midnightmilkbar

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She’s nearly here: some final thoughts from my foggy brain

The car seat is in, the hospital bag is packed and I just have to convince this girl to stay in for another 2.5 weeks. While Callum’s main concern is that she chooses the England-South Africa rugby final to make her appearance, I have been mulling over a few other thoughts in this final, hugely uncomfortable but exciting stage…

Will my body ever look like ‘me’ again?

This has been an ongoing theme for the entire pregnancy, but there is definitely a moment somewhere near the middle of the third trimester when you look in the mirror and think, shit – where am I? I won’t lie, there was definitely a window when I thought I looked pretty alright, maybe slightly sexy even. Yes, my belly was big, and things looked slightly out of proportion; but I had boobs! And there was a kind of appeal to this curvy roundness that I had finally become comfortable with. This window didn’t last, however. Towards the end, it’s less of a curvy and round vibe, and more swollen and inflated. Things just look so…foreign. I have to really waddle now to get from my bed to the bathroom 7 times a night, and after lying down I am extremely stiff so it’s a kind of exaggerated penguin walk. If I catch sight of myself in the mirror, it’s downright alarming. The maternity shirts that hung perfectly on my lovely bump a few weeks ago are now strained over my misshapen belly, which shifts as my baby moves. At times it’s completely lopsided, and every now and then if she sticks her foot out you can see it poking awkwardly out of my side. In the past few days, my tummy has moved outwards and downwards, eliciting genuine looks of fear from my Pilates teacher who is terrified I’m going to go into labour during a class.

This hasn’t stopped me stripping down to a bikini in front of people – when it’s 43 degrees outside I really don’t have the energy to care. Mostly, people have reacted with wonder and love when they see my tummy. But it still terrifies me. I can’t see further than my belly, so I have no idea whether my bikini bottoms are riding up my bum (Callum often has to come over and hoik them up for me, which is incredibly kind but also mortifying). I have escaped stretch marks on my tummy, but they zigzag down my thighs. I also keep finding new moles all over my skin, apparently something that pregnancy hormones can cause. This doesn’t particularly worry me, but it is a strange thought that I may not ever look ‘the same’ again. My feet have grown – not just in width but in length. I have always had very narrow feet and slim, Voldemort-like fingers. I no longer recognise my hands and feet – thankfully I can get away with wearing flip flops every day, as none of my other shoes will fit. It seems like such a silly thing, but when so many bits of you have morphed into what look like another person’s body parts, it’s frightening.

Is my blood pressure up again?

We had a little scare a few weeks ago. Callum was away, and I woke up feeling ‘not quite right’. I knew something wasn’t right, so I went to the doctor. Bizarrely, I started weeping in the waiting room of the clinic, completely overwhelmed by the thought that something might be wrong. By the time I actually saw the doctor, and he confirmed that my blood pressure was “higher than he’d like, to be honest”, I was a quivering wreck. He also noted that there was protein in my urine. All I could think of was the one, terrifying word that I had known about since day 1, and which he was very carefully not saying: preeclampsia. My next thought was “this is what Lady Edith died of in Downton Abbey”. This was a really unhelpful bit of input from my brain, and made me cry more. Long story short, Callum came dashing back from the bush and I was sent home with a blood pressure monitor to check myself with every few hours. Over the next few days, my BP came right down and I was effectively given the all clear at a scan a few days later. Talk of early delivery was put to one side, and we have been able to go back to a version of normal, with Callum reminding me to stay calm on a regular basis.

Is she going to come early? (Is she going to come out now, as I squat in Pilates class?)

The preeclampsia scare didn’t help with this, but it has been a preoccupation of mine probably since about 20 weeks. I scroll through Instagram incessantly and search for examples of preemie babies – each week that passes I check the statistics and survival rates, obsessed with finding out if she will be alright if she comes this week. Apart from it being a lot more convenient if she waits to be born until my parents arrive from the UK, we have reached a point of feeling fairly calm about her arrival from now on – I will be 36 weeks tomorrow and she will at least be fairly well cooked. In Pilates, surrounded by lovely people who have been with me on this journey since I started going several months ago, there is a lot of chat about what would happen if she were to make her appearance during a downward dog, or an ambitious sumo squat. One man in the class is a professor of medicine so it was assumed by the others that I’d at least be in good hands with him – but he admitted today that he hasn’t delivered a baby since the 70s so he’d really rather avoid it if I don’t mind.

What if I don’t recognise her?

As desperate as I am to set eyes on the real life version of the kicking, squirming being inside me, I am also shit scared of that moment when I encounter her. Firstly, there are all the obvious worries about whether she is OK. But beyond that, what if it’s not all glowing and special but just downright weird? So far, this pregnancy has taught me above all to IGNORE what happens in movies and in Friends. So, I’m assuming that includes the moment of birth as well, to some extent. Callum is perfectly OK with the fact that he will probably just be freaked out by what she’s covered in from being inside my body, and is more concerned about that first meconium poo that everyone keeps warning him about. I feel like I love her so much already, but what if it’s all too much and other things get in the way during that moment – the lights of the operating theatre, the number of people in the room, the fact that I will be lying on a table cut open and possibly in the most vulnerable position I have ever been in?

Will Callum and I be ok?

This is a biggie, and something that I confess I have had on my mind ever since the moment I found out I was pregnant. Alongside the awareness that I will never be the same again (in wonderful as well as scary ways), is the knowledge that inevitably, the unit comprised of Callum and me will also change. It has to. Not just because of sleepless nights, a lack of social life and piles of nappies, but because a new space must be carved out for an entire person. She may be a tiny person, but she has already taken over much of our house and she hasn’t even taken a breath yet. I am under no illusions about the challenges we will face as a couple, and I’m lucky that we have been able to talk about it, at least a little. The truth is, no matter how many books I have read, how many notes I have made about sleep training and made Callum study, how many stories written by other Mums I have pored over, or how many chats I have had with Mum friends who have been kind enough to impart their wisdom – we know nothing! We knew nothing about how hard this 9 months would be. We didn’t know I would become incredibly insecure and need constant affirmations; that we would have to end up sleeping in separate rooms most nights, but somehow find a way to make that work without growing distant from each other; that Callum would be brilliant at DIY but also develop real anxiety about the house being tidy; that we’d fight and feel closer than ever at the same time. If that was just the beginning, I can only imagine what is to come, but I am genuinely excited to see how we handle it in our own (probably ridiculous) way.

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The Awkward Stage: bigger bump, bigger kicks and pain in some really unfortunate places

So we are now at what my GP described as the ‘business end’ of this pregnancy…which makes me think of Week 2 Wimbledon, or the semi-finals of Masterchef. It’s hard to equate it to this giant water-melon sized bump (I don’t care what the app says, it’s way bigger than a butternut squash now) and all the bizarre symptoms that are coming with it. Plus there’s an increasing amount of baby paraphernalia around our house and those mixed expressions of wide-eyed alarm and knowing sympathy from people I meet.

I left off last time talking about the fun middle part of this journey, which featured renewed energy and a growing excitement about my bump, that now fully justified the jazzy maternity clothes I had bought. We also found out that we are having a girl, which prompted a series of tense discussions about names as we had only agreed on a boy’s name at that stage! Around the same time, I had a work trip to the coast, and spent a few days at a beautiful lodge on the beach helping out with a new team of staff. I started to notice that when I walked on the beach (particularly in thick sand) I experienced a weird pain in my lower pelvis. I also got really out of breath very quickly – this became most awkward when guests were walking with me and trying to have a conversation, as I could only really gasp in response. By the final night, I was struggling to get comfortable in bed because of the pain in my pelvis and aching in my legs.

As the weeks went on, I noticed that the pain (although still fairly manageable) was worst when I was shifting my weight from one leg to the other. Pulling on leggings, stepping out of the bath and rolling over in bed would cause a sharp twinge that always made me wince and occasionally made me cry out. I also started to get intense heart palpitations when I lay down, which didn’t make for very relaxing bedtimes. After a couple of months of this, I needed to make a decision about a best friend’s hen do that was coming up, which required me to travel down to Cape Town. I had been beyond excited to go, but was increasingly concerned that my racing heart and aching pelvis were going to get in the way. A visit to my GP confirmed that this wasn’t going to work – he diagnosed me with a super fun condition called Symphysis Pubis Disorder (also called Pelvic Girdle Pain) which not only sounds awkward, but also makes for somewhat embarrassing situations when I get out of the car and the sharp jabbing between my legs makes me screech. I mean, strangely enough people don’t really know what to do when you suddenly yell out and grab your own groin. In short, the hormone Relaxin which is circulating around my body preparing it for labour has caused things to get loose and out of alignment and there’s a teeny tiny bone at the base of my pelvis underneath my bladder which is basically wobbling around and causing the screeching. With a sympathetic smile, the GP informed me that this would likely get worse, and that there’s not a whole lot that can be done about it. Just shitty luck, basically.

For anyone who may go on to experience this, I found that these things helped:

-       A belly band: it just helps lift your tummy a bit and take the pressure off your hips and pelvis. It is not a 100% fix, but on certain days it definitely makes a difference.

-       Sitting down to pull your pants on! Sounds obvious, but if I forget and try to get dressed in a hurry while standing up, I am quickly reminded that it’s bloody sore, and the bed is right there for a reason.

-       A fortress of pillows at night! To be honest this, plus my increased troll-like snoring, has now resulted in Callum mostly sleeping in another room, and although I do miss him, the fortress supporting every bit of my body is extremely helpful.

-       On days when it’s really sore, just accept it: don’t overdo it, just find a comfortable position and either a good book or access to Netflix, and ignore anyone who tells you that you’re being lazy.

The heart palpitations are a sign that my heart is working overtime to support both me and the baby – also not a huge cause for concern, just one of those things. My uterus has also moved quite high up and is pushing against my diaphragm – again, totally normal, just a bit disconcerting. It is really strange to go from feeling relatively fit a few short months ago to being out of breath just walking to the fridge.

To counter-balance these strange experiences, an equally bizarre but wonderful thing started to happen: my baby girl was kicking me! At first, I felt little flicks that could easily have been due to copious amounts of pasta, or those endless Snickers bars. I got people to try to feel it from the outside and would demand that Callum put his hand on my tummy and concentrate really hard (he would get pretty bored of this after a couple of minutes of no response from her). These flicks became more noticeable over time, and I could even predict them as she would be more active if I had a cup of tea or a cold drink. Now, at nearly 34 weeks, it has reached an entirely new level of madness. She kicks and punches the crap out of me, and the movements can be seen from the outside as she wiggles from one side of my tummy to the other. In the bath, it looks like there’s an alien inside me. On the whole, apart from the occasional sharp jab as I’m drifting off to sleep, or a kick in the bladder which makes me run to the loo, these movements are incredibly reassuring and special. Some babies don’t kick as much, I just seem to have a very active one in there, and it has been great to get those little reminders that she’s thriving.

[midnightmilkbar]

The 2nd Trimester Begins...

Around about week 14, two things happened: we went to Kenya, and I started to feel better. It wasn’t as if I woke up one morning and I had suddenly turned into my old self, but I realised I wasn’t being crippled by those familiar waves of nausea throughout the day. This realisation alone was enough to make me feel like Wonder Woman. During lunch on our first day in Kenya, the lovely waiter brought out a bottle of rosé and I realised I wanted a glass: this HAD to mean something had changed significantly. If anyone had so much as wafted alcohol near me during the previous 13 weeks I would have fainted, so this was a new and exciting feeling. Having spoken to a LOT of people about the whole drinking-while-pregnant thing, I knew I could safely have a glass of wine with my lunch. I took one sip, and nearly spat it out – there’s no question that it was a fancy rosé, but it simply wasn’t delicious to me, instead tasting bitter and metallic.

Oh the horror. This baby had turned me against WINE.

Despite this crushing disappointment that my all-too-clever body was actively protecting me from stuff that wasn’t good for the baby, over the next few days I gleefully started to embrace my new nausea-free state. It was lovely and hot where we were staying, so I decided to brave the pool area (luckily we were with friends so no strangers had to witness this). Having been weird and superstitious about buying maternity clothes before this point, I only had my rather raggedy bikini with me, and I was unsure about whether it was going to manage to hold everything in/up. I caught sight of myself in the bathroom mirror, and was relieved to discover that it wasn’t too frightening, although my tummy was definitely very visible and protruding. I walked into the bedroom and was greeted by a stunned look from Callum, and a rather blunt “God it’s huge” in greeting. This was a bit unfortunate – but I recovered quickly and remarked that we might have to work on some more flattering reactions to my bump from now on.

Eager to enjoy my newfound appetite, I guzzled the delicious food that was laid on for us at every meal. I also discovered that I could still (thank goodness) enjoy a glass of bubbles occasionally. This baby was taking after its mother after all. The downside to all this was the realisation of a new symptom – bloating. Oh good lord, the bloating. Like most women, I was used to experiencing this each month with the arrival of my period, and with PCOS and endometriosis it was par for the course. But this…this was a whole new, astronomical level of bloating discomfort. Thankfully, I soon learned to recognise it (the first time I genuinely thought my stomach was going to pop), but it necessitated abandoning whatever I was doing to go and lie down immediately in order to find some kind of relief. It also made my bump look significantly bigger, so during the evenings I was suddenly 8 months pregnant instead of 3 and a half. Travelling didn’t help this, and while waiting for our flight home I spent a good deal of time lying on a windowsill in Nairobi airport.

The huge upside to all this was that I was now, unequivocally and noticeably, pregnant. I started to experience the most incredible reactions from complete strangers – there’s nothing like a bump to draw people to you. Whether it was to let me skip the queue in the toilets, or to give me a chair while waiting to board a flight, or simply to smile at me knowingly and ask me how I was feeling – people couldn’t help but acknowledge me and my growing baby, and it felt kind of wonderful. Granted, now that I’m a lot bigger and more noticeable I get slightly more extreme reactions (a lady in the supermarket insisted that I must be carrying twins, despite my claims to the contrary, and a complete stranger in the book shop actually grabbed my stomach while I was trying to pay at the till), but it has still been overwhelmingly positive. It is mostly women who engage with me about my pregnancy rather than men, and I’m honestly happy to talk about it. Having been preparing for an onslaught of bossy opinions and unwanted advice, I think I have been quite lucky to escape both, on the whole.

Another happy change was my energy levels. Although I never had what some women describe as the ‘burst’ of energy in the 2nd trimester, I found that I could consider exercise again, and this was the start of a short but lovely period of feeling fairly normal. I quickly realised my abilities were hampered by various things – I would get out of breath very quickly, and needed to take it much slower than I was used to. But just moving again felt good, I no longer had to have a lie down every time I had a shower, and I started to get into a routine of yoga and pilates which felt much more realistic for my body. I was also a lot more sociable, able to last through entire suppers (usually because I wanted seconds) and much more able to take an interest in other people’s lives again.

During this shinier, happier period, we also had to get used to the process of going to visit the obstetrician for our regular scans and check-ups. This is not entirely straightforward, as our doctor is a 2-hour drive away, and between us and him is an unpleasant and dangerous road that is prone to being blocked by protests. There are many underprivileged and unhappy communities along the route, and they organise crude but effective protests that involve burning things and stopping all traffic from using the only road between here and Nelspruit. In fact, on our way to our very first scan we encountered a huge abandoned truck and a group of people setting fires and dancing in the road, completely blocking the way. Not great when I was already feeling anxious. A very kind local taxi driver named Percy hopped into our car and showed us a sneaky back-route, along dirt roads and through tiny villages, until we came out onto the main road again and he cheerfully waved us off to our appointment. After all that, the scan seemed like a breeze! Every few weeks, on the days of our scheduled scans, we wait anxiously for updates on the traffic Whatsapp group and cross fingers that the road is clear. This would be slightly more interesting if I was actually in labour, but I am lucky to have an unshakeable husband and a very lovely doctor at the other end, so bushbaby and I are taking it in our stride…!

[midnightmilkbar]

In the Beginning

For some reason every time I think about the fact that I’m pregnant I recall Bridget Jones in the pharmacy in Austria, trying to order a pregnancy test in her very limited German and resorting to just shouting “MIT BEBE”, and miming a very round tummy (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GTCKAy3buxo). To be honest, I find myself wanting to do the same, on a fairly regular basis, when there is the slightest chance that someone might fail to notice (there’s no need to mime the tummy, at month 7). This is not because I’m showing off, or because I want extra attention. It’s because I feel the need to explain why I am rather cross a lot of the time, or prone to tears, particularly when you steal my parking space or shove past me in the milk aisle. Or why I am pounding Snickers bars at an alarming rate in my car so as to finish them before I get home to Callum’s disapproving look. Or why I just threw up in my mouth a little from the indigestion that never goes away, and had to frantically swallow so as not to get regurgitated Snickers on you.

Don’t get me wrong – I am so, so excited that I am pregnant. I still can’t believe that we got this lucky. But fucking hell, it’s not easy.

Before I go on, a quick and respectful acknowledgement to the many, MANY women who have it a lot harder than I do. I fall onto a spectrum of pregnancy experiences that cannot even be imagined, it’s so broad. I have been unlucky in some ways, but mostly extremely fortunate in others. The main reason for writing this is so that I have an outlet other than my poor long-suffering husband, and also to give out a few (hopefully useful) heads ups which I wasn’t given before I embarked on this journey.  

The Beginning…

Given my history of ovarian cysts and endometriosis, I didn’t think we would get pregnant easily. In fact, I pretty much used that as the bulk of my persuasive arsenal when talking to Callum about trying for a baby. When he agreed, heavily under the influence of Christmas whisky, neither he nor I imagined that it would happen within 3 months. I don’t think he’s quite forgiven me for that…bottom line is, though, it proves that despite the ways in which your body may have ‘failed’ you previously, there really is no hard and fast rule which governs your ability to conceive. I have met so many women with cysts and varying degrees of endometriosis: many of them already think they won’t be able to conceive – or worse, they have been told by their doctors before they’ve even turned 20 that they’d better try ASAP because it’s so unlikely to happen. Yes, these are serious reproductive conditions that may complicate matters in a number of ways. But please don’t give up on your incredible body and its capabilities just yet.  

I found out I was pregnant while I was in England, away from Callum. I hadn’t been feeling quite right, and one night I got excruciating cramp in my right calf and after hobbling to the loo I promptly passed out onto the bathroom floor. I was only a couple of days late, but I took the test and it presented me with a very faint line that Mum and I peered at for quite a long time before agreeing to wait a few days and try again. Once that second test confirmed it, all I had to do was wait a bit longer to tell Callum. Then the strange reality of it all began.

In the very early stages, you’re faced with the enormity of what has happened, but you keep it pretty quiet, which is very strange. We told close family, and friends we see on a regular basis (mostly because they would immediately notice I wasn’t drinking). This was ok for a week or two, as it was still only just sinking in for us and it felt quite special to have this little bundle of cells as our wonderful secret. Then, quite suddenly, the little bundle of cells decided things were far too peaceful. To be completely honest, thanks to the body’s amazing ability to block out horrendous symptoms once they’ve passed, I can’t remember when I first started to feel sick. All I knew was, I felt sick…all the time.

“Morning sickness”? I’m calling utter bullshit on that. All-day-and-sometimes-night-sickness is more appropriate, with the occasional moment of blissful reprieve to remind you what normal feels like. I was not vomiting, but I had a terrible upset stomach, which would come on without warning. For a while I really couldn’t leave my bed, and would croak at Callum for plain pasta or toast with marmite if I could stomach it. I had to keep crackers by the side of the bed to shove down my throat when I woke up at 2am overcome by nausea. Callum said it was like sleeping next to a squirrel. I had to leave a birthday party after only 20 minutes because my stomach suddenly turned and I knew I couldn’t face being responsible for turning their one bathroom into a warzone. I once walked into the meat section at the supermarket and had to flee immediately.

The nausea wasn’t actually the thing that hit me hardest. I was prepared for all of that, because everyone had warned me about it. Ok, I didn’t really understand how awful it would be, but it wasn’t a surprise. What got me was the exhaustion, both physical and emotional. On the one hand, I’d zone out mid-conversation, find myself slipping away while sitting at the table, and pass out for hours in the middle of the day. I didn’t have the energy to see anyone, and couldn’t even bring myself to sit around the fire listening to others talking and laughing around me.

On the other hand, I was becoming more and more freaked out by what was happening to my body. I looked in the mirror and didn’t recognise myself. I didn’t fit into any of my clothes, but had no discernible baby bump yet, so just felt fat and wobbly. Having been fairly flat chested my whole life, my boobs were now growing by the day and it was so excruciating that I had to sleep in a sports bra, and would wake up in agony whenever I rolled over. I didn’t know this body; I didn’t know this person. It completely terrified me. I would cry in the bath, not understanding what was happening and then feel immensely guilty for not being overjoyed by the miracle that was growing inside me. Witnessing me curled in the foetal position, crippled by nausea and blinding headaches, miserable for no apparent reason, Callum would keep saying “it’s all going to be worth it,” and I would reply bleakly, “is it?” in utter desperation. He worried about my diet – I was just eating pasta, bread and crackers with the occasional handful of sweets thrown in every now and then – but I couldn’t face eating anything remotely healthy, and I certainly didn’t feel like cooking.

I HATED being so exhausted and sad. I’d wanted this for so long, had imagined how it would be. It was so far from the blissful picture of glowing skin and radiant happiness that if I hadn’t been feeling so dreadful I would have laughed about my naivety. It took quite a few reminders from kind friends/husband/lady in the queue at Pick and Pay of the following point to shake me out of my self-loathing:

I WAS GROWING A HUMAN BEING.

Despite the fact that it’s all you can think about, it’s very easy to forget this point. I read somewhere that a pregnant woman uses up the same amount of energy just lying down as a fully grown, healthy man would during an intense gym workout. That put things into perspective a bit. I started to pay more attention to my symptoms – when I felt suddenly like I might pass out, I thought “ok, maybe I’m growing a bit of brain right now.” Or when I nearly threw up after a sip of orange juice, I thought “well maybe the baby just doubled in size.” Although I still felt like shit, I also started to feel a teeny tiny bit powerful. It was still terrifying when I caught sight of my ballooning body in the mirror, and it still hurt like hell whenever someone hugged me too tight. But my body was doing this insane new thing, and that was pretty fucking cool.

[midnightmilkbar]

Catching my breath after Trail 1

I just ran my first trail race- it was 6.3km, a baby run by many standards, but A BIG BLOODY THING by mine. I have my sights set on bigger things, and these are some things I am learning along the way...

1. LET IT GO.

I am an over-thinker. Not just the slightly neurotic, likes-a-routine kind of over-thinker. I plan what lane I’m going to need to be in on the highway about 7 kilometres in advance. This over-thinking is one of the reasons why I get anxious, and also why people do that eye-widening “yikes” face around me sometimes- I tend to sweat the small stuff. I’m working on it. Anyway, one of the greatest lessons I’m learning from running, is to LET THINGS GO. As my first trail race approached, I started over-thinking about how to prepare for it. I planned my week’s runs accordingly, deciding to take a full rest day two days before, but to do a gentle Park Run on the morning before the race. I told myself I would jog and walk the 5km, saving my strength and my legs for the following day.

The morning of the Park Run, I lazily asked Callum to drop me off at the start line, rather than walk there myself. As we approached, we noticed that the usually clear Saturday morning roads were jam-packed with cars, and some were entirely closed off. I started to panic, realising that I wouldn’t get to the start line for 8am. I leapt out of the car, deciding wildly to run there, dodging in and out of the traffic and pelting down the road to the trail route, which was about a kilometre and a half away. About 3 minutes in, my legs were protesting- I wasn’t used to road running, and the impact was already being felt in my calves. I soon became tired, and felt as if I was going nowhere. I looked at my watch, realised I wouldn’t make it, and actually started to cry.

People passing me in their cars would have seen a very sad, crazed person, muttering expletives and desperately trying to puff past other, serene-looking Saturday morning joggers in a mad attempt to make it to a Park Run. I arrived as the back of the pack was just moving off from the start line, with burning calves and a face like a beetroot.

Why was I behaving like a lunatic?

Because shit was NOT WORKING OUT. I had buggered up my plan. I had to now ‘go with the flow’- something I really, really struggle to do. I was over-tired, having run too fast, and my legs would be sore tomorrow- not at all what I had intended. I had to jog and walk haphazardly, because I was in amongst the walkers and pram-pushers. I had to watch the runners ahead of me looping back, running at the speed I was now used to achieving, and finishing in the times I was used to. I had to learn to stop being a baby- to enjoy going slowly, and to actually stop and walk properly. I had to remind myself that NO ONE CARED about what I was doing, except me. Absolutely no one gave a shit whether I beat my time this week, except me. No one was judging me because I had over-done it and had to walk- except me. 

When I finally got this into my  head, I felt very silly. And I let it go.

2. Be safe, don’t be stupid...

I’m very lucky that I live near a great running route, where there are always other people either running or walking their dogs- many of them are now so familiar to me that we stop and have a chat. I am aware, though, that I am potentially vulnerable, and when I started running regularly, Callum pointed out that I should vary my route. It’s common sense- and it would be the same if I was running anywhere else, in South Africa or in England for that matter- if you run in the same place, at the same time, in a regular pattern, you could be noticed for the wrong reasons. Unless I’m running in an organised event, Simbira is always with me, and it does make me feel better to know that anyone who DOES notice me, notices my dog, who happens to look like a wolf and is never far from my side.

I also  just recently read about an app that allows your partner or friend to see where you are on your route, and enables you to press a quick panic button to contact them if something does happen while you’re running. Over-thinking again, perhaps... but it keeps Callum happier, anyway.

I have mentioned before that I like to listen to Harry Potter while I run. This is still the case (I’m now on The Order of the Phoenix, Ron just made Gryffindor goalkeeper) but I never run in an organised event with earphones in, and when I run alone, I either keep one ear open or keep the volume low. When there are 700 or more people running around you, and especially if it’s a trail run, you need to be able to hear what’s going on. I am accident-prone as it is, and spend enough of my time making sure I don’t fall over my own feet, without having to worry about other runners as well. During Sunday’s race, a friend was knocked to the ground because the man running in front of her had headphones on. He didn’t hear her cry out “passing on your right” and ploughed into her as she tried to run around him. It happened right in front of the finish line, and the highly irritating MC was kind enough to announce it on the microphone. I had to leap into the bushes on a number of occasions as faster runners came past on the single-track sections, and I would have either injured myself badly, or caused a pile-up, or just really pissed someone off, if I hadn’t heard them yell out that they were coming. 

3. You are not alone...

People are great. I knew that already, but it’s pretty cool to be reminded of it. Whether it’s boring you all by writing a blog, or posting pictures on Instagram, I made a decision early on that if I was going to do this, people were bloody well going to hear about it (sorry). My first trail race was made all the more wonderful because I had Callum and Kirsty at the finish line bearing gummy bears and huge, proud smiles. It was also made wonderful by the fact that other friends came to run it as well. My friend Lesley and I agreed that we wouldn’t try to run ‘together’ as trying to chat at the same time is just impossible (seriously, WHO is able to do that??) but it was incredibly helpful to be able to see her up ahead of me throughout the race. Going for a happy, yummy breakfast all together afterwards was also GREAT.

I have had some bizarre encounters with strangers since I started running, too. Not with scary would-be attackers, as suggested earlier, but harmless weirdos. There is one man at the Constantia Park Run who just wants to chat to EVERYONE. He says hi to every single person he passes during the run, which is a bit unnerving when you aren’t expecting it, and then afterwards he approaches anyone he can to have an in-depth discussion about the weather, his shoes, your favourite colour... whatever, really. It’s strangely comforting, especially when you’re out there on your own- and if I don’t feel like talking to him, I put Harry back on. 

4. Do a LITTLE bit of preparation...

There are some things that are worth over-thinking, as it turns out. I was particularly worried about my sleep the night before the trail race, and what time I would wake up- there is definitely some truth in needing to get some kind of routine sorted. I googled some yoga stretches to do beforehand (a few sun salutations are the BEST, they wake up every muscle you need) and did them rather self-consciously in the dark backyard at 5:15am, much to Simbira’s bemusement. I also read lots of articles that warned against eating or drinking anything for the first time on the day of a race- so I stuck to what I usually have. Terrified that my churning stomach would let me down, I took an unnecessary immodium before I left the house, packed eye drops and antihistamines in my bag and, at the last minute, grabbed a packet of painkillers. Just before the race, feeling very anxious about the twinges in my calves and the dull ache behind my eyes from lack of sleep, I tried to subtly pop a couple of the painkillers, thinking that if anyone saw me they’d know what a hopeless novice I was... Kirsty saw me, grinned and informed me that her boyfriend, a seasoned runner, had popped three painkillers AND an immodium that morning.

During the race itself, the one thing I really, really wished I had, was water. I have never needed it whilst running, as I am still only doing short distances and there has always been water available at the end, but it was bloody hot in Elgin and my mouth felt like it was lined with sandpaper for the entire 48 minutes (and for the rest of the day, actually). I tried sucking on a couple of gummy bears, which turned out to be a huge mistake as they stuck in my throat and I had to keep swallowing manically for about 2 kilometres. My next bit of kit will definitely involve something I can carry water in on the go (I’m playing it cool but I’m super excited about this).

[midnightmilkbar]

The Unthinkable Has Happened

In 2016, I got engaged, I completed my Master’s degree, and I started running. Out of these three, the third is the only one that gets a response of utter incredulity and shock. This is not because people aren’t excited about my engagement, or proud of my academic achievements. It is because the third thing is bizarre.  

It is because I am the most unlikely runner, in the world. Ever.

In fact, people aren’t just shocked and incredulous: they are disbelieving. Frequently, they just burst out laughing. This morning, Callum was on the phone to a family member and when he was asked “How’s Jem,” he answered “She’s good, she has turned into a fanatic runner” and I could actually hear the person on the other end of the phone laughing from the other side of the room.

When I told my best friend in the UK over Skype that I had started running, she stopped speaking for so long that I thought the screen had frozen. She kindly apologised for being so surprised, but she pointed out that her overarching memories of any physical exertion on my part while we were at university are limited to my bending over double, completely out of breath, after climbing the (small) staircase to our Friday morning classes. I actually wrote a blog a while ago about my hilarious, failed attempts at running- (http://jemimamiddleton.tumblr.com/post/95464943339/writer) and it was absolutely accurate. 

Callum’s reaction has shifted from utter bewilderment, to faint amusement, to acceptance- and, dare I say it- pride. After a month of this new ‘hobby’ had passed, and I was still doing it (usually I give up after about 10 days), I think he started to think it might actually be a thing. He has never actually seen me run- he has zero interest in joining me, and I’m fine with that (the fewer witnesses I have, the better), but he supports me in many other, more important ways.

So how did this happen, and why does it matter? Well it doesn’t, really, except that I can honestly say, if I can enjoy running, ANYONE CAN. Seriously, anyone. I have been saying “I can’t run” for 15 years, probably since the last time I was forced to run the 1500m at school, and I have proved that this is a myth. 

Running isn’t fun. If anyone tells you that it is, they’re lying. It is especially unfun when you start. It’s awkward, it’s painful, it’s a mini kind of hell. During my first run, I was suddenly very acutely aware of all of my limbs, and how little control I had over them. I felt like my legs were made of lead, my feet two blocks of wood on the end, and my flailing arms were useless, giant sausages. I also didn’t get very far. By the end of my road, I thought I might throw up, I was seeing little stars that wouldn’t disappear despite frantic blinking, and my lungs were surely exploding out of my chest. I hobbled home.

The next time I ran, I was going slightly better- the nightmarish lead legs weren’t so noticeable, my arms seemed to be doing what they were supposed to, and I didn’t see stars for at least 10 minutes. However, when I turned around and ran back along the pier, the sun was behind me, and I was forced to look down at my shadow. Dear god, what WAS I DOING. I tried to ignore the grey, uncoordinated image of my body that was spread out on the concrete in front of me, but I was transfixed. Even my hair shadow looked awful. Once again that painful awareness of my own awkward, flailing body parts came back, and I longed for it to be over. 

I didn’t run again for a while.

Then I got engaged. I also got a bit fat. Now don’t get me wrong- I’m not a lunatic, I have a healthy respect for my body and how it looks. But there was no doubt about it, I was getting squidgy, my regular clothes weren’t fitting nicely, and suddenly I was faced with trying on wedding dresses. After one particularly sweaty ordeal in a rather snooty bridal shop in London, with the poor (stick-thin) assistant trying to squeeze me unceremoniously into one of their bespoke gowns, and a truly horrid moment when I heard a distinct tear as she squashed my bottom into it, I realised I wasn’t happy and I needed to sort it out. There’s nothing like wedding dress incentive to get you off the sofa and outside. 

I couldn’t afford to join a gym. I couldn’t even afford the monthly yoga membership that I had tried before, and I was getting quite tired of trying and failing to find that inner yogi peace whilst surrounded by silky, bronzed Capetonians with their slinky legs and rock-hard abs. I needed something with minimal logistical effort, that I could do fairly discreetly, that was ideally free. 

Then someone suggested I try doing a Park Run. These are organised all over the world, every Saturday morning, and they are all 5km. There happens to be one that operates about 4 minutes away from my house. Very apprehensively, I signed up (it’s completely free) and the following Saturday I donned my only ‘exercise’ clothes (yoga leggings and a vest) and took Simbira with me for moral support. There were about 700 people there, some with their dogs, some pushing prams, running with their kids, their spouses, their grandchildren- you name it. Everyone was friendly, everyone was cheerful. I tried not to feel nervous- I could just walk it if i wanted, I reminded myself.

We set off, the first kilometre a hectic scramble of people jostling each other and trying to stay upright. I could only barely jog at this stage, and a woman actually fell behind me very early on. She was quickly scooped up, and I concentrated very hard on where I placed my feet, so as not to do the same thing. 

I didn’t die. I didn’t even feel like I might be sick, or pass out. I did have to walk a few times, and I took Simbira to have a paddle in the river when she got too hot (and when I couldn’t breathe). But I kept going- the magical thing is, I am naturally competitive, despite being naturally un-sporty, so having 700 people running around me ensured that I finished that run, in a respectable time. I couldn’t quite believe it. I was exhausted, but definitely pleased with myself. 

That was 2 months ago. I’m now running almost every day, and just signed up for my first Trail Series. The challenge, after I realised how much I enjoyed the Park Run, was how to keep going by myself. When I’m not motivated by 700 other people, I find it all too easy to walk, or even to call it a day and go home before I have really gotten into my stride. 

I tried running whilst listening to music. I found this quite stressful- I kept changing my pace according to what song I was listening to, and I also hated the realisation of how loud and unseemly my breathing was whenever the song stopped. I read an article that suggested listening to audiobooks instead- so i downloaded Audible to my iPhone, and managed to get all the Harry Potter’s for free. Suddenly, listening to Stephen Fry narrate The Prisoner of Azkaban made running easier, somehow. Enjoyable, even. (Not always, but occasionally). I also started (gently) investing in some gear. I already had some very good shoes, thanks to my Dad insisting that I get them fitted properly a year ago. I really laugh now when I think about how I confidently stepped aboard the shop’s treadmill that day when instructed to, and started ‘running’ so that the man could analyse my gait. I was out of breath within 10 seconds, and had to pretend that I was totally fine, whilst other customers walked past the shop window.

There is so much other kit out there. You can go completely mad. I have become quite obsessed, and have to exercise serious restraint whenever I am in the vicinity of a sports shop. There are just so many amazing leggings, shorts, stretchy sports bras and vests that you can wear. My washing line now barely sees anything else- it’s the comfiest clothing ever! I hate wearing normal bras now. I have also found that THE MOST USEFUL THING YOU CAN BUY is, in fact, a moonbag. Or a bum bag. Or a fanny pack. Or WHATEVER it is you call it- I used all these names in the shops whilst trying to find one, and was laughed at a lot. In South Africa it’s a moonbag, and my god it’s the best thing I own. Fashionable? Er, no. Flattering? Absolutely not. But you can fit your keys, phone and even some sweets in there, which is all you need.

I have had some disasters, and I’m sure I will have more. One afternoon I tripped and fell over a tree root (the perils of trail running) and landed flat on my face, with a very sore ankle. I was somewhat dazed, and still had The Chamber of Secrets blaring into my ears, so I wasn’t really sure what was going on- but Simbira was there, licking my face, and I was not badly hurt- just rather embarrassed. 

I learnt very early on that I had to be realistic about how much I could run. I started to get excruciating pain in my calves both during and after a run, and when I asked more experienced running friends why this was happening, they all responded in horror that I was mad to be attempting to run every day. Rest days are non-negotiable, it turns out. Especially if you’re an idiot novice, which I definitely am.

I have also learnt the very crucial lesson of going to the loo before you run. It’s MOST unpleasant if you forget. That goes for your dog companion too- running with a full poo bag that you might accidentally whack into another unsuspecting runner is not advised. 

I fear there may be more updates about my running exploits. I apologise for this in advance. But, I reiterate- if you think you can’t do it, that’s rubbish. You just have to want to do it enough. The thought of a wedding dress did it for me, but the benefits have been so much greater than I imagined. A friend recently confessed that, for her, running is like Prozac. That ‘runner’s high’ thing might sound ludicrous, and cheesy, but I have to admit there’s a sliver of truth in it. I don’t think I have experienced it fully yet- but I can’t deny that something makes me get up and go and run again. And again. 

[midnightmilkbar]

How to (Not) Grow Up 1.Saturday Nights and Driving Fines

Yesterday, as I rolled up at the check-out at Woolies, the cashier (a cosy-looking lady with a glint in her eye) took one look at my items- a lemon cheesecake and a bottle of wine- and gave me a wink. 

“Now THAT’S how you set yourself up for a Saturday night.”

I wasn’t even embarrassed. While she swiped my card, we chatted with misty eyes about the merits of cheesecake for dinner, cheesecake for breakfast and then also for lunch (if you haven’t eaten it all by then). This wasn’t one of those individual, puny cheesecakes. Don’t be silly. Family-size all the way. It was as if she knew, at first glance, that I was going home to an empty house, with only a greedy Simbira to judge me for my supper choice. In other words: bliss.

This pretty much sums up my life at the moment- I spend the week trawling Pinterest for recipes that include kale that AREN’T disgusting, and set myself minimal yoga/work-out targets that I inevitably fail to meet, but then at the weekend I make the gleeful trip to Woolies for my Saturday night treat of dairy, sugar and alcohol-related goodies. This week I took a big step and bought that slightly-more-expensive, sugar-free peanut butter, and I felt like a grown-up.

I’m at the business end of my 20′s, and it recently occurred to me that what I’m going through is all-too-familiar to other women my age: that time when you know you are ‘supposedly’ an adult, but you still don’t exactly understand how a mortgage works, and you still have to psych yourself up to go to the gynaecologist. In less than a year, I will become a Mrs, and I thought I’d document this time because it’s a mixture of hilarious, terrifying and painful, in various different ways. I recently read a book called ‘The Happiness Project’ by Gretchen Rubin, and it appealed to me because she took something we take for granted- happiness- and tried to make sense of it, almost as if it were an experiment. I am an academic- which just means I’m over-analytical, poor and sleep-deprived- but I’m not a ‘scientist.’ I’m one of those liberal arts academics who is of little to no use to society, and would be happiest reading all day and talking about symbolism. But I do appreciate over-thinkers, and Gretchen Rubin is definitely one of those. She made ME over-think, and whilst I’m not going to be nearly as organised as her, I do want to write more diligently, about the lessons I learn (or fail to learn) on a daily basis, during this particular time in my life, as I contemplate becoming an adult. 

On the same day that I bought that peanut butter, I experienced another First. I was pulled over by a policewoman for not stopping “properly” at a stop street. Now, anyone who knows me will probably already be laughing, because I am the Queen of Slow, and although an assertive driver, I still panic at the thought of doing anything illegal on the road. I had just finished giving Simbira a run, and was about 3 minutes away from my house. I always listen to Harry Potter when I walk Simbira, and still had The Philosopher’s Stone being narrated through my car speakers when I was beckoned over to the side of the road. I use this route every single day, and there is a Stop Street there which I’m well aware of. Anyway, this policewoman clearly wasn’t impressed by my ‘stop’ and she waved me over. My immediate thought was that Simbira would react, because she doesn’t take kindly to people approaching the car window when I’m driving (something that comes in handy when hawkers try to sell me beaded flamingos at the traffic lights). Her barking also frequently deters police, and they often end up waving me on, exasperated. However, today, Simbira was passed out, panting, and of completely NO use to me whatsoever. She didn’t even open her eyes while the policewoman proceeded to write me a ticket, to the point that the woman actually asked me, in a rather concerned voice, why my dog was so "asleep.”

She was, overall, very nice to me- in total panic mode, I had paused Stephen Fry’s narration of “Chapter 5, DIAGON ALLEY,”  and was trying to work out what I had done, images flashing through my mind of my precarious study permit being whipped out of my hands. The policewoman could see my stricken face, and was, I think, trying not to giggle at my garbled explanation for my apparent misdemeanour ( “I mean, I did stop, I MEAN I THOUGHT I DID, oh god, MAYBE I DIDN’T I’M SO SORRY”). She assured me that she was not ‘arresting’ me but merely charging me, a lot of money, for not stopping properly. I grovelled and kept apologising, and then felt like an idiot as I drove away.

I HATE being told off. It’s a real problem, I’m one of those proper goody-two-shoes, never-break-the-law citizens, and I start to feel anxious if I get into trouble. So as well as being a real inconvenience, this incident left me feeling mortified for the rest of the day. A friend of mine laughed when I told her, and said she’d come with me to the Magistrate’s Court to help me fight my corner, which was a great relief. Growing Up Fail of the week. 

[midnightmilkbar]

Our first day along the Mara River

One of the greatest lessons I learnt during our time in the Serengeti, was to appreciate (in fact, to LOVE) wildebeest. They are completely amazing. They are also quite stupid, lack any decent decision-making skills, have total FOMO* and cannot possibly go anywhere alone. But they are fabulous, and I became really quite attached to the approximately 100,000 that we saw in Lamai.

The first day, we set off at the crack of dawn (Hamisi tried very hard to give us a cooked breakfast and was horrified when we said we only wanted croissants and coffee). I had taken all the leftovers from breakfast and stuffed them in my backpack, knowing that it was in everybody’s best interests to make sure I had enough snacks. I also discovered, about 20 minutes in, that I was very underdressed and freezing. About 6 hours later, I was sweating, but such is the climate of the bush- you need to be prepared for anything! 

‘Anything’ can include an unexpected cat sighting. We had barely left camp when Eugene suddenly stopped the car because two jackals were crying just up ahead. We particularly love Black-Backed Jackals because they remind us of Simbira, so we were excited to see them in the still-dewy grass, just visible in the pinkish morning light. Eugene was distracted, following the jackals’ indignant gaze, and he suddenly cried “LEOPARD!” Sure enough, there he was- a beautiful, big male, sitting in a gap between two bushes right ahead of us. As we approached cautiously, he was gone with a flick of his tail, and we just managed to catch a glimpse of him running at some speed along the tree line and out of sight. Eugene explained that it was rare to see a leopard in this area, and this male was probably very unused to vehicles. Although it might sound strange, it’s actually cool to see a skittish cat like that, because it reminds you just how wild they are. 

Eugene wanted us to see wildebeest crossing the Mara River, so we hugged the river bank for most of the morning, hoping to catch a glimpse of a large group making the treacherous journey from one side to the other, in search of greener pastures. With the rain coming every afternoon at that time, there was plenty of food around, and there was no desperate sense of urgency on the wildebeest’s part. We did find carcasses EVERYWHERE, both in the river and on land- we soon became accustomed to the lingering smell of decay that followed us everywhere. The predators were spoilt for choice, and even the vultures waddled about with plenty to pick at, leaving some carcasses untouched and bickering over only the most delicious bits. I saw my first Lappet-Faced Vulture, known sometimes as “The Butcher” because of its ability to open up carcasses that have yet to be feasted on. Freaky and bald-headed, but magnificent in a creepy kind of way.

Whilst the wildebeest looked fairly relaxed for most of the morning, we saw other, beautiful things- a lovely herd of elephants crossing the river towards us was a real highlight. I soon got my sketchpad out and while the others played with their cameras, I learnt to speed-sketch anything that I could (or rather, I discovered how very bad I am at speed-sketching). Vera called it my ‘note-taking,’ which was a lovely way to think of it, especially as now when I look at the work I produced, it’s a bunch of terrible drawings but it reminds me of what we saw. I might have forgotten the gorgeous little family of Waterbuck with their fluffy little babies; or the Bataleur Eagle who perched so nicely for us on a dead branch; or the vicious, open wound on that one poor zebra’s bottom, possibly from a lion or crocodile attack. 

As we crept along our side of the river, the herds started to gather in numbers, and the wildebeest seemed less engrossed in their feeding as the morning went on and the heat increased. On the other bank, several vehicles from other lodges were gathering in shady spots, waiting for any sign that a group of animals might cross. Callum explained that there was a certain etiquette for viewing river crossings, but inevitably everyone would get excited if something happened and would zoom around noisily in all directions. We were very lucky to be the only vehicle on our side of the river.

It was around 1pm and we were all starting to feel fairly peckish- my snack supply had dwindled, and Callum asked Eugene if we could possibly “grab a sandwich or something.” 

“Of course,” said Eugene, stopping and switching the engine off. “Give me two minutes.” 

What he produced from the back of the vehicle was about as far away from “a sandwich or something” as you could get. It was a three-course picnic lunch, complete with a menu and WINE PAIRINGS, for goodness’ sake. More squeals from us, and after about 7 seconds of “oh no, we couldn’t possibly’s” we dived in to the feast, and happily accepted Eugene’s offer to pour us drinks. We were parked behind a bush, so as not to disturb the wildebeest herds around us, and we greedily tucked in while we waited for them to move. 

After lunch, there was some to-ing and fro-ing along the river as herds moved in various directions. They would perch on the edge of the bank and look down at the water, apparently considering making a move, but would then chicken out and go back to feeding. This went on for quite a while, but we kept reassuring Eugene that we were blissfully happy, and we really were. Just driving through those great herds is spectacular- as Vera said, the landscape looks as if somebody has sprinkled a pepper shaker all over it. They have such a funny expression as they raise their heads from the grass to look at you, and often make a kind of vaguely cow-like grunting noise which, soon enough, we were making back at them in greeting. 

There is another, less endearing creature in this part of the bush: the much-maligned Tsetse Fly. My first encounter with one of these little beasts went something like this:

Callum: Oh, here they are, our friends for the next few days.

Jemima: What friends? Where?

Callum: You’ll see.

Jemima: What do you me- ARGGHH WHAT THE F&^%ING HELL WAS THAT? (Smacking the back of my leg and falling off my seat in agony while Callum and Vera collapsed laughing).

I (sort of) got used to them, but wow they are a pain: while you’re driving, you can just about avoid them, but as soon as you stop the car they swarm the vehicle (Callum says I exaggerate this, but I swear they targeted me specifically) and they bite THROUGH YOUR CLOTHES. I took to using my sketchpad as a giant fly swat, and calling them horrible names, which I like to think they could understand. 

As i said though- blissful happiness, despite the demonic tsetse flies. We were slowly wending our way back along the river towards camp, waving at our wildebeest friends, when suddenly, we noticed a group on the opposite bank moving quite quickly towards the river. Two other vehicles on that side had also noticed, and were following them. The next minute, we heard a splashing sound that confirmed the wildebeest had hit the water, and we quickly made our way to the edge to view them. 

It wasn’t a large group, but it was fascinating to watch- a line of wildebeest ran down the opposite bank and launched themselves, in single file, into the water, making their way across a section that was deep enough for them to have to swim. I was filming with my iphone, and Callum and Vera were trying to focus through their cameras, when I saw, emerging from the depths of the river to the right of the wildebeest, a GIANT crocodile. 

“OH MY GOD LOOK AT THAT CROC” was all I could yell at that moment, and we watched in a kind of horrified state of wonder as it propelled itself at one of the antelope, missed, and then heaved into the line again and this time grabbed hold of one of the adults. The wildebeest kicked and moaned, and the crocodile managed to drag it away from its friends, trying to submerge and drown it. The other wildebeest stopped dead still in their tracks, and those who had just started coming down the bank began to hurriedly back-track, stumbling into those behind them and causing complete chaos. Like I said: stupid and bad at making decisions. But their mate was busy being death-rolled right in front of them! It was completely mad. Eventually, the other wildebeest seemed to decide this was actually a good time to make a break for it, whilst poor old ‘Steve,’ as we named him, ‘took one for the team’... and they galloped across before another croc could have a go.

Almost as soon as it had begun, the whole crazy scene was over: Steve was no longer kicking, Vladimir (we thought that was an appropriate name for the croc) was busy stowing him away for a later time, and the rest of the wildebeest were browsing on our side of the river- presumably congratulating themselves on still being alive?

We looked at each others’ bewildered, stunned but exhilarated faces. 

“That shit just happened!” exhaled Vera. 

*FOMO: “fear of missing out.” I suffer from it acutely.

[midnightmilkbar]

Arriving in the Serengeti

At about 4am I heard the whine of a mosquito around my head and realised I had left my malaria pills in Cape Town. Bugger. The alarm was due to go off in 45 minutes so I decided Callum wouldn’t really appreciate being woken any earlier, just to hear another example of my forgetfulness. I just made a mental note to wear more Peaceful Sleep, and swatted at the air to try to deter the mosquito.

When our alarm did go off, Callum was straight into work mode- this was the first official day of our trip and I knew he was thinking about the various transfers and flights that needed to go well before he could fully relax. We were heading to Singita Mara River Camp, our home for the next 3 nights in the Lamai concession of the Serengeti. We met Vera in the breakfast room, and I took one look at the healthy array of fruit before launching myself into the pastry section and happily carb-loading- who doesn’t love a good breakfast buffet at 5:30am? 

Soon after, we were boarding our first little plane, just as dawn was breaking. This was to be a morning of small planes- and most people who know me will know that I am NOT a good flier- but it was impossible not to be distracted by the view below. As we headed to Arusha, and then on to a number of smaller, bush airstrips, I plugged my music in and listened to John Barry’s soundtrack to Out of Africa. Cheesy, perhaps, but it was fitting: we flew over rolling green mountains, and huge expansive plains- and then our pilot instructed us to look to the right, and there in the distance, rising out of a blanket of clouds, was Mount Kilimanjaro. It took everything in me not to squeal for the entire journey. We couldn’t talk much over the noise of the plane, but Vera and I kept looking at each other and doing little happy dances in our seats. We dropped off several other guests at their destinations, and then at last, our pilot said we had a short 15 minute flight left before our own. He told us that he would fly very close to the Mara River, which was now in plain sight, winding its way through the plains beneath us:

“Look out for ze wildebeest,” he said, in a thick French accent, “Zey will be crossing. Eet might get a leetle burmpy, because of ze eet.” We giggled- it had been a long morning, and we were certainly feeling “ze eet,” but we could sense how close we were now, and I could barely sit still in my seat.

Finally, as we started our descent to Lamai airstrip, we saw a lone game viewer, parked by a tree, with a man standing next to it, his arms outstretched in an enthusiastic wave.

“That’s Eugene!” Callum said, excitedly. 

As we climbed out of the plane, Eugene enveloped us each in a big hug, and waved us towards his vehicle while he grabbed our bags. There, laid out beautifully, was a table of snacks and most noticeably, a big bottle of Absolut Vodka for Vera. We loved him already.

That first drive, from the airstrip to the camp, was unforgettable. Callum and Vera took the front row, with their cameras and other paraphernalia, and I sprawled on the second row behind them (equipped with my iPhone and a supply of snacks). These were to be our seats for the next few days, and we were incredibly fortunate to have Eugene to ourselves. On the way to camp, we saw a number of beautiful sights- but two things stick in my mind. Firstly, the landscape was everything I had ever dreamed of: huge, purple-blue skies meeting golden, rolling plains that just kept going and going as far as the eye could see, only punctuated by acacia thorns that dotted the horizon in every direction. I have been very lucky to live in some beautiful, wild places- I thought nothing could come close to the Okavango Delta. But this land was different- it had a totally unique character, as I was to discover. But I fell in love with it that first day, and was hit by that all-too-familiar sense of joy and soul-happiness, that only the bush can bring. 

The second special thing we saw that day was unexpected and extraordinary for each of us. We came across a herd of elephants, and after looking at them for a few minutes through our binos, we noticed that there was one, very tiny baby with them. On closer inspection, we realised that this baby was still pink, covered in that wispy, newborn fluff, and barely able to walk. The rest of the herd was trying to move on, but this little one simply couldn’t get his legs to work properly yet: he kept trying to suckle, but Mum wanted to keep up with the rest, and was trying to nudge him on. It was both heartbreaking and heart-warming at the same time (as is often the case when observing elephants). 

After this first, spectacular afternoon, we rolled into camp just as the sun was setting. We were greeted by managers and other staff, and in particular, we were introduced to Hamisi, who would be our waiter (and butler, in effect) for our entire stay. This soft-spoken, kind man would turn out to be one of the most professional, brilliant staff members I have ever encountered in this industry: the staff in general were completely incredible, but he took care of us so diligently and thoughtfully, we wished we could take him with us!  

As we walked through to the main area for our initial briefing, I dropped all my bags on the floor and gasped. Running to the edge of the deck, I looked out onto that view, of the Mara River just gently curving its way around the lodge and disappearing into the distance, and I was (briefly) lost for words. I then began to squeal, a lot, much to Vera’s amusement. She looked at me in amazement, and then said something I will never forget:

“I had no idea you’d be this excited?!”

“What do you mean!” I cried. “How could anyone not be?! LOOK at this!” I gestured around us, to the Scandinavian-style wooden decks, the gorgeous, giant fire-pit, the pale canvas awnings, the candle-lit dining area, and the kind-faced waiters offering us towels and drinks. 

“I assumed this was old hat for you,” commented Vera. “You have seen all this before.”

I gave her a hug, and squeezed her tightly. “You have no idea how special this is, do you? Nothing like this could ever be ‘old hat’ for us. We are so thankful. THERE”S A WILDEBEEST THERE!” I broke away to rush to the edge again, where a group of the antelope were slowly making their way up the bank.

“Plenty more of those tomorrow, hopefully!” said Callum. 

We were shown to our rooms where there was more squealing- an outdoor shower AND bath, ohmygodohmygod- and then had a quick change for supper. I could hear Vera giggling from her room next door at my various excited noises, but the biggest one occurred when I opened up all the drawers in the elaborate architect’s desk next to the bed. There, neatly laid out, was an entire supply of paints, pencils and sketch-pads. I almost burst into tears. Immediately, I packed them into my bag for the next day, and had to resist yelling to Vera’s tent about my discovery. 

Hamisi met us in the main area and served us the most delicious dinner, while the wind blew up slightly around us, and the rain pattered down on the canvas roof above our heads in a satisfyingly cosy manner. Before he said goodnight, Eugene asked us what we’d like to do the next day. Callum glanced at the two of us, took one look at our eager faces (which were busy being stuffed with beef fillet and risotto) and made a decision:

“Eugene, we’d like to be out all day, please! No siestas for us!”

Vera grinned. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

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Dar es Salaam

Things started to feel scarily real when I bought the camouflage backpack. It was a rushed purchase- we had a few hours before our flight to Joburg and we hit Cape Union Mart like a pair of tornados. I hadn’t really given much thought to this trip- other than having that constant sense that something REALLY exciting was about to happen- because of work, and sorting out Simbira’s holiday plans. So when I looked down at the pile of stuff to be packed, and saw my binoculars, Yellow Fever certificate, and hiking boots, I got all tingly. 

I need to explain that there was one, very important reason for this adventure taking place at all, and her name is Vera. She will be embarrassed and cross that I am writing about her at all, but luckily she can’t slap me from Indiana. Callum and I met Vera while we were working at Abu, in Botswana, about 4 years ago. We would never forget her visit- we saw her fall in love with the elephants, cry when she couldn’t spend 24 hours a day with them (we practically had to drag her away); we laughed with her, drank vodka with her, and at one point Callum even threatened to shoot her if she misbehaved on a walk. She was THAT kind of guest, whom you get to know pretty well over the course of 3 days, and feel lucky to have met. Happily for us, we saw her again at Mombo the following year, and we have stayed in touch ever since. She loves wildlife more than most people I know: she plans adventures according to what animal she wants to see in the wild. So when she called Callum and said she wanted to see gorillas, and would he organise it for her, he leapt into action. Shortly afterwards, she asked him to travel with her as her guide, and shortly after THAT, she said something completely ridiculously incredible:

“We can’t leave Jemima at home while you get all the fun- can’t she come, too?”

I thought she was joking- but I should have known that she wasn’t. I have watched Callum pack his own camo backpack so many times; Simbira and I usually lie in amongst his khaki shorts and African Born Safaris shirts, gazing at him woefully while he throws everything into a bag at the last minute and heads off on safari. Getting on the plane WITH him was the greatest treat. We had to fly from Joburg to Dar es Salaam, where Vera would join us later that night. During the three hour flight, I asked Callum to run through the itinerary with me one more time. About ten minutes in, he was still describing one of the many flights we would be taking the next day. I realised this adventure wasn’t going to be a case of quickly hopping around Tanzania and Uganda: the logistics involved in this kind of trip are more complicated, which is one of the good reasons for having a private guide with you. I would discover, throughout the whole two weeks, how much of Callum’s work was actually based on getting us from A to B with minimal hassle, and Vera and I spent a lot of time in awe of how brilliantly he handled it. 

It’s difficult to describe Dar es Salaam without coming out with tired cliches. It is chaotic, noisy and thrilling. As we rumbled out of the (impossibly crowded) airport car park, I saw billboards everywhere- brightly coloured, encouraging you to visit the casino, or emblazoned with Lionel Messi’s giant (dusty) face. We hit the main road to the city where soon there was so much to look at that my eyes went funny. There were motorbikes EVERYWHERE, weaving between the various cars and mini-buses. Most of them carried three or more people, perched nonchalantly on the back or even on the handle-bars. 

“Motorbikes are like taxis here, it’s by far the easiest way of getting around,” said Callum, adding “- if you are brave enough” as somebody cut in front of our minibus on his bike, and our driver promptly shook his fist and yelled Swahili expletives. 

Men appeared at the car window every 8 seconds with bulging bags of cashews and banana chips; then somebody walked past with an armful of brooms; another was waving rugby balls in one hand and toilet rolls in the other. 

“You can do your weekly shop just from your car!” I exclaimed, as I saw a man wielding great loaves of bread in the air to passers-by. Each bus that passed us was painted a different colour, decorated with Fast and Furious posters and crammed full; the noise of their horns joining the clamour from every other vehicle on the road. This constant rushing and roaring went hand in hand with the sight of many people relaxing outside brightly coloured Cafe’s and Bars by the side of the road: some were stretched out on the ground, beer in hand, watching the chaos carry on around them. 

Eventually, we reached our hotel, where we had a few hours to settle in and have a beer, before heading back to the airport to fetch Vera. At night, the main road was less crowded, but it was a blur of lights as the buses trundled back and forth: and there were even more creative hawkers than earlier. In the Arrivals Lounge, we scribbled a welcome note to hold up for Vera, that said VODKA HERE- we thought she probably wouldn’t miss that. Sure enough, we heard a squeal from inside the luggage collection area, and suddenly, there she was. After a very excited reunion, and a couple of drinks at the bar, we set our alarms for a very early start the next morning.... we were heading to the Serengeti at dawn.

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Simbira doesn’t know she’s a dog

Sometimes, she thinks she’s an Otter. Usually when we’re at the park and there are lots of other dogs...behaving like dogs.

Occasionally, she is shut outside, becomes extremely indignant, and assumes the jumping capacity of a kangaroo. 

Sometimes, usually during the middle of one of Callum’s famously deep naps, Simbira decides to take on the characteristics of a large, doggy scarf. 

But her favourite place, without doubt, is on the sofa, where she likes watching day-time TV and having a good snooze. Just like her human. 

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Simbira V all the plants in the Pink house.

I recently visited a Garden Centre for the first time. It was, quite literally, a revelation. It was AMAZING. As I walked in and joined the throngs of pleasant, middle-aged Cape Townians pushing their trolleys through the aisles, with the faint but reassuring smell of soil in the air, I felt that I was officially entering adulthood. 

The inside section is basically wall to wall garden paraphernalia from rosy-cheeked gnomes, to little stone rabbits, to bird cages, to fake moss, to gadgets and gizmos aplenty. You could furnish your entire home, let alone your garden, with the crap they have in there. I had to exercise serious restraint. 

Then, outside, is a leafy heaven of wonderful plant-y goodness. Thank goodness I took Dani with me, because I have no idea what any plant is. Really, zero clue. We made (in hindsight perhaps not the wisest) idea to have a nice lunch and a glass of wine in the Garden Centre cafe before making any purchasing decisions. By the time I had feasted on a hearty quiche and knocked back a glass of Chardonnay, I was in such a warm and fuzzy state that I really shouldn’t have been allowed near any plants at all. 

But it was too late. I descended on the vast array of leafy, potted goodies and went, basically, bonkers. 

After choosing a ridiculous number of variously sized plants, including a selection of ADORABLE teeny cacti, Dani informed me that i needed to pick pots to put them all in. This took about 3 hours of agonising decision-making, but finally, I was ready. I had already planned how these plants were going to transform my bedroom and bathroom, and subsequently, my daily life, attitude, and the world in general.

I spent a long time placing and re-placing my pots along the skirting board under my basin. Every bathroom visit would now be enhanced by my decorative touches. Whilst basking in this plant-fuelled bliss, I didn’t stop to think about what my new puppy would make of this interior garden.

About 12 minutes after leaving the room, I heard some significant snuffling and a few crashes, and I returned to find out exactly what she thought. 

She had a cactus in her mouth and STUCK ON HER HEAD. Soil bloody everywhere. The poor little plants didn’t even see it coming. 

A few days later, we discovered that Simbira’s obsession with plant destruction extended beyond those inside the house. Outside our kitchen, there is a beautiful little pond with a fountain, that is home to our four goldfish- Fitzwilliam, Henrietta, Whoopi Goldberg and Schalk. As it is one of the main features of our very tiny garden, it’s generally immaculate. 

This was clearly too much for Simbira. Like her Mothership, it called to her. 

Oblivious, I sat inside, having recovered from the destruction of my bathroom decorations and still living in the fairytale world in which my dog is fairly well behaved. 

Naaaaat so much. 

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Simbira @ Puppy School

“Wow...you got a Cattle Dog. Good Luck!”

This was how we were greeted at Puppy School. We probably should have realised that was a potential concern. But we were (and still are, despite this and many other stories that might suggest otherwise) blissfully happy with our little bundle of grey-blue joy, so we figured, meh. Pessimists.

Ha.

After 7 years of begging, Callum had caved: I was allowed to get a dog. An Australian Cattle Dog was the only breed we actually agreed on (my multiple requests for a pug were denied vehemently) and as we already lived with a supremely loveable but extraordinarily highly strung Belgian Shepherd, we figured we were well prepared for a “highly intelligent,” “absurdly energetic” breed. When we visited the litter for the first time, we ooohed when our little angel came tumbling out of the kennel, we aaaahed when she yapped playfully at our feet - aaaand then she promptly pinned each of her brothers to the ground and marched off, leaving a pile of puppies in her wake. 

I looked at Callum, and giggled nervously. “She’s the BOSS of them all! She’s totally suited to us.”

When we introduced Simbira to Chobe, who was about 17 times her size at the time, she retreated under the table for about 5 seconds and then started nipping at his heels and jumping at his face. He was, and has been, impeccably long-suffering. Still, they became buddies almost immediately, and we sighed in relief that she seemed to be have basic social skills. Puppy School would be a doddle.

Each Saturday, we take Simbira to a primary school whose playing fields are converted into a mass haven for dogs every weekend. The puppies are corralled into an enclosure that’s divided into “Quiet Puppies” and “Boisterous Puppies Plus All Jack Russells.” There are dogs of all sizes and breeds, with owners to match. You are made to release your puppy and allow him or her to roam free within the enclosure, exploring and learning via ‘fun play’ with the other dogs. You are supposed to ignore your pup, so the enclosure is full of anxious-looking owners hovering near their animals and trying to look entirely enriched by the experience. 

At first, Simbira just sort of surveyed the situation.

Then, to my delight, a little Scottie came over to say hello.

“Oh sweet! Callum, look, she’s making friends WAIT WHAT-WHATS HAPPENING-”

She tried to eat the Scottie. Which was somewhat mortifying.

Thinking that this was probably the end of our Puppy School career, I attempted to grab my dog, who had morphed out of Tazmanian Devil mode and was now lying on her back, making what looked suspiciously like “come hither” eyes at a springer spaniel, whilst I gaped/apologised madly at the other owner. One of the instructors calmly took hold of Simbira, who was now rolling around and presenting herself in a most unlady-like fashion, and she turned to me. With a look of condescension that only dog trainers and horse-riding instructors can truly muster, the lady said:

“It’s the breed. They don’t react reasonably with other dogs.”

So we have ourselves a mildly schizophrenic animal with a mad libido and murderous rage blackouts. Super. 

Luckily WE LOVE HER. 

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It's not the end(ometriosis)

“I just found out I have a cyst on one of my ovaries.”

 Responses to this phrase, I have discovered, are often along these lines:

 “I had that.”

 “My mum and my sister had that.”

 “Only one?”

 Ovarian cysts are, as it turns out, very common. They can occur on one ovary, on both, in many forms, and can sometimes be very large. Endometriosis, which is when the cells on the lining of the uterus appear outside it, is another condition that frequently provokes a reaction of feminine solidarity. I happen to have all of the above. The reason I decided to write about this, was because of a) how extremely scary the process of finding out about the endometriosis was and b) because I know how many women have gone through it. I gave up googling the condition because it just scared the shit out of me. In actual fact, there are lots of reasons NOT to be scared.

 For years (and I mean years), I was told that the discomfort and pain in my lower abdomen were caused by an intolerance to certain food types. I woefully abandoned pasta and bread in my diet, assuming I couldn’t digest the gluten. As I walked out of the hospital after the ultrasound scan that confirmed that I had ovarian cysts, I announced to Callum that I was going home to eat the biggest f***ing bowl of pasta he had ever seen.

 I’m just going to take a second here, to remind you that I am THAT girl who was sent out of school health talks because I fainted at the first mention of a smear test, or threw up when anyone talked about invasive body examinations. When the radiologist told me what she could see on her screen, I promptly burst into tears and she ran off to fetch the doctor, leaving me powerless and horizontal on the examination table, covered in paper towels and that disturbingly warm ultrasound lubricant gel. Unable to do much else, I growled at Callum that he was not allowed to let ANYONE near me, so the doctor arrived to find an extremely emotional and protective man in a Springboks rugby jersey practically baring his teeth at the foot of my bed, ferociously defending my ovaries and my honour. The bewildered doctor was only allowed to come any closer when he put his hands in the air and swore on his life that he was only going to talk to me.

 After that, I had to get a bit braver. But only a little bit. The gynaecologist failed to hide the notes that he had received from my GP, which said, in capitals and underlined, DO NOT EXAMINE THIS GIRL, SHE WILL FREAK OUT. I spotted them on his desk and immediately relaxed. I was informed, however, after he gently prodded my stomach, that an emergency laparoscopy and cyst-draining were required. After a few hours of groggy, painful hell that I don’t really remember immediately after the operation, I was told I could go home. Having grown rather attached to my comforting IV drip and cocktail of drugs, I was extremely reluctant to leave: even after someone tried to prise me away with a wheelchair I apparently threw myself head-first back onto my hospital bed “at the speed of a greyhound” (someone else’s words), but was relieved to find myself, an hour later, wrapped in my own duvet, with a bandaged abdomen and a bowl of chicken soup. I go back in a few days for another consultation, and they will start me on treatment. I will never be ‘cured’ of the condition, and there may be more painful hell down the line.

 So why, you may ask, have I bothered to write all of this? The reason is simple. There are probably more women who have to go through this, in some way or another, than there are women who don’t, and there is huge stigma attached to it. The scariest question of all, and the most commonly asked, is, of course, this one:

 “Can you still have children?”

 Until you have been told “you might not,” you cannot know just how frightening it is. Don’t get me wrong: the diagnosis could have been much worse. I am grateful that it was not. Sure, there are worse things than being unable to conceive. But for most women, it’s a tough pill to swallow. Some girls, diagnosed with endometriosis at 18, are told simply “to have children as soon as you can.” I mean, if you are lucky, you have other things going on when you are 18. The most useful thing I have been told since I was diagnosed is that there is no rule. There is actually nothing to say that I will, or will not, be able to have children, as it affects women differently. But it has made me think twice, when I encounter women of all ages, shapes and sizes, whether they are pregnant, mothers, or neither: none of it can be taken for granted. So my resolutions for now include: eating more pasta (because I can), not worrying about what I can’t control (because I can’t), and trying not to terrify any more gynaecologists with my defense tactics. 

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What Cape Town has taught me about exercising

I am one of those people who gets out of breath running up the stairs. There are only a few occasions on which you would catch me doing such a mad thing anyway:

-       I need a wee and I’m in the brief Masterchef Australia commercial break

-       I have suddenly remembered that I have an uneaten bar of chocolate in my room upstairs

-       I can’t find my iPhone

 I am also notorious for two very incompatible traits: I am horribly competitive, but I am very bad at most games. This is not a combination that ends well. Callum and I have had to make several rules when playing against each other at anything from backgammon to tennis because of my tendency to throw things or storm off when I lose.

 Taking voluntary exercise has never been my strong point. In the bush, I routinely reclined in the pool with a beer in my hand to watch the crazy managers pounding away on the treadmill nearby. You can imagine my dismay, then, on arriving in Cape Town to find myself living in a smug community of beautiful, toned human beings who talk about ‘the Mountain’ as if it is a giant playground waiting to be climbed all over.

 Yep, Cape Townians are perpetually high on exercise endorphins. On top of this, I soon discovered that whilst my bush binge-eating habits hadn’t stopped, my daily enforced boardwalk-stomping had, as I had no rooms to check and no guests to chase after. Something drastic had to happen.

First, I tried the Tim Noakes diet. This requires you to eat ZERO         carbs, and a shitload of fat. I kid you not, one of the recipes in his book is for a ‘Fat Milkshake.’ One evening we tried to make his butter chicken. Now I love butter- in fact, I probably love it an unnatural amount- but after eating that chicken I had a hangover that was absolutely nothing to do with the wine I had had with it. I also dreamt about pasta and bread every night, and woke up drooling.

Next, I tried running. I tentatively put on a pair of trainers that I         found stuffed in a drawer in the loft, gingerly stretched my legs in a sort of half-hearted lunge, and set off at what I hoped was a brisk but not too ambitious pace down the road. Surely it couldn’t be that bad.

SCREW. THAT.

I am never running again. Literally the worst 4 minutes of my life, not to mention the 15 minutes afterwards in which my life flashed before my eyes. I have now taken to winding down my window as I drive past people who are pretending to be enjoying running, and asking them what they think they are doing, I know it’s a lie, that they are hating life, they must please go home.

Surfing seemed like a fun alternative. I now really enjoy informing people casually that I am a ‘surfer,’ and praying inside my head that they don’t suggest that we go together, as they would quickly realise that I am in fact an uncoordinated flounder-er who hovers in the breakers under the false impression that there I am less likely to be eaten by a shark.

Finally, Callum suggested that I go with him to play squash. I laughed derisively and reminded him about all of the above points, particularly the ones that point towards my total lack of coordination and cardio fitness. He ignored me. As we entered the court he started what I presumed to be his systematic warm-up of whacking the ball as hard as he could against the opposite wall, provoking me to scream bloody murder and dive into a cowering position in the corner. He just laughed and continued to make terrifying and ominous sounds with what I thought was a harmless rubber ball.

Ten minutes in, and I was completely hooked. Yes, I couldn’t move for days afterwards, and I hurt in places that I didn’t even know muscles existed, but it really is one of the best games I have ever played and by the third attempt I was able to keep running (sort of). It is also an incredible stress-reliever, and Callum has lived up to his promise and never yet hit me with either his racket or the ball.  Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for me: I have crashed into the wall several times, and the other day I hit the ball right at Callum’s head, which he took very well, considering.

I will still surf (badly), because I love it, and every and then I will forget the horror of running and attempt it again. I will get as far as the corner, a homeless man will laugh at me like last time, and I will lie in agony vowing never to be so silly in future. Squash is just a new thing to add to my list of potentially embarrassing exercise situations, but it allows me just a hint of that Cape Townian smugness, and for that I am grateful.