Back in the 90s…
Kate’s house was a big double story—more recent in architectural style than ours. A big cream oblong box interspersed with neat square windows and a triangular roof—much like the idyllic house a small child might draw, although there was no symmetrically paved, carnation lined garden path leading up to Kate’s front door, just lawn; lush and green in summer, dry and beige in winter. Not that we’d have used a path anyway.
I’d sneak into her garden by climbing over the low stone wall that separated our houses, then, using the Jasmine bush that flourished against the front of her house as a physical shield (also fully believing that the intoxicating smell of this magical plant masked the smell of the “nextdoors”, like some sort of olfactory invisibility superpower); I’d peer into the lounge window, my eyes barely making it to the glass, to catch a glimpse of my pal. If Kate could not be spotted, I’d scoot around the side and spy into the kitchen and dining room. I mean, why just knock on the door when ‘walking to the neighbours’ could be turned into a game of espionage?
We were scared of Kate’s dad—part of the espionage was to avoid Graham as much as spot Kate. He was usually in his bedroom and always grumpy. That’s right—he was that guy; always complaining about the fun being had. Like the night that Kate and I set off her house alarm after sneaking downstairs for a midnight feast (my instigation for sure) and fled into the toilet waiting in terror as the siren blasted through home and head. I mean, sheesh—it’s not like we were burglars or anything. If Graham was spotted in the lounge or kitchen (a rarity) upon our spy-capades we’d scarper but sometimes his presence was unavoidable and sometimes (and I mean this in the most literal sense of the word) he’d be in a good mood—he taught us to play chess, for example, and he had a beautiful book on birds, which he was happy to share with us when we visited and he made an elusive appearance downstairs. But back to scary-dad: it was the noise thing that bugged Graham and, problematically, his bedroom window on the second floor of the double story faced into our back garden. It was an unfortunate situation.
The three nextdoors were loud (mostly my younger brother Christopher) – in glee or in war – and when Kate’s dad had one day had enough of our clamour, opening his window and shouting down at us to keep quiet, Chrisie, in a burst of fury, told him to “go and jump in the lake”; the absolute worst, most insulting insult that was known to us. We were in bi-i-ig trouble. And when I say “told” I really mean shrieked—sort of like a banshee but maybe not as high pitched, definitely forceful. Definitely scary. Definitely Christopher.
That was it. Now we could never ever go to Patty’s house again. And she had white bread. It was a travesty. But, of course, we did go back…
For more sleep overs and playing…so much playing—hop scotch on the pavement, hide-and-seek and dress-up with Patty’s actual clothes (this was, like, a monumental treat—there was this one blackish, greenish, purplish skirt that had total badass princess vibes), Super Mario on Kate’s Nintendo and endless games of Barbies; Barbies galore. Kate had Hawaiian Barbie (crimped hair, lumo bikini—total babe) and I had Party Pink, with a diamond ring and earrings, a silver belt, Madonna-pink-lace stockings circa ‘88, a fur shawl thing and some sort of cape that could be used as a skirt, top or bridal veil (at least, in our games). These gal pals spoke American (“Hey Caitlyn, you wanna go to the parrrdeee?”) and spent their days eating, shopping, trying on dresses and hosting extravaganzas. They were also trapped in some very steamy romances with Ken.
It was a good life at Kate’s house.
Author & Storyteller: Andrea Zanin
Andrea is a writer, wife, mother and dreamer; also the author of this website. She moved to London in 2006 to earn £s, travel, see bands and buy 24-up Dr Martens—which she did, and then ended up staying. Andrea lives in North London with her husband (also a Saffa) and five children. She loves this grand old city but misses her home and wishes her children could say “lekker” (like a South African) and knew what a “khoki” is.
