find a thousand ways to avoid it. Like Fairy doors that have to be painted, and primed, and glued and screwed. If I was making lots of money at the writing game, would I be more eager to finish the projects? No. Money has never been a great motivator for me. I once sold cosmetics for a company, well really it was a pyramid scheme thingie, and they offered incentives and prizes each month. The first month I was all eager for the prize of a set of steak knives. But when I got them, I thought "Nah, all that work and all I get is this?" I think half the problem was that I personally do not wear cosmetics. I was sitting with two clients and showing them the latest blusher or something and one lady looked at me and said "If you use these cosmetics and are still not pretty, then I don't think I want to buy from you anymore." Okay, maybe she was just having a bad day, but it was the straw that broke this camel's back. My supervisor was horrified that I was not vying for the next glittering incentive and phoned me twice a day for two months. And then she gave up. I still have some of that make-up in my cupboard that has an expiry date of 1982 and should really be thrown away. It is a reminder of when I believed the hype and got led by the nose down a dark and dreary pathway. Never again, or until the next time I want to believe the fairy tales of salespeople with incentives to achieve.

In the aftermath of Covid, I have come to realise that I need to do exercise. My muscles are like spaghetti that has been over-cooked. I have signed up to be a guide at our temple's open house in September, which involves walking up multiple staircases for the whole 4 hour shift. All while saying a prescribed script. Shucks at the moment, I can barely walk up one set of stairs without huffing and puffing. Just over a month to get these spaghetti muscles into some semblance of shape. The trick to this is finding something I enjoy doing. Something that won't knock the stuffing out of me at the first go around. There is an armchair yoga class online that looks promising. But when I clicked on the link it spoke about all sorts of other things, like counting calories and charting weight. Really? I have come to terms with my weight over the years, so why would I put myself through that torture? In fact my diabetic nurse has given me strict instructions to eat more, not less. Do you have memories of wonderful meals from your childhood? Times when you wish you could taste your mother's famous pie or casserole or something? There is nothing that stands out as a meal I crave. Date loaf my grandmother made? Maybe. The nurse said I should make some of my favourite meals to encourage me to eat more. I do love a poached piece of fish just like grandma used to make. The nurse told me that poached fish did not qualify as a favourite meal unless it was accompanied by other stuff. Stuff like roast potatoes or honey glazed carrots. Okay, I could eat that. So, off I went to the local fish and chip shop and bought two pieces of fish. Nope, it didn't do the trick. It was fried and tasteless. I sprinkled lemon juice on it just like grandma used to do. Still tasted awful. Maybe my taste buds have changed? As we age, and let's be clear, I have aged significantly, the number of taste buds you have decreases. At the age of 40 for females and 50 for males, the buds stop budding and start atrophying. They shrink and shrivel much like the rest of our bodies do. There is no exercise to replace the buds. No magic pill or change of diet that will fix the problem. We see pictures of women in their 70's and 80's with bodies firm and functioning either from exercise and diet or the attention of a plastic surgeon or two. But what we should be asking is for those people to stick out their tongues. We can peer at their shrivelled buds and feel better about ourselves. "You might have tight upper arms, but look at that shrunken tongue." Okay, that was said by no one ever. The way I deal with my atrophied taste buds is to have Cayenne pepper in my hot lemon drink every morning. The only problem I have is when I forget that I have been pinching Cayenne and rub my eye. Not fun to feel the burn. I ask the staff at the chicken wrap restaurant to make sure mine is Mexicana and not Texas style flavouring. I will take my taste buds to my grave fighting for flavour, one pinch of spice at a time.

I wish all you gentle folks a good week with fairies dancing attendance on your needs. With characters that surprise and endear themselves to you. May your clothes feel like the softest flutter of a petal and your taste buds tingle with delight at a special treat. And who cares if you act like a flamingo on Ritalin, dance to your own rhythm, dance like nobody's watching. Because, frankly, no one will judge you. They may even envy you.