first memory is of my sister being pissed off with me.
I played with her sewing machine. It was a Fisher-Price toy, of quite good quality actually. It wasn’t every day that I had the chance to play with her stuff, but for some reason or the other that day I did. I must have been very small still, because I fitted into the pull-out drawer under her bed; I can remember I was still in nappies, because my bum was padded, or perhaps I was just fat!
I had scarcely lost myself in my own lovely sewing-machine world when an odd little creature with a mop of dark curls stormed into the room. Okay, I admit it, it was her room after all. She was probably about three or four years old, because the little body was still typically babyish: round tummy, round cheeks and short stomping movements. I can’t recall what she said at all, because I could not yet understand or speak Afrikaans. But it must have sounded and looked awfully angry to leave such an impression. Her tiny fists were balled and her fat little arms were swinging around fiercely like a windmill.
One short, chubby little leg had the jitters – like Elvis Presley in his early years. I didn’t have a clue what was going on, and she was certainly not singing Heartbreak Hotel, but I can well remember that the intensity of her reaction totally fascinated me.
It was my first meeting with rage. Wow, how interesting …
When I was a bit older, I would usually sneak into my parents’ room early in the morning to jump on the bed, shouting that I was the Pink Panther. Then, after my dad had left for work, we helped my mom make the beds and fetch the milk and orange juice at the front door. In those days the dairy still had a cart that left your order at the gate before sunrise – and no one stole it.
My mother’s dressing gown was maroon, and all the pockets were full of crumpled tissues. She must have had a really runny nose. In the late morning, we listened to Siembamba on the radio. Tannie Susan and Otterjasie were daily highlights. My sister and I were even studio guests on the programme once. I told all the friends about the Mac Mac Falls and the Bridal Veil, and then sang Koljander-koljander. It was my first public performance.
I remember already having a word for orgasm at the age of three. It was so gruesome that I don’t even want to repeat it here. No, really – but it’s a lot like the French term, little death.
Little death? I still haven’t a clue where I got it from. How I came to associate my orgasms with a sort of dying, God only knows. Did it perhaps surface from the collective unconscious? A previous life of which I was unconsciously conscious? Who knows?
I think my sister and I both had a strong connection to that collective reservoir from childhood. One morning she calmly announced, “Oumie’s dead.” When the telephone rang in the late morning, that was precisely the news conveyed to my mom.
My sister’s explanation? She dreamt it.
We moved house a lot before I went to school. At one stage we had a house with a large backyard; there was a huge hill and we used to roll down it. It was also there that I got my first cat. A black one. His name was Ponti, named after Carlo Ponti, husband of the stylish Italian actress Sophia Loren.
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
