what the hell do you think you're doing?

For those not in the know, it’s cycling season in Cape Town. Enemy number one when cycling is the wind. In Cape Town they call it the Black South Easter and when they say black they don’t mean black as in LBD or Black Eyed Peas. No. They mean black as in the depths of hell, black as in the exorcist, black as in viciously hateful. This wind is not to be trifled with.  You may ride like a domestique stallion when there is no wind, but trust me, the gale force South Easter will reduce you to a piece of snivelling overstretched lycra.

When there is no wind, however, enemy number two is of course the traffic. Now just to clarify for those who live outside of crusty old SA, South African’s have what’s called The Second Grader’s Approach when it comes to driving. In other words: they do it, so I will too.  We’re a curious collection of people who continually discuss crime levels in the country yet are quite comfortable with exceeding the speed limit whilst talking on our cell phones in the traffic.  Go figure.

Most South African’s see a speed limit sign and imagine that they also see small print that says “Not You, Just Everyone Behind You”.  Solid white lines – for the same drivers who are able to read the small print on the speed limit signs – actually imply “Go ahead, Overtake on Me”.  And finally, if any South African driver has to slow down – or heaven forbid, brake - for a cyclist, they form a support group and write a book, which I believe is titled “A Cyclist Ruined My Life”. 

Which brings me enemy number three and why I found myself seeking out an isolated route where there are no psycho drivers. I was cruising along just fine, making small talk with some hitch-hiking mama’s who were sharing my side of the road, and gearing down to start climbing in earnest when I felt someone’s hand fiddling around in the back pocked of my cycling vest.  I think that it might be the mama’s warning me about a snake in the road, or needing the time or something.  The pocket fiddling gets a bit more insistent and by this stage I’ve been pulled off balance and am now at a complete standstill. 

I turn around to face a young man. We just stand there staring at each other for a moment.  It takes another moment for me to realize that he is not in fact flicking off a rogue grasshopper from my shirt.  He’s trying to rob me. 

I trawl the folds of my brain to find some useful anti-robbing information. Firstly, I recall reading that if think you are being attacked, you must make a really loud noise. I yell as loudly as I can “What the [profanity] do you think you’re doing???!?!?” This is rhetoric of course. I notice that my voice no longer belongs to me. It has been taken over by some demonic Balrog.   

Secondly, I remember that you should put up a good fight. You know, make it really hard for them. They don’t want a thrasher. I consider screaming at him “I’m a 3^rd Dan, Black belt Karate” but am concerned that in the confusion he might think I’m actually saying, “take my hand let’s party.”

What ensues is us playing a game of intimidation tag.  I scream at him, vowing all kinds of evil actions on him and his family. He screams at me, coming at me like a, um, robber.  A fierce one. I scream back at him, bluffing that I am actually able to fight and telling him to come closer (closer??!?! WTF?) so that I can give him a belting (I think my cleats may have given me some kind of Dutch courage, I realize that now.) 

Our unholy yelling and profanities have drawn enough attention for people to start coming out to see what all the hoo-ha is all about. Thank the pope, this makes him run back into the blasted bushes from whence he came.

Of course, there’s nothing like a bit of unhealthy introspection to really turn you into a basket case, so here’s why I’m peeved.

Firstly and mostly I am freaked out that I am the kind of frightening sight that I have the ability to chase off a drugged up robber. Am I that Amazonian? Must be how I look in cycling shorts.

Secondly.  Clearly, I’m built for fight not flight. This is very disappointing news.

Thirdly, I’ve had to change the playlist on my iPod to mostly serious rap and hard-core hip-hop.  The un-edited, lots of swearing, 8 Mile kind of stuff that gets you all agro.

Lastly.  It really is very uncomfortable riding in karate clothes.

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hang ten...

I have a buddy who took up surfing a while ago.  She kept telling that I’d have to join her for a session because she was sure I’d love it.  I find it encouraging, really, that people should invite me to do sporty things with them.  It must mean that they think I have that sporting potential. The other possibility, of course, is that they’re secretly filming me for YouTube (e.g. woman makes idiot of herself on bicycle)

I decide to join her.  She assures me that paying R100 for the lesson, rental of surfboard and wetsuit is a good deal.  I can’t help but feel that they should in fact be paying me to get into the arctic water, but decide that being hardcore, grungy, surfer dudes, they won’t see my point.  Alarm bells go off when I spot the rental wetsuits.  Red with yellow sleeves.  Anyone who has any respect for anyone, should know that when performing any kind of sports activity - especially when it involves tight clothing and water - the accompanying kit should be nothing other than black.  I’m absolutely certain they won’t have a suit to fit me but they tell me that the tighter the better when it comes to wetsuits. Riiiight.

By the time we reach the changing rooms I’m seriously edgy. I’m going to have to get my buddy to hold the wetsuit open while I clamber up to the top of the changing booth.  Pin-dropping into the blasted thing is the only way around it.  I finally get my gear on and after not too long feel pressure around the top of my shoulders, as if a heavy toddler is sitting on them.  I realize that it’s the shoulder part of the wetsuit that wants to move closer to the body part again.  I can barely lift my arms to my sides and wonder how in heaven’s name I'll be able to paddle.

I’m as ready as I’ll ever be to face the people in the surf-shop and notice that as I walk, I hear a sandpapering sound.  Ah, I think, they’re doing maintenance on the building somewhere.  It’s very curios though, because the sandpapering sound is only there when I walk, and it stops when I stop.  Are the sandpapering men stopping to stare when I stop walking? No. It is in fact my thighs that are rubbing together and short of walking like a cowboy (even more conspicuous) I realize that I’m just going to have to talk loudly or whistle to distract people from the  sandpapering noise.

Navigating a long board in the Muizenberg wind is nothing short of dangerous - I see people scatter as I am allocated my board.  I notice that it doesn’t look anything like a pro surfer’s, which is a little disappointing. After dislocating my shoulder and decapitating a few passers by, we get to the beach.  

Here the drill starts with how you have to go from lying prone, to jumping (jumping?) up onto your knees first, and then from your knees, jump up (from your knees?) up onto the board into standing position. Mmm. We practice.  Stroke one, stroke two into the imaginary wave and then jump one, jump two and we’re up. Seems easy enough, on land of course.

We hit the surf.  To me it looks nothing like pipeline, which is a good thing, because I’m not really a pipeline pro after all, now am I.  It’s Iguaçu in flood, with one wave doubling up on the next.  I barely notice the frigid water, so occupied am I with staying on my board.  The instructor has cottoned on to the fact that I’m cheating. Apparently you’re not supposed to grip the board with your instep and big toes. Understandably really, considering the cramp that I now have in both feet. 

My heart is in my lungs and my lungs are in my throat and just as I feel my soul leaving my body and moving toward the white light, we hit the back line.  I’m out of breath and glad that I left my dignity back in the change room or else it would have drowned for sure in the ocean, never to be recovered.

A new wave (excuse the pun) of panic hits me has I hear the instructor yell at me “OK, your wave! Quick, paddle one, two”. I want to scream back “Are you completely [insert profanity] insane??!?!” but instead, I pull off a very convincing hippie-surfer comment... “hey man, I’m gonna like chill for a bit on the back line and enjoy just being out here, like”.

I eventually catch a wave (on my knees) and then a few more (on my stomach) and by the end I'm so wiped out that I don’t know which way's up, down, front, or back.  The highlight?  My mate saying to me “er, I think your board’s the wrong way dude”. And now I have to go to that beach in disguise.

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yup, i'm about done here

I’m sure my faithful followers have been rocking in the foetal position because they’re in agony over missing my weekly blog.  Sometimes a sabbatical is necessary, especially if a would-be funny writer has neither found anything funny, or has been unwilling to make up anything funny.  School holidays will do that to you. That’s the real truth why JK Rowling wrote most of the Harry Potter books in coffee shops, bus-stops, tubes and such – she couldn’t get any dang work done at home.

A good friend of mine called me yesterday and said, “Oh God (used as exclamation, not calling me names), I thought of you yesterday (I get that a lot…), wait till I tell you what Peter * did yesterday”. (*name has been changed to protect the perpetrator).

She went on to tell me how Peter and his friend were playing quietly.  Now just to explain, Peter’s mother confessed to me recently that she thought my sons were outright badly behaved.  That was, of course, until she had a son of her own.  I took it as good news actually, because up until then I thought her daughter was abnormally well behaved, and I suspected that she might be doping her.  You know, using Pethadine, Dormicum, Ecstacy or everything all at once to get her to sit still and be so dog-gone bloody polite.

OK, so back to it. Poor mother – not being the veteran mom of 2 sons - didn’t realize that 2 minutes of silence is a fiercely dangerous sign.  When she finally got her sheesh together and checked on them, she discovered they’d made a smorgasbord of an unholy mess with the medicine cabinet.

The blessing was – if you can call it that – was that they hadn’t decided to chug on any of the contents. Perhaps in retrospect if they had, the mayhem would have ended sooner. Apparently, the rules of the game were pour the contents of a lifetimes worth of drugs (syrup of course, pills are plain tiddlywinks) in a big puddle on the floor. Perhaps there was tribal chanting involved, who knows, but upon closer inspection she also discovered a large amount of Vicks (vapour rub) smeared generously over the furniture.  The wood must have looked a bit sickly, thus the eucalyptus massage. Very thoughtful.

She told me that she was sure the best retribution was an unholy thrashing – to equal the unholy mess. I tried to remind her that unholy wackings or not, boys will be messy, destructive boys and that one only needs to look at most male sports to see that males actually don’t mind a good thrashing. What would be a more effective punishment? Make the little bugger knit.

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i babysit too...

I’m starting to wonder if I’m one of those people that look incredibly gullible.  Perhaps, I have “Pick on me – I’m a sucker” tattooed in indelible ink on my forehead, visible only to con men and the likes.  Perhaps, on the other hand, I just look like a desperate mother (but all the time???!!!) that wants to get rid of her kids.

After I’ve taken Rainman and Too-fast-too-furious surfing, we have to stop and have snacks and hot chocolates to the value of a small holiday home. It’s a great little joint which has recently acquired a new waitress.  Now just to clarify, I have nothing against waitresses.  I too have waitressed.  Also, I have nothing against tattoos. I too have some. Same goes for piercings.

We pull up a perch. The new waitress comes over.  She launches right in.  ‘So, what do people do with their kids over New Year?’  Ah, I think to myself, she’s looking at me thinking “whoa, what a party animal, I'll bet she really wants to cut loose on New Year.’  Then I reconsider, having just remembered that I don’t look like a party animal at all.  I just look like a mother.  Mmm, perhaps she’s just making polite conversation (a.k.a I’d like a big fat tip for being chatty). 

‘Oh’, I say, ‘since we've had kids we kind of hang at home, have one or two beers, shoot the breeze, maybe cut some rug on the kitchen dance-floor’.  ‘Well’, she says, ‘I’m kind of over the whole drink-till-you-fall-down thing and thought I’d offer babysitting at my house for parents who’d like to go out and party.’ I nearly blurt out, “you have a house and not a caravan?” but catch myself just in time.

I’m trying to hide my “are-you-effing-insane  face” and am fighting the urge to say, ‘Ja, for sure and totally man.  I’m definitely going to leave my kid on New Years Eve with a broke, tattooed waitress, whom I hasten to add, is also a stranger. Not only that, but I’m gonna tell my mates to do it too, you bleeding eejit!’

Instead I say, ‘the tricky part might be when the intoxicated parents have to come and pick up their kids and see them to bed.  I don’t think Goodfellows are game for that kind of thing.’  I consider suggesting that it might, in fact, be more lucrative if she ran  “hangover sitting” for the morning after, but decide against it.  I’m also bewildered as to why she hasn’t clocked the part about me saying that we normally stay home.

I think it’s important to mention that at no stage has she bothered to engage her potential clients. The actual kids. Not even a “Hi guys, how was the surf? Cowabunga dude”. 

What’s more, I have to tell you, this isn’t the first time that this has happened to me.  When shortie Jnr. was a baby, I was walking down the street when a transvestite asked me for a cigarette.  After explaining that I didn’t smoke, s/he said that s/he’d be equally happy with some cash or some wine.  I explained that I didn’t have any of those either. Her/his parting shot (as though we were old family friends) was “I also do babysitting hey”. WTF!!! Do I look like I’d hand my baby over to you??!?!

I know you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, but I think it’s fairly safe to judge them by their impossibly short skirt. And, just as a word of advice to all would-be babysitters - have you ever seen an airhostess that looks like a member of hells angels?  Nope. So if you want the job, for Gods sake dress the part and cover up those dang tattoos, just till you've got the job.  And please also remember, not being a total stranger normally counts.

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screw the two front teeth...

Christmas is looming and this year I’m just not in the mood. The whole dang year I wasn’t in the mood.

I know I’m going to sound like The Grinch, but really, the smell of burning plastic is not one of my favorites.  Especially as most of the purchasing that’s been going down is for really bloody boring, obligatory stuff that has been bought under extreme pressure. Did I hear organic-luxury-exfoliating soap on a rope? It would’ve be much more fun if the Kardashian family had lent me their credit cards because then I could buy things that people would actually get excited about …  a Ferrari for Mr. Professor Pants (I’ll look after it till he’s 18), a surf-holiday for Best Kisser (because unlike me he can actually surf), and a flame thrower for Oli (just for the hell of it). Come to think of it, Oli would probably quite like to own a tattoo parlour aswell. Heaven knows, the Kardashians don’t need any more shit. Truly.  

What really concerns me the most this year is what’s on my kid’s wish list to Santa.  Weapons.  This is not a very Christmassy theme I think.  I’ve already had to eat huge helpings of humble pie for saying (pre-kids, of course) that my kids would never eat sweets. Pwaaahhahahah. As if.  I’ve had to double that humble pie helping for saying “my kids will never own toy guns”.  Clearly, they must have the same relationship to weaponry as I have to carbs.  The minute you deny yourself, you just want it more. Out of principal. 

The no gun law stood unbroken for all of about 24 hours. I had to relent. The little buggers were fashioning dangerous looking guns (think rifles with bayonets – where did they even see those????) out of pieces of wood. Pointy kindling and such. Not very sanitary, especially if, say, it pokes in your brothers eye. Or breaks his skin and actually draws blood.

So, I tried the overkill approach and bought them an entire arsenal.  It worked. They very quickly tired of playing with their guns, except when friends who aren’t allowed guns came to play.  Then they played with them a lot. More than once I've had to literally wrestle the weapon away from a visiting kid because they became like Gollum  - huddled in a dark corner and calling the gun "my precioussssssss" and what have you. Frightening stuff, really.

Anyway, since Rainman’s recent fascination with James Bond (again with the inappropriateness… ) their romance with weapons – namely handguns are the fetish – has been rekindled.  I try to tell myself that someone has to be defenders of the law.  And has to work for MI5. And has to join the army (somewhere, just not here). Not all gun owners are gangsters. And not all gangsters have guns; they have other things with sharp ends. And I’ve decided that a fascination with knives would be much more dangerous. So, I’ll take my chances with a toy gun thanks.

P.s. An aside. Don’t try drinking lots of Espresso to help you through Christmas shopping.  I’ve tried. I can never go back to that mall now.

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inappropriately fine, er, thanks...

There really are loads things that irk me about being a parent, but seriously, one of my pet hates has to be when people get preachy. And one of my pet preachy words that I love to hate is the word “inappropriate”.  Preachy parents in particular over-use it like a Navy man’s wanking hand.  They seem to forget that the word “appropriate”, by it’s very nature, has an elastic quality to it.

For instance, I think it’s wildly inappropriate to wear stilettos in a nightclub.  Why?  Because if I did I would wipeout within about 10 seconds.  However, for someone more accustomed to these high hells, it would be deemed essential. Depending, of course on their urgency to look hot and bag some fresh meat. (Apropos stilettos: made more for lying down then for walking around and dare I say dancing, if you feel me.)

Here’s another example.  In South Africa, it’s considered “inappropriate” (aaargh, even writing the word just bores me to tears) to greet your dinner guests in your slippers, and even more inappropriate to ask them to remove their shoes. However, in some parts of Europe (maybe all parts, who the hell knows) and in places like Japan, it’s not only appropriate to receive guests in your “house shoes” (a.k.a. slippers), but you are also perfectly within your rights to ask them to take off their “outside” shoes before you’ll allow them in.  See what I mean?

I’m hoping (for your sake) that you’re not closely acquainted with anyone who uses the word “inappropriate”.  But if a friend of yours does let is slip (for real, out in the open, not under their breath) here’s how you might handle it. Pretend  you didn’t hear them or sniff loudly and look away.  Letting out an exasperated sounding sigh or mumbling something under your breath (“eejit” normally works well) can sometimes stop their preachy train of thought. Watch out for the “lemon lips” look though.  Preachy people are very, very good at pulling sour faces. Apparently flipping the middle finger is considered excessive so save this for when you really need it (e.g. shopping centers, road rage, parking lots).

In a nutshell, unless you find me or my offspring doing something truly, universally inappropriate (batting off in public, reading porn on the train, eating boogers) then save your energy.  If you don’t, you’re just going to come across as poncy.  Trust me.

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Oy, Mary...

It’s that time of year when nativity plays abound.  I don’t often get schmoozy and schmaltzy about how cute kids are, but honestly, little kids plays just do it for me.  Laughing and crying at the same time I tell ya.

Anyhow, it got me thinking about how inaccurate the plays are.  I mean for starters, I don’t know who wrote “The Little Drummer Boy” but I’ll tell you  one thing, the ox and lamb definitely do NOT keep time.  And, although I’m a big fan of percussion, if I’d just given birth, there’s no way in hell I’d want a noisy drummer boy around. How selfish, can’t he see there’s a newborn trying to sleep? 

Back to the inaccuracies. I propose it’s time someone wrote a more accurate script because I have a feeling this is how it really rolled…

SCENE ONE

(ENTER ANGEL GABRIEL.  MARY IS CHILLING, PERHAPS READING SOME PERISHING SCROLL)

Mary:  Whaaaat the…. Who are you? Or should I say, what are you?

Gabriel: (Loudly and very formally) I am Archangel Gabriel and I would have thought my wings would have given you a clue.

Mary:  Right. No need to speak so loudly, I’m right here next to you. Um, sorry, but if it’s not too much trouble, could you stop waving those wings around.  You’re dangerously close to the new urn I just bought.  It’s not just decorative you know. I actually have to fetch water in it.

Gabriel:  Oh hel…um, oh shoot. Sorry, I get a bit carried away.

Mary:  What can I do for you today?

Gabriel: (under his breath…As if!  Did she not just hear me say I am an ANGEL?)  Well, Mary (condescending tone), I am actually here to do something for you today. Soon, you will have a baby. Well not soon, in about 9 months time. And you will call him Jesus and he will be our Saviour.

Mary:  There must be some mistake. I don’t know how to say this, but, I can’t be pregnant. I’m, um…. a virgin. (softly)

Gabriel:  Sorry, I didn’t get that.  You’re a what?

Mary: A virgin alright, a virgin (much louder)

Gabriel: Oh! Oh, how foolish of me. I left out the important part. You’ve got an immaculate contraption.

Mary: A what?

Gabriel: Dang, I think I said that wrong… what’s it called again.  Oh yes, you’ve had an Immaculate Conception. You are able to bear a child without first having to….

Mary:  OK, OK, I get the idea.  Lucky me.  How do you expect me to explain this to Joseph?  I am married you know, this isn’t just about me.

Gabriel: Shoot, yes.  Well, you look like a bright girl, I’m sure you’ll think of something. Um, perhaps I could leave you a feather from my wing.  You know, as proof that I’ve been here and all.

Mary: Looks very similar to a pigeon feather but whatever.

Gabriel:  Righto then, my work here is done for now.  Good luck with the whole pregnancy thing and don’t worry about the puffy ankles. They eventually go down.

Mary:  (under her breath) How would you know, eejit. 

(Louder) One question  though.  Do I really have to name him Jesus?  It’s just that Joseph was at school with a guy called Jesus and I tell you, he was a real arseho… um, sorry, not a cool guy.  He’s not going to like naming our son that one bit.

Gabriel: (sighing)  Mary.  I’m the messenger and I think you have a fair idea of who sent me.  He gave clear instructions and I wouldn’t suggest messing with him.  Know what I mean?

Mary: You know what? Whatever.  Its not like I’ve had any say thus far so thanks for the awesome news but I’d like to finish my scroll before my ankles start to swell. 

SCENE 2 

(SHEPHERDS SETTLING IN FOR THE NIGHT)

Levi: Ish! Hey Ishmael, check out that star dude.  It’s moving closer and getting bigger.

Ishmael: Dude, you been smoking that pipe of yours again?  You’ve got to stay off the strong stuff; it’s starting to mess with your head.

Levi:  Ish, don’t be an arsehole, just listen to me. I swear, that star is moving and getting bigger and closer.

(GABRIEL SWOOPS DOWN AND LANDS NEXT TO THEM)

Ishmael:  By Jove!  Whaaat the?

Gabriel (under his breath) Always the same blinking response! Uneducated Philistines, don’t they know an angel when they see one?  

Jove:  (sounding sleepy) Did someone call me?  Whaaaat the?

Gabriel: (under his breath) Again with the “whaaat the!”  

(Loudly) Um, as you can see, gentlemen (as if). I am an angel.  Archangel Gabriel to be exact, and I’m here to tell you that your Saviour that has been born this very night in Bethlehem.  You will find him in a stable…

Levi and Ishmael: Dude, no need to be so loud.  The sheep are sleeping man. Who was born in a what?

Gabriel: A Saviour. Sa vior.  In a stable. Sta ble. You know, where they keep livestock.

Jove:  What the heck is our Saviour doing in a stable?

Gabriel:  All the inns were full.  I know you types don’t pay much attention to current affairs but its there’s that whole tax and be counted thing going on right now, so they had to make do.

Ishmael: (under his breath to the others) Poor woman who had to give birth in a stable. 

Jove: (under his breath) No shit dude.  That’s barbaric!

Gabriel:  Righto then, if you’re all clear on this then I’ll be off.  Think you can find your way there? 

Levi:  With all due respect dude, I know you’re like an angel and we’re just mere mortals but we’re like shepherds. We know how to mission.

SCENE 3

(THREE WISE MEN SITTING ROUND PLAYING BACKGAMMON)

Gaspar:  Good move Balty.  Now I’m going to kick your derriere!

Bathasar:  You havn’t beaten me in backgammon since the last plague old chap.  Don’t see it happening today.

Melchior: Childish banter. Can’t you two just play like civilized adults? We’re wise men, godammit. Magi, not schoolboys!

Gaspar: Mel, don’t be such an old fart.  I’m over this whole being wise the whole dang time.  When we’re alone it’s cool just to shoot the breeze.  You know, decompress a little.

GABRIEL ENTERS – WINGS FLAPPPING LOUDLY

Gaspar, Balthasar, and Melchior:  Whaaaat the….?

Gabriel: (under his breath) I’d have thought this lot would have inkling. But nooooo.  (Sighs loudly and speaks in a bored voice) I am angel Gabriel and I bring you good news.

Bathasar: My horse won the race? Powerpocket boys, told you that horse is headed for big things.

Gabriel: No no NO!  This is bigger than winning the races.  This is about your Saviour, who has been born this very night in Bethlehem.  

Melchior: Bethlehem?  Isn’t that were that whole tax and be counted thing is happening?  Bit of an inconvenient  time and place don’t you think?

Gabriel: (condescending) Some people are above inconvenient times and places. Did you not hear me say the word “Saviour”?

Bathasar:  Alright, alright.  No need to be snippy about it. What would you have us do?

Gabriel: (getting impatient) Go and see him of course.  Saviour, Saviour, I said Saviour.  What’s wrong with you people?  Don’t you want to be the first people to meet your Saviour?

Melchior:  Alright, alright.  I suppose you have a point old chap.  Well leave shortly.  

Gabriel: See that you do.  And be sure to bring some pressies.  I can’t imagine the shepherds thought to take anything for the family. A home cooked meal might be nice.

Gaspar:  Not really our thing you know, we’re wise men, not chefs. 

Gabriel:  What e ver.  Just make it count ok.  It’s unlikely you’re going to get another shot at this whole being saved thing in a hurry.

Gaspar:  Jolly good show.  I wonder old chap, don’t suppose you know what your wingspan is?  Might be useful to know that.

Gabriel: (very condescending) I’d have thought, old chap, that the size of my wingspan pales in comparison to the news I’ve just brought you. Good day to you all. (DEPARTS)

Melchior:  Bit of a scratchy fellow, don’t you think? Not really what I imagined. He’s obviously chosen the austere formal approach over kind, cute and lovable.

Gaspar: Mel, you’re such an idiot! The kind, cute and lovable ones are the cherubs.

Melchior: (under his breath) Wise arse.

Gabriel: (whilst flying back to heaven) Pfffft! Barbaric Philistines, the whole lot of them. 

(IN CHORUS) And so concludes our real rendition, we hope you’ve enjoyed our play.  We saved you the birthing scene for sure, but at Easter we’ll have our say.  

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