I remember vividly how I clumsily picked up Ponti for the first time and placed him on my bed. Black marks were left behind. Bloody cat. I was upset that he’d smeared his colour off on my bedding. How was I supposed to know that a cat’s paint comes off? My mother would be super pissed off!
I chased Ponti from my bed and was very angry with him. I only realised years later that it must have been the black polish from my shiny church shoes and not the poor cat’s paint. I had obviously climbed onto the bed with my shoes on to chase him, so you can imagine what my bed looked like in the end.
My mom was super pissed off. Shame. Ponti eventually ran away. He was actually a stray cat, my mother consoled us.
I’ve just remembered something else: we also wore unbelievably tight white stockings to church with the shiny shoes. They were so tight around my legs that I started worrying about varicose veins at the age of four. I could see what some of the old ladies’ legs looked like: covered in little purple stripes winding their way across their calves like roads on a map. It could only have been as a result of those tight stockings.
My sister and I could read and write long before we went to school. My mother took the matter of linguistic prowess very seriously – something for which I am infinitely grateful to her.
I sailed through school and university as a result of it. (Except for grade one.)
We also had a box full of mathematical games which unfortunately did not drive me crazy with excitement. My mom, however, saw to it that our toys were stimulating: magnifying glasses, germinating beans, little stones, Kewpie dolls and tins filled with buttons.
I think I was three when we got our TV. My sister and I always sat wide-eyed in front of the TV staring at the test pattern. When the letters started rolling, we hastily packed away our toys and blocks – it was time for TV to start! We were allowed to watch Haas Das, Thunderbirds and Die Muis van Mars. Much later Dallas too, even if it was apparently meant for adults. I didn’t understand what they were saying anyway. My dad was a big fan.
My first crush was on Piet die Weermuis (Pete the Weather Mouse). I don’t know why, but I just really liked him. I even had a Piet Weermuis necklace.
My next big crush was on Wilma from Buck Rogers in the 25th Century. She always wore such cool, shiny, tight-fitting outfits. After that it was the Australian singer Olivia Newton-John. I particularly liked her legwarmers and sweatband. It’s not that I displayed any homosexual tendencies; I think every little girl falls in love with someone they hope to be one day.
But I, sadly, did not become Olivia Newton-John.
The first man I was in love with was my father. He was my prince.
My mother sometimes allowed my dad to bath us, and I remember how gentle he was with me and my sister. When he had to comb my wet hair, he never pulled it. It was unbelievably important; he never hurt me.
The next person I fell madly in love with was the American pop star Donny Osmond. I was convinced that I would marry him one day, even if he lived in America. As if that mattered! My love for him led me to believe that I was capable of anything – even if I had to swim there. I started conducting interviews in my room about my relationship with Donny, in which I attempted to speak English with an American accent. The rest of the family stood behind the closed door laughing at me. They probably thought it was cute and terribly funny. I was mortified when I found out. How could they laugh at me? Sis.
All the required things were duly done with us: My mother took us to the dentist regularly, we were read stories in the evenings and we were taught good manners. I did not wee in my panties once, as far as I can remember. When I was in grade one, my mother decided I should take piano lessons. It would teach me discipline; unearth, refine and polish my deep-seated musicality. Bring me closer to Donny Osmond …
I didn’t fall for that one, but agreed nonetheless. I stuck it out until grade seven – long after my Donny Osmond phase was as old and tired as last week’s You magazine. I progressed to grade five piano in Unisa’s practical exams. I played the violin to the level of grade three. (And no, it didn’t sound like tortured teeth-pulling.)
When adolescence struck me like a sledgehammer, I naturally didn’t want anything to do with this classical shit – it was as uncool as wearing glasses or having pimples on your forehead. My parents assured me that I would one day bitterly regret quitting, but my argument was that I could always pick it up again as an adult if I wanted to. (Last year, when the bug unexpectedly bit again, I decided: now for something similar but completely different. I now play the cello.)
I had such good manners in primary school that I once put up my hand to ask the teacher if I could sit elsewhere in class, because I didn’t want to sit next to a stupid boy.
How did I know he was stupid?
Because. He just was. It was my decision.
But I did say please, Miss …
My mother believed in the Montessori teaching method, and there weren’t many such pre-primary schools at the time. As a result I never went to pre-primary. When I entered grade one, I didn’t know any of the rhymes that the other kids had learned in pre-primary, but I could read and write. My mother didn’t force me to write like a baby, and so I could write well, but eish – my handwriting was horrible; for me there was none of this writing neatly, “soft up and hard down” with the pencil.
It was probably more of a scribble, because no one could read it. I nearly failed grade one because I didn’t know the silly pre-primary rhymes and because my handwriting looked like a drunken spider had fallen into ink and stumbled across the page.
In grade two I got my first hiding at school. I spelled “Johannesburg” with two j’s. The teacher wanted to know if I was trying to be funny, but I didn’t understand what she meant. Later that year I broke her abacus and nearly developed an ulcer about it. I didn’t want to be naughty; I wanted to do everything right. Good kids simply cruise through life more easily. Everyone could see that. Nobody likes a rude, lazy child.
In grade four, as part of some project, we had to write letters to the South African soldiers doing compulsory military service on the Angolan border, and they even wrote back. I had no idea what was happening on the border or that the guys we wrote to were on occasion shot dead or blown up. I only remember how disappointed I was because I thought the guy who wrote back to me couldn’t spell very well.
I even became deputy head girl of my primary school. How about that!
My mother was very strict with us and didn’t allow me to shave my legs or to wear nylon stockings. The boys regularly teased me about my hairy legs. It was awful. Stockings were totally the in thing when I was in grade seven. You were really ultra cool if you wore stockings. I remember writing a letter to my mother in which I begged her for a pair, but she wouldn’t have any of it.
Early ripe, early rotten, was her opinion. So there was no hope for me, I thought.
But all was not lost. One Saturday afternoon in grade seven I was sitting in the bath. My sister, who was already in high school by then, flew into the bathroom and lobbed me a razor before rushing off again.
Thanks, I thought – but what the fuck now? I was very excited but didn’t have any idea what to do next. How do you shave your legs? Oh well, how difficult could it be?
I simply shaved everything off, including half my skin. I looked like a road accident. But I was ecstatically happy. The boys wouldn’t tease me anymore. I was finally more than just a prissy nerd; I was a prissy nerd with smooth legs. And shaving cuts.
There were at least one or two boys in primary school who liked me. In grade seven I took part in the school operetta and fell in love with Tickey the Clown. He became my boyfriend and sent me a small satin heart via Mienkie, the school slut.