“The news seems especially grim this week. Liam Neeson’s wife, then Jade. Yesterday I got a text from Shirley. It said her dad and his wife, June were murdered”

We had scarcely got through “Happy mothers day!” before arriving at murder.

For years we’d all be listening to the violence and crime getting worse in South Africa, but it started to get unnerving when it began to creep closer and closer to suburbia.

“the number of hijackings is still on the rise” one day turned into “Daddy got hijacked but he’s okay”.

When neighbourhood teens started getting mugged, we thought things were terrible. Then truly horrific stories started to happen ever so slightly closer to home. I remember when an 80 year old was raped in the middle of the afternoon after two men broke into her home. When they were done they killed her and made off with the telly. It happened a few roads down from where we lived. It was considered a safe and decent area. Great for raising children in.

The chain-links in the retelling of stories grew gradually fewer. The threads of people connected to a very unfortunate victim of South African crime grew shorter. The places these horrible things happened  turned out to be your very doorstep.

Earlier this year Margi’s brother in law was shot and died in his front garden.

That’s a lot scarier than “my dad works with this guy whose wife’s ex-husband’s mother…”

Apparently Shirley’s dad had the drains and a few other things around the house seen to last week- so they think it was probably a person from one of those companies coming back to rob them blind. 

When I asked how they were murdered, I expected a shooting.

“Scissors” my mother said. My mind leaped to my own kitchen scissors- all three pairs of them are a bit blunt.

“Yes. From what they saw, there was bloody trail that carried through the whole house.” June’s effort to stay alive was described as “valiant”.

The article passed to me today said: Shering (June’s son) said he recognised the scissors which were found next to his mother’s body: ‘It’s an old pair of scissors which I’ve known since I was a small boy because they belonged to my grandmother.’

I feel sick when I think about the family and friends I have still living there. Sure, nasty things happen all over the world, but just not as regularly as they do in South Africa. Not with scissors and not for mobile phones or TVs.

Last week I read The Shining.

Until then (of Stephen King’s work) I’d I’ve only ever read Dolores Claiborne and Black House before. And I think I can say I prefer King without Straub.

I adore horror. It feels shameful to admit it; there’s the awful stigma attached to it. Low budget dross, ample unforeseen fucking and cheap scares, normally. The mid to late 80s really did a number on the genre.

I loved that The Shining was very different from the film though. Stephen King’s writing is far more compelling than it is scary, I think. It’s unnerving though; apparently Kubrick’s Shining was too different for King’s liking. From that point on he wanted to make sure films were true to their respective books. Do you remember the Tommyknockers? Fuck me. The Shining (and maybe Carrie) were his only decent horror films. (let’s leave Shawshank and Tom Hanks out of this one).

So wanting more, but still remembering the awful stink of his movies, I’ve started Cujo now too (I didn’t watch that). And I’m so far loving it despite all of the characters still being alive.

On Thursday I even downloaded the unabridged Salem’s Lot audio book; it’s the best thing to have on while I paint.

Yesterday I listened to a five part documentary about him on You Tube. My skin was crawling with goosebumps as I learned how he turned his life around. At a time when TV and magazines are awash with malnourished fools gaining adoration and fame for fucking and sharing their famous daddy’s surname, King’s is a story I far prefer.

You know; one about really hard work.

Is definitely going to trip me up mentally.

Today I posted my application for Indefinite Leave To Remain. I hate posting any package that contains my passport, especially when there are time constraints and ample room for human error involved.

Tomorrow I should be receiving a shipment of 8 – 12 boxes from my former life. Together, my mother and I can’t recall what we possibly filled those boxes with and we both groan and make horrible throat noises when we try to remember. They were packed hastily; we had three weeks’ notice before we had to empty our home. She was jumping on the opportunity to head to England, paving the way for a much brighter future for both of us.

I completed high school and joined her after 11 months of home-hopping. I lived with the hostel, Jane, Lyndall, Kelly, Paul and (apparently) Lindsay. The news about living with Lindsay is especially frightening as I have absolutely no recollection of it; rather unimpressive for what is meant to be the most hauntingly awkward year of my life.

I remember the day my air-headed friend’s fat and opinionated mother asked the back seat of her car “and what do you think of all this, Candice?” referring to my mother leaving ahead of me. They were giving me a lift home sometime in April 2003 and were not very subtly commenting on circumstances they had no understanding of. It was incredibly frustrating because any attempt at expressing just how desperate I was to get out of the country left people feeling like I was snubbing something they accepted, even liked, about their own lives and futures. Because I suppose I was.

My standard-issue response was “I want to experience a first-world country”.

They loved that one.

I shudder to think what my barely 17 year old brain thought would be worthy of packing and shipping all the way to England. I imagine opening the boxes only to burn or donate most the contents; perhaps leaving me with a small collection of sake bowls and a broken bakelite telephone.

I’m not looking forward to the mental transportation. I don’t think it will be as upsetting as it will be pathetic. The things I loved the most were my cats and we obviously had to find them new homes; which bumped a small collection of Calvin and Hobbes books and a pot plant I named Walt to my list of most treasured items. What a fucking loser.

I don’t know what to do with my most poignant past-meets-future week; indeed I’m still on the road to receiving my little maroon passport, bypassing uni and accidentally falling into what I regard as the stepping stones towards a very emotionally rewarding career- but I’m still way past that horrible last year in South Africa.

I reckon I’ll probably just plod on. Go to gym; play with my cat; watch my matchbox garden grow.

Mint. (I’m totally rocking two thumbs-up right now)

They won’t stop talking about laptops and Macs vs PCs and specs and monitors and bootcamp and build-in this and standalone that and the fucking “shake thing”. And spec spec spec.

I’d rather go back to listening to them chastise fat women and talk about sub-standard vaginas.

Come on!