Ashleigh Gurney was my first best friend. She was fun and tomboyish, blonde, ballsy and she had MNET at her house. We sat next to each other at school, were the first ones on each other’s birthday party lists and stood next to each other when the cake was cut. In the summer of 1988, we found each other on the beach in Margate. It wasn’t planned although the chances of running into someone you knew were always high as all the ‘vaalies’ migrated up the coast for sea-time extravaganzas but nonetheless, I like to think that our synchronistic psyches somehow orchestrated the holiday meet-up.
I was wearing my favourite costume, a ballad to the eighties – white with luminous yellow straps and brightly coloured geometric shapes printed all over it – when I spotted my bestie on the sea shore. We ditched our brothers and ran into the sea holding hands—laughing and spluttering water in unison as gurgling waves joyously smashed us head first into the sand.
We sealed our friendship in Margate with a pair of conch shells that my dad risked life and limb to retrieve from the underside of a rock at high tide. The waves exploded towards slab and shore as Octo-dad clung to the jagged side like a human barnacle, adeptly extracting the shells; his long hair clasped to his face and beard as he returned with the treasure, a Herculean hero (with a perm—a holiday filled with ballads) in the eyes of his daughter and her friend. The conches were beautiful; as large as my dad’s hand—one swirled pink and the other bled a softer shade of brown. I wanted the pink one but allowed my friend to have it. I’d have given Ashleigh my last Rolo, too.
The one thing I wouldn’t do for Ashleigh, though, is eat porridge. Gross. Upon being dished it for breakfast one morning back home in Joburg (perhaps a particularly disgusting version thereof—it must’ve been mielie meal blegh, the worst) I declared that I would not eat it. The rule in my house was that we would sit at the table until we had finished our food—neither my mom nor my dad would tolerate waste or ingratitude. But my mom knew I didn’t like porridge. No problem—I’d just remind her.
On this particular day, however, Ashleigh was coming over to play and my mom was due to fetch her. Naturally I was supposed to go for the ride to Morninghill, just past Eastgate, to fetch my friend but I had still not finished my porridge when the time came to leave. My mom’s conundrum: let me off the hook OR leave me at home with Winicia and my porridge, and let Ashleigh sit awkwardly in the car with no friend. My mom chose the latter. I was cross. Poor Ashleigh. But there was no way I was going to eat the foul porridge that had been festering in front of me for two hours. Not happening. So, my mom left to fetch my friend. One might think that I’d have got up to stretch my legs, have a little walk around and maybe even dispose of the porridge in some clever way—a nearby bush or in some hidden garden hole. That’s what my brothers would have done. But no. I sat. And waited—staring at my face in the reflection of the glass table, counting the books on the shelf behind me and imagining creatures in the marks on the planks of the wooden floor.
My mom returned with Ashleigh.
Further conundrum: leave me at the table and let Ashleigh play by herself OR let me off the hook. She chose the latter. My victory was sweeter than you can imagine.
The thing is, when you’ve been a chop, Life has a way of biting back (right on the ass!)—it may not happen right away, in fact, it may take years and years but genetic karma is coming for you if it hasn’t already. Mine came in the form of a 4-year-old boy who refused to eat a piece of roasted courgette…for five and a half hours. This is no lie. My son Jackson placed the vegetable into his mouth at 2pm whilst sitting for lunch at the Barbican in London, and there it stayed (my children aren’t allowed to waste food either—don’t care how squishy) until 7:30pm when we arrived home and it was time to brush teeth. Sure, he hadn’t opened his mouth to fight with his sisters for an entire afternoon but the damned courgette—there it was in his cheek…soggy and disgusting and not swallowed. He spat it out.
Now tell me, whose victory was sweeter this time?
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.
