6th. On a lovely early spring day a whole bunch of good women met at Ohana’s in Kalk Bay for brunch to celebrate Julia’s 60th. Lovely gathering.
11th Pub Quiz at the Friday evening Food Market at The Range this evening. The Hanging Out Whenever whatsapp Group fielded eleven players and as teams were limited to a 4 – 6 member range, we split into two teams. The far end of the table Team of 5 opted for the team name “Hanging Out” while this end of the table chose “Hanging On”!
There is a great range of international food available at the food market so we all loaded up on everything from Thai to mexicn to Indian or Chinese! and of cource a bottle of wine (or three)
It was a really fun evening with both groups takeing prizes. The “Hanging out’s” came proudly last!
sadly two of their number missed out on the presentation of toilet rolls as the Quiz Master pronounced their general knowledge to be “truely shit!”
Dada! And the “Hanging On’s” came a respectable 2nd.
and left the stage with a cerificate and nice little goodie bags
16th. Juli-Jana, Peter and I went o the Obz bookshop this evening to the Open Mic poetry session. This is the peom I read:-
MISTAKEN IDENTITY
“I had you as a wine grower”, I said.
Had your surname mixed up some
And had you cast as Huguenot stock
Puzzeled over it, all the way home.
and then the penny dropped.
It was your poetry of course.
By turns a Rioja from north-east Spain
Red in tooth and claw, robust and uncompromising.
Just as suddenly a light and playful Pinot noir.
Or betimes a serious Chardonay, redolent of oak.
Each strong of character in its own lights,
Confident in what it means to say
And saying what it means.
Sometimes a sensual, spicy shirah
Insinuates itself upon my ears and at others
A Sauvignon-Blanc, all cut grass and summer sun.
Perfectly crafted with carefully chosen words
Pruned of excess, pared down to the essence
Delivered mature and with good legs.
Maybe I was not so wrong in the end
Good poetry and fine wine, a perfect blend.
Sandy Wetton
Cape Town, evening of 19th August, 2026 following Red Wheelbarrow open mic at Obz Bookshop and dedicated to Jacques Coetzee
30th. A large flock of Flamingos flew over the vlei this morning while Zara and I were walking there. To high and too fast for a photo.
In the evening it was poetry at the Tokai Library I read a poem about Post was childhood
POST WAR PLAY TIME
Chased out after breakfast to “go out and play,
and don’t come back till the end of the day.”
Built dens in the forest, just two trees deep,
an urban jungle turned castle keep.
Took off our cloths and swam in a tank
of industrial waste water, toxic and rank.
Sniggered with joy at the boys shrunken willies,
Cold, smelly and poor, innocent and silly.
Climb fire escape ladders to the tram depot roof,
On the top, sit legs dangling, feeling aloof
with our view from the top.
Quite unaware of the perilous drop.
Drop down to the bomb site, uncleared and forbidden
to scavenge for treasures hidden
metallic, rusty death, at the pull of a pin.
Entrap feral kittens we want to take in,
stuff them in our pockets and hurry them home.
“Can we keep them Mum for they’re all alone.”
Sent off again with a flee in your ear
and a “don’t come back again, you hear.”
And a bucket in hand to steal coal from the tracks
in the shunting yard, “so watch your backs.”
But it’s back to the tank for tiddlers and water
And back to the bombsite to collect our treasure.
Scrump apples and rhubarb, green and tummy churning.
Not much food at home with Dad’s not returning.
And back to the den to inspect our haul,
and eat the green apples, core and all.
Saunter slowly home as the sun sinks,
with near dead fish in a bucket that stinks.
Suspect bits of metal but no coal for the fire,
fully expecting our mother’s ire.
It’s not she but an “Uncle” that opens the door,
takes the bucket, smiles, and what’s more,
gives us all pennies to spend at the shop
So we’re off to buy Kaylie and lollypop.
Sandy Wetton Cape Town, September 2026
Then, in a protest against Gender Based Violence, and in recognition of the 11 horrific murders of women in a small area of Johanesburg, I read this one:-
SHE – written to commemorate Women’s Day, South Africa August 2004
You said, “We meet next, here, on women’s Day
and it would be good if you could say
something appropriate about womanhood”.
That it would be celebratory was understood.
So I cast about recent history,
Mother Theresa, Fry, Currie?
Those rare stars of a glittering constellation
in a Universe of male domination.
Whose accolades informed by their achievement
would have been earned regardless of their gender,
and don’t address the real predicament
of this half of the human race.
In Africa the broad acacia spreads
its boughs and offers shade
to men who puff, ponder and pontificate
on the coming rains and affairs of State.
While mishimannies mind the goats,
small girls hoist hip high their siblings
or head handle pails and walk, and walk for water.
These nearly women early learn to shoulder
the heavy yoke of servitude.
With childhood too soon spent
school books discarded and backs bent
instead to brooms and cooking fires.
Their own fires quickly quenched by
numerous birthings and crippling poverty.
In villages across the continent, out in the lands,
the stuff of life is formed by female hands
in the unremitting monotony of daily tasks
and little or no acknowledgement that She,
IS the mother of all humanity, and
half of the human race.
Across the world in India’s Bangalore
and significantly, not just among the poor,
the kerosene fired end of dowry wives
means few leave the serious burn unit alive.
And though the system long ago was banned
there are few brave enough to take a stand,
cancel their wedding, as Neesha Sharma did,
faced by her future husband’s endless greed.
Sex determination tests are prescribed
but private abortion clinics advertise
“Spend five hundred rupees now
and save five hundred thousand later.”
So there’s increased female foetuside
saving parents the cost of a future bride.
Birth defects in boy babies multiply
with anti-natal gender drug supply.
The gender ratio is dangerously skewed
by the desire to have sons that’s ensued.
There isn’t an NGO in sight
that champions these women’s plight
though it is clearly an issue of civil rights
no single organisation fights
for this cause. And Government,
verges on the ambivalent
in the face of huge corruption, and
this diminishing half of the human race.
The South Korea “wife training school”
is not derided as a shameless tool
to subjugate, control and mold.
Although its students are firmly told
to take care not to irritate,
as husbands will not tolerate
being told what to do
or the click and clack of a noisy shoe.
The success of your marriage requires that you
are the silent half of the human race.
In Saudi, black tents of Bedouin
are mirrored by their women, in miniature,
as they shuffle, soundlessly behind their men.
Where quietude will not suffice
invisibility’s imposed.
They may not leave the home
without a male familiar chaperone.
They may not drive and only can survive
as daughters or as wives.
The veil hides more than the face
of this hidden half of the human race.
From violence and rape to the glass ceiling
the litany of oppression is never ending.
Through conscious application or neglect
women are stripped of their self-respect.
I see no end, no meaningful conclusion,
no recognition of the need for conflict resolution.
Even with women’s rights enshrined in the constitution
equality’s a concept that defies legislation.
Token appointees are enlisted, to fill the National quota,
and re-enforce the status quo of a masculine agenda.
So answer me this, before you bid me “write”
a paean, celebratory and light.
What the significance of this day of grace?
For this patient half of the human race?
Sandy Wetton Cape Town, August 2004
We did the reading in the library itself instead of in the room we usually hire because they had given Ed the wrong keys. It was nice because with all those books the accoustics were so much softer.
