I’ve been planning my 60th birthday. A little early since it’s 13 and a bit months away. I’ve gone the Bucket List route, deliciously fantasising about possibilities before crashing down to a realistic final decision.
A cruise perhaps, along the Dalmatian coast – from Split to Dubrovnik. Would it be vulgar to get my friends to pay for themselves?
Maybe book out a small hotel somewhere in the undulating hills of the magnificent Drakensburg. Or a guest farm in the Karoo: quaint cottages with stoeps adorned with broekie lace and a raised farm dam with a ladder down the side for daily dips; and succulent lamb served up a dozen ways for breakfast lunch dinner and dessert .
I wondered if my friends would be up for a three-day walking holiday along the coast, stopping off at lovely little Western Cape fishing villages at the end of the day.
Then there is the idea of some ambitious tourism – Cathedrals in Rome.
In the ambitious realm, there is, of course, a possible trip to India, home of my ancestors and a place I have never visited which seems a little ridiculous.
I love my birthday. It’s my day. My day.
When I was little, I was often desperately ill. A chronic asthmatic, I would lie in my parent’s bed – a special treat for a sick child in my family – my little face washed out, wan.
The asthma attacks were random and came without warning leaving me breathless, clutching at my mother in a panic as I struggled to take in air.
But, for some reason, particularly vicious attacks happened around my birthday. My dad said it was because the Yesterday Today and Tomorrow plant growing outside our kitchen window bloomed its perfect lavender and white blooms around the end of November.
Cut the bloody thing down, he’s tell my mother as he held a worried hand against my forehead before setting off to buy me grapes. Grapes. I still associate them with being ill. My lovely dad would scour the town whenever I was sick and bring me back fat purple-black grapes with big green seeds in them. Sweet sticky violet drops rolled down to my chin as I sucked on the translucent flesh. And my dad watched, happy that there was something he could do to bring me joy in my airless torment.
And so it was that the Naidoo family decreed that my birthday was to be marked in a special way. Queen for a day my mum used to call it as my siblings rolled their eyes and endured only because there were treats to be had, all day long.
I could choose the flavour of the ice-cream – chocolate; and the icing for the cake – chocolate. And the special drink of the day – chocolate milkshakes. My brother Anton, a vanilla person, complained, but Shaun and Antonette thoroughly approved of my decisions.
So getting in early with the prep for my 60th birthday is not unusual. A lot of the joy is in the planning.
And yet, for the first time in my life, I fear I’m getting ahead of myself.
By this time next year, the world could be an apocalyptic wasteland, the dystopian global landscape not conducive to parties.
I said this to friends at dinner this week, and nobody contradicted me. It’s been that kind of week, where the future of the planet is unsure, World War III a distinct possibility.
Our fate is shakily in the hands of two crazy people who are like baddies in a comic book, Mr and Mr Evil intent on letting their egos get in the way of sense.
The loony leader of the Free World, Donald Trump and the scary supreme leader of North Korea Kim Jong-Un both have their fingers on the button that could turn us into a Mad Max world. Dozens of movies have depicted the devastation: On the Beach, Dr Strangelove, The War Game, The Day after…
We’ve seen the end of the world as we know it in celluloid.
This week, Donald Trump’s idiosyncrasies took a dangerous turn and brought us closer to the end as the truth about what is really happening in the White House emerged. Trump’s tweet about Senator Bob Corker, Republican of Tennessee went like this: Senator Bob Corker "begged" me to endorse him for re-election in Tennessee. I said "NO" and he dropped out (said he could not win without...
Corker came back with his own tweet: “It’s a shame the White House has become an adult day care center. Someone obviously missed their shift this morning.”
But before that, he challenged his secretary of state Rex Tillerson to compare IQ tests after Tillerson called him a moron.
Bob Corker had had enough. He called New York Times political reporter Jonathan Martin and went on the record in an interview that has all of America incredulous; captivated.
He said Trump was treating his office like a reality show. He called his threats towards other countries reckless warning it could set the US on the path to World War III.
Remember that Senator Bob Corker is a Republican, a member of Trumps own party.
He went on to scold the president publicly saying he was alarmed about a president who acts like he’s “doing The Apprentice or something.”
“He concerns me,” Corker told the New York Times, adding: “He would have to concern anyone who cares about our nation.”
Corker said outright: Trump had repeatedly undermined diplomacy with his tweets.
“I know he has hurt, in several instances, he’s hurt us as it relates to negotiations that were underway by tweeting things out.
“I know for a fact that every single day at the White House it’s a situation of trying to contain him.”
This week, the US military flew two strategic bombers over the Korean peninsula. This show of force will not have lulled Kim’s ire. While the world is on tenterhooks North Korea launched two missiles over Japan; conducted its sixth nuclear test as it works towards finding a nuclear missile that can hit the US mainland.
And if it doesn’t? where will it land?
It all feels like we’re living in a bad cartoon. Where are the grown ups?
Where are the responsible adults?
I’m putting off the planning of my birthday party for now. Let’s wait and see if the concept of birthday parties still exists.
I’m afraid. Are you?
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