The No 1 Ladies Detective Agency

Catherine Nicolette
It was my first time reading one of the books about the charming Precious Ramotswe and her 97 percent secretary, Mma Makutsi.  I could almost hear the call of the African birds, smell the dust underneath the tyres of Mma Ramotswe's trusty little white van, and see the thorn trees silhouetted against the sky. There was no doubt to one who knows the area around Botswana well; the bestselling books of Alexander McCall Smith faithfully render in print the reality of the warmth and beauty that is the life of Africa. 

Why not do yourself a favour and read his lovely books?
And even more; why not enjoy the luminous acting talent of Jill Scott, Anika Noni Rose and Lucian Msamati as they bring McCall Smith's loveable characters to life in the TV series
 "The No 1 Ladies Detective Agency."

Click the following links for more information
DVD's available from
http://www.blahdvd.com/search.htm?type=GRP100000&search=the+no+1+ladies+detective+agency
Books available from 
http://www.amazon.com/Alexander-McCall-Smith/e/B001BOPZXG

*Photograph taken by Catherine Nicolette. Please feel free to use copyright free for any worthy purpose

Home at last - three cheers for the boss!

Sean lived life with originality and flair

Luky;
The morning I went to fetch my husband home after his four-week hospital ordeal was a festive one. 
Earlier on I had brought his clothes and he had been dressed since 7 o'clock, waiting for the heart specialist to discharge him. We were off by 10 o'clock. 
The nurses wanted to take him down in a wheelchair, but he wasn't having any and walked down the stairs with me.

My sister-in-law had brought him a pot of rooted yellow asters, and on the way down my husband said in a voice that brooked no argument: "You can hold the flowers while I drive the car."

The Florence Nightingales
As we drove off, a wolf whistle caused us to look up at the window of the surgical ward. The entire nursing staff stood there, laughing and waving at my husband.
"It's high time you were coming home", I said severely.

Chief keeper of the purse
Town had never looked so good to us. We stopped at the bank to cash a loan levy cheque the taxman had sent us. That cheque saved me from having to do a lot of explaining. Having been appointed chief keeper of the purse during my husband's illness, I had taken my duties somewhat too seriously and spent rather freely. The cheque restored our financial equilibrium.

Driving slowly to the suburb where we lived, we passed some parks. Whence this glorious Technicolour, I asked myself. I had forgotten grass was so green and that flowers could be so vibrantly colourful.
"Everything looks so big", my husband kept repeating, "And so lovely."

The children's garden
Even the garden did not look bad - the children had spent two days preparing it for their father's return.
"How pretty the house looks", he said, "I'd forgotten how much I love our furniture."

Our youngest daughter walked quietly behind her father wherever he went. She had been stammering terribly since he'd gone to hospital. No doubt Freud could have made a lot out of that. I got the impression that she was making very sure he couldn't escape again in a hurry.

The dogs ran around for joy. Even the cat, sitting on the garden wall, looked as if she was thinking;
"Thank goodness the old fellow is back. Now we'll have some organisation around the place again."
All in all, it was a joyous occasion. Things were so peaceful once again on the homefront that, like Rose Franken's Claudia, I thought I would be able to start having that nervous breakdown I had promised myself.

Catherine Nicolette;
We very nearly lost Dad on that occasion. The joy to have him back home was immense - we had so nearly become a one parent family. Dad was a firm favourite at the local hospital, and a legend in his time there.
His incorrigible Irish charm, twinkling brown eyes, Tramore accent and deep respect for women earned him the title of  'that lovely Irish gentleman - little Whittle's father'. I was forgiven many an accidentally broken thermometer on account of the deep affection the Matrons and Nursing Sisters had for my dad.

However, there was another side to it all. Dad enjoyed his little bit of Irish Holy Water as he called a wee drop of whisky.
He did not fancy going into the unknown of the hospital wards without a little refreshment to strengthen him and his mining colleagues who were also recuperating there. 
So Dad emptied out five or six Colgate shampoo bottles and rinsed them out thoroughly.
He then decanted emergency rations; the blue Colgate bottle held the whisky. The yellow lemon shampoo bottle held gin, the green apple shampoo container held rum. I can't remember which colour of the rainbow shampoo bottle held the soda, or what was in the others. 

Family legend has it that when Dad was admitted to the ward, the Ward Sister exclaimed,
"My, Mr Whittle. You are so clean. So many bottles of shampoo!" 
Dad, virtuously replied something to the effect of, "We do our best, Sister, we do our best", with his charming Irish smile. 
The Sister hastened to personally pack his shampoo bottles in his bedside locker, not trusting the probationer nurses with this task. 
And so Dad settled comfortably in, king of his domain in the hospital bed.

Things went a little pear-shaped however, when Dad and his colleagues were found, slightly cheerful and happy one hospital Saturday night, imbibing sundowners from the tooth glasses each had thoughtfully brought in with them. 
Dad was dispensing the whisky and soda with great cheer when the illicit potcheen bar was discovered by the Night Sister.
The shampoo bottles were confiscated with great dignity by the Night Matron. 

I believe from the stories that circled the hospital for years afterwards and which were retailed to me from time to time with gales of laughter, that Dad hung his head in shame as the Matron lectured him, her lace frill on the starched caps we used to wear nodding on her cap;
"Now, Mr. Whittle, I am most surprised at you. "
"I'm sorry, Matron, I must apologise, " Dad replied.
"And now, Mr. Whittle, I must remove these bottles, and lock them up in the safe."
"Oh, must you, Matron? Could we not keep at least one?" Dad plaintively requested.
"Certainly not, Mr Whittle. However, they will be returned to you upon your discharge from the Hospital."
"Thank you, Matron. Thank you. And once again, my humble apologies."

Upon Dad's discharge, the bottles were delivered into Mom's custody by the Matron, whose keys jangled officially from her starched apron bib as she courteously signed them over. 
We did not envy Dad. Mom ran a tight ship.

And the Night Matron? 
She absolutely adored Dad. 

As welcome as the flowers in May

Luky;
Much to the delight of my family I found myself expecting another baby at the age of thirty-six. 
It was quite an exciting feeling to be once again knitting bootees, coping with morning sickness and selecting patterns for maternity clothes. 
The thought of holding a tiny, precious little bundle of my own in my arms made me feel young all over again.
"I hope I'll have two still, so that they can be friends", I remarked to a friend.
Her vehement reaction astonished me:
"To bring up children costs money, don't you realise that?" she asked.
Well, I ought to, since I paid out a lot of money in school fees and books alone for the children at school. But, as always, God tempered the wind to the shorn lamb, and with my husband's job at the time we always managed to break even in the end.

I never went along with the theory of being unable to afford children. 
When I think of my two eldest children, I realise that if ever there were two babies whose parents couldn't afford them, these were they. 
However, their dad and I rode bikes instead of a car, we wore old clothes, and I served mealie-meal porridge for breakfast and soups and stews for lunch and supper and they flourished notwithstanding. It's nice to have children. They make you laugh.

One week during my pregnancy I had a terrific migraine, and my head felt as though an electric saw was parting it midway each time I raised it from the pillow. 
Four centuries ago the French essayist Montaigne wrote of migraine that one should treat it hospitably, since this affliction is more effectively coaxed by subservience than by impudence. 
So I stayed in bed, but the kids kept coming in to ask me things and tell me things and my head was getting worse all the time.

Looking in the mirror, I saw my face without makeup and puffy from pain, while my hair defied the laws of gravity as well as the strokes from my hairbrush, so I went back to bed, feeling not only sore but ugly, which is worse.
"This is nonsense!" my husband said angrily to my second daughter as she called in to see me for the umpteenth time. "Can't you see your mother is ill? Get out."
"I'm going to play in the garden", she retorted with dignity, "but first I'm going to kiss that pretty young girl in the bed."
My youngest son also made me laugh.
 "If you give me one of those shiny cents with a two and a nought on", he said one time, "I can get a bottle of cream soda at the tuck shop." 
Although I was as mean as Scrooge due to having to deal with the effects of inflation on the family finances, he got his twenty cents without any argument.

When I told my eldest to do her revision one day, she tore her eyes from the newspaper she was reading, and said: "Don't hassle, mom. It'll all be done in God's good time."
All right, I might have had more money if I had no children; but what would I do for laughs?
I can't deny that my children made a lot of work, were as noisy and untidy as some and noisier and untidier than most.
 All the same, our baby was as welcome as the flowers in May when she arrived, and we just took the noise and the pram in our stride.

*Photograph taken by Catherine Nicolette. Please feel free to use copyright free for any worthy purpose