It's about life, marriage, friends, raising kids, paddling rivers, travel in Africa . . . thoughts written over decades - at random, I'm afraid. NOTE: NO PERMISSION TO SCRAPE MY CONTENT FOR LLM OR AI, you bastards! Dincha mothers teach you not to steal!?
Just got back last evening. Nine slow hours there on Thursday, and nine hours back today. Dawdled through the Oos Vrystaat. Saw jackal (Tommy spotted him just outside Clarens), mongoose, springbok, blesbok, hartebeest, white-tailed gnu, zebra, grey rhebok, and lotsa birds. Sterkfontein full to the brim and looking blue as the sky. Fascinating to think beneath those clear waters is Nuwejaarsvlei, the farm my Mom was born on in 1928. Lived there till she was eight.
The air was crystal clear, we could see every detail of the Malutis and the ‘Berg. Here’s the whole High Berg from Sentinel to Giants Castle (click on the pic).
– all of the High Berg – seen from the top of Oliviershoek Pass –
Kids were a pleasure. Jess took a friend Savanna, and they giggled and ogled the ski instructors non-stop. The Naudes joined us again, so Tom had Joshua and we had James and Michael, old-time skiers all, now – *yawn*!
Ma Michelle took to skiing like a duck to water and won all the bum boarding races hands-down. Must be technique, as I thought my superior attraction to gravity would beat her, but no.
Car Trouble! Craig had car trouble and spent two nights in Ficksburg after we’d all left!! He took his new black Jeep CherryOkie and burnt out the starter motor trying to ignite frozen diesel. Ernest the resident Afriski diesel mech (he keeps the Pisten Bullys going) tried, but no go, so a flatbed truck was summoned from Ficksburg, land of the Cherry Cherry beauty contest.
Before the flatbed arrived, he borrowed my bakkie and took his vrou Michelle and three boys to the Free State Holy City by the River Jordan (OK, Bethlehem). Hired a car for them, so they got back to Westville one night before we did (Monday night). He got back to Afriski late Monday, just before Braam arrived wif ve flatbed. R3600 later the Jeep was dropped on (or off) a jack at the Ficksburg auto-electrician’s, cracking the sump. So Craig is still in F’burg, two nights later. F*ckit, I think he said . . .
The Resort: Afriski is MUCH more organised now that PIN (the guys I bought thru) have 51% and management control.
This was our seventh trip, so I’m happy we’ve made good use of it. The kids still look forward to it all year – they’re already plotting next year! And they always ask, “Can we go again in the holidays?” and I have to explain how it costs a stack if you go out of your allocated week.
I paid R125 000, so still expensive, but getting less each year! The big question will come when we decide to sell! (update 2020: Well, COVID lockdown played havoc with the resort’s finances; if it survives – it’s touch and go – it’ll be a while before we’ll be able to sell ).
Our chalet is very comfy, 4 bedrooms, 3 bathrooms, a big lounge, 12 beds. Lovely kitchen, well-equipped. About 500m from the slope, so we get plenty of exercise in the thin air!
Eye Candy: On our last day six gorgeous shapely models arrived for a photo shoot and had a ski lesson. It was a glorious bright sunny day so they all wore skimpy tops and I had to check up on the kids wif me binocs.
There I stood, ladder under one arm, hammer in the other hand, in a suburban street with the cops looking at me very skeptically and saying “Ja, sure, sure! Just get in the back of this van and tell your story to the magistrate . . .”
——-ooo000ooo——-
On 2013/05/23 (which was later), Crispin Hemson wrote:
By mistake I sent out an old message that told everyone to help with labeling trees today.
This is not true. It is a false message designed to trick you into appearing at Pigeon Valley. Do not go!
So the old man went to Maritzburg College for their 150th anniversary 1863-2013* on Saturday. Sheila ignored his protests and arranged it all, including getting free tickets. He’s 91 and was in the 1938 matric class when College was a mere 75yrs old. He bailed out around April and went to work for the GPO – general post office – then off to the war as soon as he could.
Wonder what memories were swirling around here? Walking up to your familiar school entrance seventy five years after your last walk up that path.
He thought he’d be the oldest there, but he was trumped by the only other chap from the 1930’s: 97 year old Cyril Crompton – Matric 1933!!
– how’s that head of hair!? –
Cyril had driven down from JHB on his own! – watch out on the roads! He’s driving back on his own tomorrow, but will be stopping off in Underberg to play bowls.
My old man believes in much activity. He does woodwork and metalwork, making clocks, furniture, mosaics and turning wooden bowls, etc; Drives around buying stuff at auctions, butcheries, SPCA sales, etc. Talks about selling stuff, but seldom gets round to it – too busy buying stuff!
He firmly believes “keeping busy” is the reason for his longevity. So he asks the older Cyril: What do you do to keep busy? Cyril: Oh, a bit of gardening. The rest of the time I drink beer.
Cyril gave the old man a book he wrote on the war. They were both in North Africa and Italy. In his book “For The Adventure Of It” he writes how he survived the Battle of Sidi Rezegh, one of the most costly in lives in South Africa’s history. He was captured, the ship was torpedoed and he was taken on a death march from eastern Germany – now Poland – away from the advancing Russian Army. A gripping story.
Later, the school put their mugs on a mug:
– mug says 2016 so I have some dates mixed up –
~~~oo0oo~~~
Sheila read and vetted my post:
All spot-on except for the free tickets. Lunch was R140 pp. The organisers wore sworn to secrecy. Cyril was delightful, flirting with me throughout. I sat between him and Dad. We all loved the whole day. Will write a proper report which I’ll send Robbie Sharratt plus a pic of Dad and Cyril. Love Sheila
– Dad in 1937 –– the 1937 U/15 athletics champion donates some wood-turned trophies to his alma mater –
Footnote: Cyril lost his drivers licence due to failing eyesight at 99, played bowls till he was 100, then passed away. Dad has renewed his drivers licence at ninety five and eight months, valid for five years!
~~~oo0oo~~~
Read a lovely article in the Sandton Chronicle about Cyril when he turned one hundred. In it he says “My secret to a long life is Castle Lager and cane spirits, my two favourite drinks.” Funny that: For years we listened to Dad expound how the secret to him not being as bad as other drinkers was cane spirits and water. The colour in brandy and whisky was somehow bad, as were mixers – according to him.
Safely on the fringes of the action, Swanie the flank for the Feisty Fourths, who led the cheerleading as they ran on, keeps a comfortable distance between himself and the ball carrier – friendly or hostile. Last to arrive at the scrums, and last to retreat when the opposition gets a penalty. Reluctantly, backwards, with a WTF expression.
Lots of advice for his teammates, he goes quiet when play unexpectedly veers in his direction. Twice he got the ball, and I must admit, made some progress and passed successfully both times. So I could praise him after the game in good conscience.
And they won. Against Penzance.
And yesterday against Chelsea. They’ve broken the trend and are on a two match winning streak.
Gotta have a man-to-man talk about tackling, and about strolling – STROLLING – casually from scrum to scrum, like a spectator. Hopefully he’ll listen. He doesn’t have a high opinion of bum-sniffers, as he calls locks and 8th men. That’s him kneeling on the right in the top picture.
My old mate Bob Ilsley the Vagabond Pilot – or Vagabob – has flown his last. His undercarriage buckled, he ran out of runway.
Many of his stories which I have heard since 1979, came out at his memorial service, and it was lovely listening to people who knew and loved Bob as I did. I met him at Addington hospital when the army sent me to Out Patients Dept ‘B’ (called ‘Oh Pee Dee Bee’ by all). He was there to fix legs and I was there to fix eyes. “You get them to see where they’re going, and I’ll get them to walk straight there,” he’d say. As luck would have it, years later in 2000, I bought a practice in Montclair that’s just two blocks from his home, and we could renew our OPDB friendship.
He built his own Piper Vagabond in his garage (hence his email moniker vagabob – and wife Barbara’s vagabarb), and he was repairing it there ‘with rag and tube’ when I first saw it after their only prang. (see here).
He inspected home-built planes for the Experimental Aircraft Association for years. Up to February this year. If you built a plane on your porch you couldn’t fly it till Bob said so. He would punch holes in the fabric and break the ribs, saying to the distraught owner-builder, “You can thank me. Rather now than in the air”.
On their first flight with Bob next to or behind them they’d quite often have something go wrong in the air, only to find it was him pulling a cable or stopping it from moving, or turning off the fuel (he knew where everything was!). “Just testing,” he’d say with his “innocent look,” as they tried to calm their hearts down from going boom-biddy-boom at 800 beats per minute in the shade. That ‘innocent look’ of his was a killer! How often I saw him say something outrageous to people with that innocent look!
He flew all over. KZN and the wild coast he’d talk about most often to me, landing on remote strips. Some of those I remember are Port St Johns, Creighton, Scottburgh and Ixopo.
He only took to plummeting once, when the Vagabond gave up while taking off from Maritzburg’s Oribi airfield. His wife Barbara came out of it with her arm in a sling and all bruised. Bob untouched. How’d you do that? he was asked. “Hard right rudder” he said. “I thought it would be softer to land on top of Barbara.”
Often wore T-shirts that made Barbara walk a good few paces behind him: (“If its got tits or wheels it’ll give you shit”; “Please ask your boobs to stop staring at my eyes”; “Recycled Teenager”). A very quiet guy, he would stare intensely with twinkling eyes at people to see their reaction, seldom smiling until they did. If it was cold he would wear frayed old jerseys (and by the sounds of it at the service, maybe the same one always). Still short pants, though.
Every flight physical he would come to me for his eyes, muttering “They’ve referred me for my heart again. Every time the same thing.” He had a little heart anomaly that showed up on the ECG that always raised a query but always got passed in the end. I don’t think modern medicine could cope with his big, generous, genuine, honest heart. His Private Pilot’s Licence was valid for 60 years!
Bob had very little time for religion and, of course, had a pithy saying about it: “They’re all just travel agents trying to sell you a ticket to the same place”, he’d say, cheerfully deadpan. The American dominee at his funeral used Bob’s quote to do a little pitch for how his church is different! Bob would have loved disputing that.
I made his glasses for about 32 years and the Rx stayed exactly the same: About -3,50 cyls in PGX glass executive bifocals, the worst lens in creation. In a thick old square plastic Safilo frame with monster flex hinges, the worst frame in creation. With his own home repair with acetone to build up the bridge. Three times I changed him: Once the Rx and twice the lenses, a multifocal once and a flattop once. All three times he came back and stated with his earnest and innocent face on: “Good try, but I think we’ll go back to what works, OK?” In the end I just tricked him, making up a lovely new lightweight plastic frame with thin flattop Transitions lenses for free “as a spare” while I “fixed” his ancient ones. The “fixing” took so long and he got so many compliments with the better-looking frame from all his many girlfriends on his jaunts around town that his vanity (“vain!? me, never!” – but notice he removed his specs for the pic above next to his Vag, stealthily hiding them behind his voluminous khaki shorts!) made him quietly continue wearing them.
Once though, he came in wearing his old ones and in front of everyone in the practice he moaned loudly that “These new glasses are TERRIBLE; My old ones are MUCH better!” to the consternation of my ladies who made the mistake of trying to tell him he was wearing the old ones. Constant comic theatre with Bob. Then they’d make us tea and we would retire to look at the internet or his pictures of his travels. These were pop-in visits, which sometimes caused havoc with practice manager Raksha’s scheduling. For his actual appointments she would book a double appointment just before lunchtime.
Bob left Zim when his first wife split, bringing his four sons to Durbs in about 1973. He met Barbara in about 1976, I think. She had four daughters! They raised them well. Many grandkids followed and to the daughters’ and daughters-in-laws’ horror (and the kids’ delight) he called them by number in the order they arrived. “Number Ten skyped us last night” he’d tell me. “Number Four has finished school.”
Loved hiking and hiked many of the famous trails: The Otter, the Whale trail in de Hoop Nature Reserve, the Fish river canyon in Namibia, the Fanie something trail in Mpumalanga, and more. Always with a full backpack. It’d be him at seventy to eighty and some thirty to fifty year olds. “We had to wait for the old people to catch up,” he’d tell me without a trace of a smile as he showed me his pics. He’d usually have at least one tale of a prank he’d play on someone, too – usually the prettiest or spunkiest young lady present! Fell in love often, did our Bob. Barbara would just watch and marvel.
Loved mangling Afrikaans with his ZimBARBwe and Durbs background, so if there was an “Africana” there he’d have a field day. Especially with ladies.
His favourite holidays were road trips, camping in his Opel station wagon, using the back as a double bed.
Three times he went to the big Experimental Aircraft airshow in Oshkosh, Wisconsin, camping out on the airfield and revelling in the aircraft, spacecraft and especially the simulators where he could test his skill. He flew the Wright brothers craft simulator, and could only keep it aloft for a few seconds, so went straight to the back of the queue again and the second time flew it for longer than they had! Determined bugger, our Bob.
After Oshkosh he would appear in the practice doorway and say nothing. Raksha would just say Uh, Oh! and put the kettle on for coffee and postpone a few appointments. She knew he’d brought a memory stick and we’d spend an hour in the back de-briefing Oshkosh.
On Tuesday, April 9, 2013, Pete S wrote: Drove twelve hours from home to Hazyview on Thursday. Then eleven hours back on Sunday. 1750km in all, with plenty of road repairs on the way. ‘Stop-Go Controls’ where the road narrows to one lane in places. Plus plenty of stops for juice, snacks and leg-stretching for the hungry hordes. Both of them. OK, all three of us.
Madness.
But the two days we spent at Sabie Park were a real chill. Just us and Dave Hill in a wonderful corner of the bushveld on the Sabie River at Kruger gate adjacent to the KNP. Big Al’s Lodge, he calls it. We gazed across the river at eles, buff, waterbuck and hippos in the park coming down to the beautiful Sabie river to drink.
That’s the Kruger Park across the river. – – – Jess spotted ele, buff, waterbuck & hippo
Next time it’ll have to be for longer, though.
——–
On 2013/04/08, steve reed wrote:
There is just nothing, nothing, nothing to beat sitting watching the other side of a riverbank with binocs, a beer and a savoury snack. It has to be an African river. I have tried it in Aussie and it’s not anywhere near the same.
S’ true!
============
I agree. I can lurk like a crocodile. Even better if one of the companions is restless and feels the need to braai nearby. I can smell the smoke, watch me birds and eat when told to.
I need to fix my telescope now. I missed it there.
In fifteen years at 7 River Drive we didn’t see or hear a single owl. Wasn’t for lack of trying. We saw and heard A LOT of birds at magical River Drive. Standouts for me that I can recall right now were Pigmy Kingfisher; Bush Blackcap; Spotted Thrush; Olive Bush Shrike; Narina Trogon; Grey Waxbill; Black Sparrowhawk; Black and Grey Cuckooshrikes; At night Buff-spotted Flufftail and my first discovery of what a Fork-tailed Drongo can get up to way past his bedtime. Both of those involved long nocturnal searches.
In two years at 10 Windsor we heard a Wood Owl a few times, which was magic. The furthest south I’d heard them before was Zululand.
After seven years at 10 Elston I had heard Wood Owls and caught one glimpse of an owl (?Barn Owl) flying over the house, but TONIGHT I finally saw a Spotted Eagle Owl sitting in our dead avocado tree!
Heard him first while hanging curtain rails in the cottage. Went out and there he was staring at me. 11pm.
Wonderful!
~~oo0oo~~
pic from theflacks.co.za – thank you – wonderful bird pics
I was actually looking for a pregnant chameleon. Didn’t spot her, but snapped flowers, including some non-indigenous interlopers – Aitch was a softie towards the end, and allowed some strange plants in.
Also a (deceased) bush squeaker and a grasshopper – which reminds me: I must tell you the story of grasshoppers one day . . .
Greg phones: Hey, my son Steve is down from doing research near Kruger Park, can you test his eyes? No prob.
We test, I order specs. Steve is leaving tomorrow early, so I arrange to fetch the specs at the lab and connect with Greg that evening.
I leave work early.
Holy shit! My battery is flat. Flatter than flat. Left the lights on. My big china carguard Dronk Jan Kleynhans from Harrismith “didn’t notice they were on”. He looks after a grand total of about six cars on the roof of our centre, and sits right behind mine. Was snoring his fukken head off I spose!
I check with the BP garage attached to the shopping centre: Can’t help. I check with Battery Centre: Can’t help. I phone the AA. Coming.
I phone the lab: I’ll be late. “No problem, my uncle goes to the funeral parlour downstairs and sits there till 7pm“. Maybe drinking blue top till he feels he can face the wife? “I’ll leave them with him”.
The guardian angel from AA arrives – Automobile Association, altho’ I could have used the other one too. He needs two batteries to kickstart the diesel, then “Hey, you test eyes? I got troublems with my bifocal, no good can you help?“
Get to the lab, but don’t want to switch off, and even I can’t leave the key in the ignition with the engine running while I go in. Not that I wouldn’t, but I feel that would be just TOO embarrassing to explain if the bakkie got whipped. YOU DID WHAT? WHERE? UMHLATUZANA? YOU DOOS!
While I juggle nearer to the funeral parlour door, an ou shuffles up “Buy some DVD’s very good DVD’s. They play, I won’ sell you DVD’s that don’ play, I won’ lie to you“. No thanks. “Hey Larney I’m telling you they good DVD’s! Check: New movies Bollywood this Bollywood that, even white ous movie, one I got“.
No I don’t want, really. He drops the sales pitch and asks “Who you looking for larney?” Terence’s uncle in the funeral parlour. “I know that hou, I’ll go and tell him” Hey thanks.
Comes back with a package with Pete Swanepoel written on it. Thanks a ton. I’m off.
I phone Greg: He says, Come to Mo’s Noodles, I’ll buy you supper. Great idea. I arrange Cecelia to look after the brats.
Halfway thru supper I realise I have forgotten the whole reason for the meeting: Left the specs at home in my briefcase out of which I had grabbed my wallet! FUCK! Turns out it’s no problem, Steve is no longer leaving early, he’s leaving after lunch. Fine.
Next morning I check the specs. A woman’s plastic frame with +2,00’s. Steve’s is a men’s metal frame with +0,75’s. Thank goodness I had forgotten them and didn’t haul them out in the restaurant!
Steve’s were now at work, having taken the usual delivery instead of this flurried, nonsensical ‘special delivery’.
I fetch them and FINALLY deliver them to Greg before lunchtime.
Yussis! WHAT a fokkop. Almost military in its fokkopedness.
The little-known 2013 Elston Place Olympic Games was a thing. Games I. Not XVI or XXII. No, I.
Tom earned 2 golds (run & soccer ball); Lungelo earned 2 golds (swim & cycle) ; One event was drawn (stone throw); Therefore they ended up Equal Olympic Champs!
– the offical Olympic Timekeeper’s station – with those stones visible –
The Games started officially with four Olympians; then one competitor DNF and one withdrew to go home for lunch.
~~~oo0oo~~~
Stone throwing was interesting. I found ten smooth, small-egg-sized stones in Aitch’s stuff. She had lots and lots of all sizes. I upended an outside black bin and placed an empty 10kg HTH bucket on it, also upended. I placed this target about 8m from a walkway so there’d be no encroaching – there was a clear place to stand. I then gooi’d five stones at the HTH bucket and hit it five times. I did grow up in Herriesmif and gooi’ing fings wif a stone was a fing, I’ll admit.
Tom stepped up; Five throws, five misses. Some by a puzzling large margin. Lungelo sniggered, stepped up: Five throws five misses. Some quite literally by about 4m at 8m distance! I had to give frowing fings wif a stone lessons before they started hitting the bucket occasionally! Bloody mis-spent youth they had, it would appear!
These two are so cool we had icicles on the rafters
and homework was done
~~~oo0oo~~~
Terry Brauer wrote Feb 2013: This so reminds me of Pinaster Street Olympics, FA cup finals – cricket, soccer, tennis, ad nauseum – Ryan and Deon!!
The man has decided its rugby this year, so I get lots of tackle-talk and tales of dragging tyres across the field.
Went to fetch him yesterday and watched a while. He’s going to get a crick in his neck from looking up at the other guys. At least he was catching and passing well with the ball all slick in the drizzle.
He has a new name among the rugger ous now:
.
.
Swanie
– third standing fella from left –
~~~oo0oo~~~
They lost a few games – this one:
. . but then won this game against Penzance and started winning most of their games after that.
Just returned from a gathering in Harrismith where my sole function was to bring the average age of the attendants down to a respectable level.
Pierre duP, Jill Venning and Mark Raz Russel threw a joint 60th celebration in Harrismith. Pierrebuilds, Jill farms, Mark runs Finlay’s general trading store – and the golf club – in Harrismith. At their age, a “joint” gathering also describes one of the main topics of discussion among the creaking decrepit.
Swinging 60’s themed, most of the inmates came predictably dressed as hippies. I went as a hippie who admired Elvis’ dress style post-cheeseburgers. I was Sure to Wear some Flowers in my Wig, as a favourite song sang. Some wore safari suits with a comb in vey sock. One worean old English-type boys school uniform: blazer, cap, short pants and polished shoes. Most wore wigs – and many needed them. Oh, and John Venning very predictably – but a lot later than usual – got round to dropping his trousers.
Fine mates from way back!! Posing with young Tuffy Joe Joubert and old Pierre duP du Plessis. Wemight not fit together on the back seat of a Saab, nor in the rear compartment of a Beetle anymore.
The evening was saved visually and average age-wise by a flock of the birthday gang’s kids and their friends. They’re now adults, of course, so we could relax and act second-childhood. There were two of Pierre’s blondes there, Michele & Natasha, Mark’s son & daughter and Jill’s two as well, Kirsty was one. They were also dressed as hippies, and they were looking like how we all imagined we were looking. Luckily, there were no mirrors at the venue. Some aesthetically-delightful sixties-style minis and boots on show.
An excellent one-man band played all the right stuff, so it was a good thing it was loud or it would have been ruined by everyone singing along. Myself I would have had half-hour gaps with no music so we could hear each others’ lies, but no, when the band-man was resting, someone cranked on some good ole vinyl LP or other. Probably the bloody youngsters (we must start practicing to grumble).
Pierre gave a speech! Well, he joined Jill & Raz in a well-rehearsed threesome form of poetry rending in which they painted themselves in a good light and we listened politely.
Sheila rounded up a flock of ancient Methodists for a group shot, so three Swanepoels, three du Plessis, three Woods, and Tuffy Joubert posed for the Methylated Spirits Revival. Lulu tried to join in, but we wouldn’t have it, her being blerrie NG Kerk an’ all. She protested that she had come to guild once, to no avail.
Funniest thing was the youngsters drilling us for tales of yore. We told them tales of what their Moms and Dads got up to when they were their age to gasps of outrage when they thought of how their folks had raised them all strictly and with rules and curfews. I had to tell Lettuce Leaf’s kids the old one about how all the trouble started in the Garden of Eden when Adam said to Eve “Ek het your leaf.”
I went home soon after 2.30am leaving quite a few senior citizens and even more young uns still dancing. A few were slurring so that I couldn’t get what the hell they were saying, but they seemed happy with my nods and smiles and ‘Quite right!’s and ‘Serious?’s. Of course some of those were nearer 70 than 60 which makes the ‘hoesê?’s quite frequent!
We stayed at Heritage House, Pierre & Erika’s beautifully restored old house-next-door which they run as a bed & breakfast, so post-party we gathered in the kitchen till after 3am.
Later we gathered for a big breakfast at the Table of Knowledge in Heike’s restaurant on the slopes of 42-second Hill just below the quarry where Jock Grant would blast his dynamite, rattling the dorp’s windows.
Some of the Harrismith farmers are doing spectacularly well. Lodges in Tuli Block, Lodges near the Olifants river, big herds of disease-free Ramaposas, massive wild free-range earthworm farms, lodges on their farms (see https://www.buffalohillspgr.co.za/ and https://lalanathi.co.za/)
Some are also buying “townhouses” – big old sandstone houses in town which they revamp and extend for staying over if they’re a bit too aled to drive home to their farms! I spose you could call them Safe Houses.
And so some more upstanding citizens became senior citizens!
So here’s an update, you “youngsters”: That whistling noise you hear in your ears is not tinnitis. It’s the sound of the plummeting reaching terminal velocity . . . . .
Jess got home from her last day of school on Thursday with a friend.
To stay the night. Oh. OK.
It’s Saturday and the friend is still here.
Not a word, nor a call, nor an sms from a Mom or a Dad.
Now they want another friend to visit. OK. Get him to ask his Mom or Dad and get them to call me. You know how it works, Jess.
OK.
They mXit him. Then they give me the Mom’s cell number. He says I must call her. Jess, you know the drill: Get him to ask his Mom or Dad and get them to call me – like I said.
Ah, Dad! Yes, my dear. That’s the way it has always been. It hasn’t changed.
Bloody hell. Of course, they haven’t called, so she didn’t come.
I have now sms’d the parents of the girl who is still mysteriously here, asking “When are you fetching her?”
