I am taking a bit of a break from my every day every things. Colin is on his once-a-month sabbatical, and I took the opportunity to visit my Sons & their Girls for a few days. What are you planning to do while you are here, one son asked. I am not sure if the question had a “Oh Boy, we would have to keep her entertained while she sniffs at our housekeeping attempts” or a “Oh, Good. Maybe she can do some baking and advanced cooking while she is here” tone to it. Either way, I had neither in mind. What I wanted to do was to visit some of my old haunts from 2 years ago, when I used to go exploring. On my list was Friedman & Cohen. That is that delightful, retro-styled department store with the Tea Room (what is that supposed to be, Sons asked) overlooking the Strand esplanade. I am one of those who believe it is good, if it is in glass, so I did visit the Consol Glass shop in Stellenbosch, where I bought everything except what I needed. And I discovered that wool shop, the one I keep getting told about, but I have never actually been there.

Last night after dinner I was asked about my plans for today. My list ended with and then I need time to write my Cape Crawl. What are you writing about this week, the choir asked. Before I had time to answer, one piped: Oh, do write about that big cricket, while the next said we have not had an update on all the animals for a long time. Meanwhile, what I actually wanted to write about is all the wool I bought and what knitting projects I have in mind for this winter. Nope, choir said, that is a bad topic, because we all know what happens to your ideas.

The problem with me and knitting is this. I go to the shop. I buy wool, and plenty of it, because you never know when you may need more. I then go home, and I start my knit. I knit the way I cook, which basically means that I start off by following the recipe, or pattern in the case of a knit, and then about one tenth of the way into my creation, I decide I can do better, and from there things can go one of two ways. Either I create a masterpiece (Seriously? You made that yourself?) or it goes the other way (Oh, you have been knitting? These words are accompanied by a polite raise of the eyebrow and person gasping for appropriate niceties to say.) When I lived in Pretoria, I used to like going to a shop that was owned and managed by a lady called Dolly. Dolly (dressed in her burka) would sit in her shop 12 hours a day, 7 days a week. Dolly was a walking Penguin Yarn directory. Dolly, I want to knit a poncho, I would like it to go down to my knees, and it must be blue. With a flick of her wrist, the burka would fly behind her head, Dolly will step out from behind her counter, march you straight to a specific type of wool, look you up, down and around and pronounce her findings: You will need size 5 knitting needles, 6 balls of wool, and 100 stitches over 620 rows. I would follow her instructions to a T, and knit a blue poncho, down to my knees, and at the end of the knit, have only a small ball of wool left over, enough to sew it up.

But getting back to all the topic requests, and to explain why I diverted so much about Dolly. You see, my Cape Crawl is going to go the same way this week. It is going to start off with following the recipe: What I did on my trip, and then it is going to get hijacked by a cricket.

Tell them about the cricket, one of them said.

Youngest Son and his, Yup – she is a Fiancée now, were visiting us a few weeks back. Around midnight, and slap bang in the middle of load shedding, we woke up to quite a ruckus. At the core of this pandemonium, was a noisy cricket. We can’t sleep, it is too noisy, we were told. Now, finding a cricket in a house is like finding a needle in a haystack. There we were, the four of us. Me with a cell phone torch, Colin with a can of Doom, Fiancée directing us to where she thought she could hear the noise coming from, and youngest son crouching behind the Killing Platoon of three brave souls. Every time we moved, switched a torch on or shook the can of Doom, cricket would go deathly silent. So, the four of us, would turn into pillars of salt and wait for cricket to reveal his whereabouts. Which he finally did, when he jumped out of the linen cupboard and tried his best to make a dash for freedom. I yelled and dropped the torch. Fiancée I think we scraped off the ceiling, Youngest Son felt the best way to ambush the enemy was from the safety of a chair and Colin, in several swift movements, managed to kill the poor cricket with his Doom can. Not by spraying it, as one would imagine, but by thumping the can down hard on top of Jiminy and squashing him. Once the deceased was removed, wrapped in a wad of loo roll, and flushed away, we could all finally go to bed, only to get up 10 minutes later to switch off all the lights we tried to switch on during load shed. (if you are reading this from another place and do not know what load shedding is, ask Aunty Google. If I had to explain it to you now, I may end up writing another one hundred words over 620 sentences. At this point, I must work economically with my words, as I need to save some to tell you about the animals.)

The animals. Our Fur Children. There is Domino (our 3-legged cat), who is temporarily boarding with his cousin Truffle (that very affectionate and eager to please dog of dubious pedigree) and Oreo, (who is trying his best to be a Sea Gull-stalking mean machine, but you may recall, he is a little “chonky.”) Cats and Dogs are supposed to fight like, well, Cats & Dogs. But not these three. They are the Musketeers, and they band together to bowl over their humans with their cuteness. They play together, share treats making sure everyone gets some, they share their food (and then leave their humans wondering what upset their tummies), in fact, they even share a vet. She knows them by name. The Human Dads are even talking about taking out a Family Pet Insurance policy so they can share the cost as well! Because, you see, it gets expensive, all these Vet visits.

In short, the animals are fine.

However, not as fine as Oldest Son’s wife. She was born to love animals, but her parents were Citizens of the World, and never remained anywhere long enough to accept the responsibility of having a pet. And finally, here she is. In her own version of heaven, where the Lion and the Lamb (or in this case: Domino, Truffle and Oreo) shall lie down in the shade of a tree by still waters. (or the back seat of a car!)

I think I may knit them each a coat for winter. Good thing I found that new wool shop, after all.