Memory Project: My Father’s Weights

On returning to South Africa from Rhodesia in 1963, my father found employment as a motor mechanic in the Simon’s Town Naval Dockyard. He was 48 years old and remained in that job until his retirement at 60 in 1975.

As something of a fitness fanatic, he started every work day, regardless of weather conditions, with a workout in the courtyard. This consisted of running on the spot, lifting weights and doing 20 sit-ups followed by 50 press-ups.

He had two 10kg dumbbells and a 40kg barbell, which were manufactured in the Yard by mateys of his acquaintance. A Dockyard matey was an artisan who was willing to be of assistance to other mateys, knowing that reciprocity was a fundamental principle shared by members of the fraternity. The weights for the dumbbells were manufactured in the Heavy Plate Shop, and those for the barbell were made in the Foundry.

The Heavy Plate Shop, unlike the light Plate Shop, had a massive overhead crane and specialized oxyacetylene cutting equipment. The four discs came from the thickest steel plate available. At an inch thick, it was used primarily as armour for gun turrets and was the heaviest material in use. The two weights for the barbell, which resembled canon balls, were cast in the Foundry. Each one had a thread turned into it, thus enabling it to be screwed onto the end of the bar. It was important that all components could be dismantled in order to make it easier to smuggle them out of the Dockyard without detection should the goons at the gate mount a surprise search of workers’ cars.

This photograph of my father was taken when he was 60. I asked him to pose with a deadpan expression, and not to look like he was thinking up another iconoclastic witticism. His neck and shoulders are strong, his chest deep and his arms powerful. His stomach is flat and there is no vestige of flab on him. He continued to exercise and keep fit well into his eighties. He was still doing press-ups at 90, and he lived to 98, just a year and four months short of a hundred.

I took over his dumbbells but never used them. Then, a few weeks ago I came across them in my garden shed. After brushing off the worst of the rust, I attempted three curls.

As is evident, I struggled to lift the 10kg weights and for the next three days I was obliged to dose myself with anti-inflammatories. There can be no denying that my father was a far tougher physical specimen than I am.

To view my longer work as an author, you can find me on Smashwords here.

The Sleep of Reason

(This is another extract from my semi-autobiographical novel, The Life of Henry Fuckit.)

"You know, two months ago I too would have been incontinent with laughter at this buffoonery." Henry shook his head ruefully. "But I seem to be losing my sense of humour, and it worries me. Instead of laughing at the idiotic antics of my colleagues I gasp in fear. The future is beginning to terrify me. I ask myself, Is this what I have to look forward to, day in and day out, year after year? Is this all there is? I try to tell myself that this is merely an interlude and my life will change and become charged with meaning and interest. But I know I'm lying. Apart from the odd extraneous detail nothing will alter. This is the pattern, to be repeated over and over." He slumped forward on the desk, head on hands, a picture of dejection.

"Haw-haw, ho-haw!" Schroder's sudden loud laugh was quite different to his donkey mirth. That was "Hee-haw-haw, hee-haw-haw-haw!" Henry flinched and raised his head.

"For Christ' sake. Now what?"

"Sorry, but you look just like the poor bugger in one of Francisco Goya's Los Caprichos aquatints. Maybe you know it. Number 43. The Sleep of Reason."

 

Henry sat up. "La fantasia abandonada de la razon, produce monstruos impossibles. Do I know it, you ask me? My mate, all eighty of them are engraved upon my imagination. They have been catalogued and neatly stored in the archives of my memory, awaiting effortless retrieval at the twitch of a nerve. Certainly, I know it, and it does indeed seem rather apposite right at the moment." He already looked brighter, and as the seconds passed, he became increasingly animated and cheerful. It was as if the mention of Goya's drawing had acted as a catalyst in his brain, causing a large quantity of neurotransmitter to be released. Now his head was abuzz with fusillades and barrages of synaptic firing, and he was suffused with a feeling of alertness and euphoria. This was better than amphetamines. Who needs Benzedrine when there's Goya?

"Yes," Schroder was looking at Henry with guarded interest. This fellow might turn out to be more of a hindrance than a help if his better qualities couldn't be harnessed. " ' Imagination abandoned by reason produces impossible monsters.' The weird owl-bats and that huge cat. I suppose it's a cat. But imagination allied with reason is the source of great wonders. I think we might have stumbled upon something here, young Fuckit. A rampant imagination, undirected and undisclipined, might be what you're suffering from."

"You think so, do you?" Henry was quite prepared to discuss his malaise and its origins. "You might be right, Sigmund. I must admit to spending much of my life in a world of fantasy. I always have, as far back as I can remember. It's probably the reason why I'm such a misfit in the real world where one is required to 'work for a living'. I can see from your general demeanour that you're about to make a recommendation. How do you suggest I get my imagination under control? Has it anything to do with quantum mechanics?”

Schroder grinned toothily and admitted his thoughts were camped in that area. But he needed more time to formulate his ideas.

"Anyway," he said, "it's already Thursday and there's no point in starting something so important right at the end of a week." He rose to his feet and Henry reluctantly followed his example. "Have a nice restful weekend and we can start fresh on Monday".

As he made his way back to the Verification Office he could feel the exuberance, burning fiercely only a few minutes ago, beginning to gutter and die down. He resolved to take the train to Cape Town on Saturday morning and visit the art library. He was in need of stimulation.

(Read more here.)

To view my longer work as an author, you can find me on Smashwords here.

Injury at Sea

Another winter storm was attacking the island. Gordon, the radio operator, picked up a call from the Tristania. While passing close to Gough in a heavy sea, a crew member had fallen into the hold and broken his arm. The ship was due to return to Cape Town in three weeks time but the man was in pain and needed medical attention. The Captain was asking if it would be possible for the team medic to lend assistance?

When John, the expedition leader, asked me if I would be up to the task, I began to perspire and felt the urge to defecate. In these stormy conditions the Tristania would not be able to anchor but would pass as close to the base as was safe and lower a dinghy to come and fetch me. The heaving swells made it too dangerous to use the crane to lower me in a net, so I would have to take the path over the arch and climb down to a narrow rocky platform at sea level. The trickiest part would be when I had to ‘hop’ aboard the dinghy.

Realising that if I did not want to be branded a coward, I had no choice but to agree to give it a shot.

After knocking back a double tot of rum I packed a haversack and we set out into the wind and rain. The arch formed a natural bridge to the outlying stack where a hand winch was bolted to a concrete base. The ship was holding steady about a mile offshore and the dinghy was making its way towards us, a lone figure at the tiller.

John, Ray and Thys, who had accompanied me, lowered the 40-foot aluminium ladder and I began the vertical descent, all the while telling myself, ‘You fall off this ladder and you’re dead.’ Down on the ledge, I was alarmed at seeing just how turbulent the water was, and how its surface heaved up and dropped back in slow convulsions. I would have to board the boat as it came alongside on an upswell.

The dinghy headed for the arch and then swung round and came towards me on a course that was almost parallel to my platform. It was clear that the helmsman would have to keep his boat moving in order not to be washed against the rocks. At the same time, he had to reach me just as the swell rose up. It took two dummy runs for him to practise the manoeuvre, and then on the third pass he moved in on an upswell and shaved past. He shouted, I jumped into the boat and as I fell to my knees, he gunned the outboard and we headed for the waiting ship.

The clamour of the motor and the force of the wind would have made any attempt at conversation both futile and embarrassing. All I could do was to give a thumbs-up and the seaman replied with a nod. As we drew nearer to the fishing vessel, I remembered that, as an afterthought, I had stuffed the Minolta into my pack along with the first aid items. If I survived this adventure I might as well have a record of it.

The ship had turned broadside to the gale, thereby offering some protection in its lee. We drew in close to the rusty steel hull and, as the vessel rolled into the vertical, I grabbed the rope ladder, stepped into space, and desperately felt for a foothold. I found a rung and began to climb. A man was standing at the rail looking down at me. He turned out to be the Captain and, after welcoming me aboard, led the way below deck.

In the crew’s quarters the patient was lying on his bunk. He was a small man of about 40 with unshaven all-weather features. Nursing his right arm, he sat up with a groan. His forearm was bruised and swollen, and the break was about half way along the radius.

“This doesn’t appear to be a compound fracture,” I said, pretending I knew what I was talking about. “That’s good, because it means that I won’t have to operate and put in a steel plate and screws, or any of that shit. But first I am going to give you an injection for the pain, and then I will stabilise your arm and put it in a sling.” To lighten things up a bit I added, “You will have to wipe your arse with your left hand for a few weeks, like a Moslem.”

I injected the Omnopon and while I was busy bandaging and strapping splints in place he began to relax.

“How are you feeling now?”

“No, I’m feeling better. The pain is going. I’m feeling lekker, man.”

“You should be. That’s the whole point of morphine.”

When I was about to leave, after giving him a week’s supply of pain killers, he reached into his locker, took out a magazine and presented it to me by way of thanks for my services.

Seated in the dinghy once more, I took a photograph of the Captain, and then one of my driver as we returned to the island. Only later did I fully comprehend just how skilled and courageous this man must have been to get me out to the ship and then safely back to the island.

Several months later, on landing in Cape Town, I was standing on the quayside waiting for my luggage to be offloaded from the Agulhas, when I caught sight of a man approaching who I recognised as the seaman with the broken arm. In alarm I looked about for a weapon with which to defend myself, imagining he was about to stab me for having set the break skew, thus causing him a whole heap of suffering by having to undergo corrective surgery. But there was a friendly smile on his face and he offered me his hand.

He was on leave right now and, when he heard that the Agulhas would be docking this morning, he decided to come and thank me for how I had helped him. He clenched his fist and flexed his muscles to show how strong and healthy his right arm had grown. I had done a really good job.

“Ah, it was nothing,” I said, trying to sound like an experienced orthopaedic surgeon. “And I would like to thank you for that magazine you gave me. It did the whole team a power of good. You know how difficult it is to come by good stuff like that in this fucked-up country?”

To view my longer work as an author, you can find me on Smashwords here.

Memory Project: Rhodesian Houseboys

 

Every white family in Rhodesia could afford at least one houseboy and often a gardenboy as well. They lived on the property and received rations in the form of mealie-meal, meat, bread and jam, tea and sugar. They were warned that pilfering would result in instant dismissal and were paid £1.10 a month. We had several houseboys over the eight years we were in Gwelo but I can only remember the three who lasted the longest: Samuel, Joseph and Samson. Their duties included washing up, sweeping, cleaning and floor polishing. As well as cooking, my mother did the washing in a washing machine that had a manual wringer consisting of two rubber rollers and a crank handle. The houseboy did the ironing, which was his most arduous task. Every item of laundry had to be ironed as a precaution against tropical diseases spread by insect larvae.

The houseboy’s staple food was mealie-meal. It was prepared as a stiff porridge known as sadza, and was cooked in a pot over an open fire on the ground in front of his kaia. He would also cook some meat to go with the sadza. This was poor quality stewing beef cut into bite-sized cubes and sold by butchers as boy’s meat. My mother kept the boy’s meat and the pet mince on the same shelf in the fridge. The mince was of an even worse quality, consisting mostly of floor sweepings. Mick, our mixed breed excuse for an Alsatian, was obliged to eat it raw in uncooked mealie-meal porridge.

I enjoyed sitting at the houseboy’s fireside watching him prepare his meal and eat it, as did Jean when she was a little older. A large pinch of sadza was taken from the pot, compressed and shaped between the fingers and then dipped in the meat pot to soak up some gravy. When I was allowed a taste I found the meat tough but the sadza was delicious.

In 1902 Pass Laws were enacted requiring all African males over the age of 14 to be registered with the authorities and issued with a pass, known in Fanagalo as a stupa. By the 1950’s this law was being applied rigidly in order to control and restrict the movement of natives. It enabled the Europeans to maintain their dominance over the indigenous population and exploit a large source of cheap labour. A houseboy could not find employment without an up-to-date stupa. Some employers would confiscate the stupa in order to deter the ‘boy’ from wandering and getting up to mischief, knowing that the police would come down hard on any black man unable to produce a valid pass. This type of treatment caused resentment that was growing steadily in the late 1950’s. The first Gwelo riots broke out in 1960.

Our houseboy at the time was Samuel; a young man who my parents agreed was unreliable and lazy. One Saturday afternoon he asked permission to go into town, promising to be back by nightfall. The following morning he was nowhere to be found and we learned that the ‘munts’ had been rioting in the Location overnight. The police had opened fire with buckshot but there had been no fatalities. On Monday morning there was still no sign of Samuel.  Then, at around midday, he was seen standing at the kaia supported by another man. One of his knees was bloodied and badly swollen. He was clearly in a great deal of pain and wanted to be taken to the hospital. My mother phoned my father, who was working for the CMED (Central Mechanical Engineering Department) at the time, and he hurried home and called the police. A police Landrover soon arrived and Samuel was helped into the back. Before driving off the cop told my father, “Don’t worry, I’ll tell the doctors not to use anaesthetic.” It was the last we saw of that ‘lazy devil,’ Samuel.

To view my longer work as an author, you can find me on Smashwords here.

Desert Island Discs

When I arrived on Gough Island in 1980, I had seven LPs in my luggage. In the Gough House living/dining room was a radio and a hi-fi with turntable and speakers. Not having brought my own sound system with me, as had the other team members, I was obliged to listen on the equipment in the base. 

My reclusive disposition made me resentful of any interruption to my listening experience. To minimize the chances of having to exchange small talk with fellow humans I chose to get up at 5am, make haste to the kitchen and prepare breakfast, and then eat it in leisurely solitude while listening to my records. If one of the met boys or Gordon, the radio operator, happened to pass through, I was taciturn and monosyllabic in response to their greetings, making it clear that I had no wish to engage in conversation.

In the course of the year I must have listened to each of the records at least twenty times, and they became imprinted on my memory. After forty years they remain indelibly familiar, if not immediately identifiable when I happen to hear one of them playing on the radio. 

None of my six companions on the island showed much interest in classical music and, for the most part, I was also indifferent to what they enjoyed. I did, however, develop an appreciation of reggae after overhearing Bob Marley coming from Thys’s room at full volume on numerous occasions. I was also introduced to Van Morrison, for which I am most thankful, but I can’t remember who used to play him.

The only live music on Gough was provided by Peter Stockwell and Ray Holland, who sometimes played their guitars and sang together in the living room.

Here is a list of the desert island discs that I still possess but have not played since my old turntable gave up the ghost more than a decade ago:

JS Bach’s Brandenburg Concerti Nos 1, 2 and 3 performed by the Wurttenberg Chamber Orchestra under Jorg Faerber.

Hector Berlioz’s Symphonie Fantastique performed by the Orchestre de Paris conducted by Daniel Barenboim.

Chopin’s Piano Concerto No 1 and Liszt’s Todenttanz performed by Alexander Brailowsky with the Philadelphia Orchestra conducted by Eugene Ormandy.

Mozart’s Piano Concertos No 20 K466 and No 27 K 595 performed by Clifford Curzon with the English Chamber Orchestra under Benjamin Britten.

Mahler’s Fourth Symphony performed by the New York Philharmonic under Bruno Walter.

Mozart’s Flute Concerto No 1 and Concerto for Flute, Harp and Orchestra with James Galway, Frits Helms and Andreas Blau and the Berlin Philharmonic conducted by Herbert von Karajan.

Beethoven’s Violin Concerto in D Major Opus 61 performed by Zino Francescatti with the Columbia Symphony Orchestra under Bruno Walter.

To view my longer work as an author, you can find me on Smashwords here.

Religious Studies

It was soon after my testicles descended that I began to doubt the existence of God, and well before my voice broke, I became a convinced atheist. Which goes to show that, despite having poor eyesight, I developed a clear view of reality at a remarkably young age. This precocious facility did not, however, prevent me from taking an interest in religious texts and beliefs in the supernatural. 

In my spare time I have examined all the world religions and read anthropological accounts of ‘primitive’ belief systems. For thousands of years people have been trying to understand and control the natural world, and to devise ways of regulating social behaviour. With the growth of scientific knowledge many archaic ideas associated with magic and superstition have been proven to be false. However, because religions are based on dogma contained in scriptures written in times when anything mysterious or seemingly inexplicable was ascribed to supernatural forces, the teachings of these creeds have a deranging effect on the minds of modern believers. 

There are numerous examples of this mental confusion resulting in sometimes bizarre and at other times horrific acts of faith. I will mention just two instances of such behaviour. The first is the belief that weather processes, which are now well understood, can be altered by cutting the throat of a domesticated animal and letting it bleed to death, or by kneeling on the floor and talking aloud with eyes closed. The other example is the conviction that anyone who tells a joke about the sexual preferences of a man who lived in Saudi Arabia nearly 2000 years ago should be murdered by any means possible, but preferably by beheading. 

Apart from Religion, I have also taken a look at History, and it is obvious to me that throughout the ages human beings have preferred to resolve disputes through violent confrontation rather than peaceful compromise. To justify and inflame their aggression, they have invariably invoked either nationalism or religion, or both. 

Although I would concede that suffering humanity finds solace in religion, and trust in a just and wise higher being helps people bear the misery of everyday existence, I nevertheless feel that, on balance, there would be less strife in the world if rationality replaced faith entirely. 

I used my interest in Religion to enliven a scene in my 2008 novel, Pop-splat. 

Matt had a dreamless night and was able to sleep until after 9. It was Sunday. Around eleven he took a walk down Wycombe Avenue and across the common to Constantia Village.

As usual the mall was busy and the car park was full. It occurred to him that here there must be more cars valued at R300 000+ than in any other parking area in Cape Town.

Horry was seated at the most remote table in the Seattle coffee shop at Exclusive Books.

“I treat this bookshop like a reference library,” Horry had once said. “The manager can recognise a besotted bibliophile when she sees one, and she tolerates my habitual presence because she understands the addiction. And I do buy a book once in a while.”

“What are you reading now?” Matt asked, as he sat down opposite his friend.

“Dawkins,” Horry replied, and closed the book to reveal the title: The God Delusion. “It’s a self-indulgent waste of time, actually. I should be reading something more challenging.”

“Isn’t it any good?” Matt was mildly surprised. “It sounds right up your atheistic street.”

“No, it’s a good book,” said Horry. “I love his humour, and his intelligent sense of decency, and the way he passionately detests the stupidity of religious believers. But he’s preaching to the converted. To me, this is merely entertaining. But to you it would be far more rewarding.” He gave Matt a withering look, the way people do just before delivering an insult. “It’d help you to get off the fucking fence.”

Horry was alluding to Matt’s agnosticism, which was so wishy-washy it could hardly be called an opinion, and definitely not a belief or a conviction. As a small child Matt had believed in God out of fear; then he had wanted to believe, but was becoming sceptical, and developing an antipathy towards religious people in general; and now he was inclined towards atheism but didn’t care enough about the subject to take up a stance.

Horry found this apathy despicable, and blamed it largely on an educational ethos that had discouraged critical thinking in order to perpetuate the status quo.

“Want some coffee?” Horry asked. “I’m going to have another cappuccino. And something to eat – the cheesecake looks good today.”

Reluctantly, Matt declined the cheesecake. His weight problem was forever forcing its way into his consciousness and exacerbating the chronic anxiety from which he now suffered. He attributed this obesity tendency partly to the bulking-up he had undergone in his rugby days. Maybe the steroids had messed up his metabolism, or something. And of course his psychiatric medication didn’t help. He really should get the shrink to add an appetite suppressant to the cocktail.

“Yes,” said Horry, returning to the subject of religion. “I shouldn’t be reading Dawkins. I should be reading computer science – you know that in my Utopia humans will allow themselves to be governed by a super computer? But computer science can be a bit dry. I get far more fired up by religion, because it’s one of the major factors contributing to our inability to sensibly organize and regulate ourselves.”

“You really do seem obsessed with the topic,” said Matt. “You must have been subjected to a lot of religious indoctrination at school. Are Jews as fanatical as Christians and Muslims?”

“Fuck yes,” said Horry. “Some of them. The Orthodox ones are real fundamentalist freaks trapped in the past and believing in all sorts of archaic junk that should have been thrown out 2000 years ago. And then, tied to Judaism is this Zionism crap. The Promised Land, for fuck’s sake! Look where that idea’s got us.”

“You mean the state of Israel?” asked Matt. He had enjoyed History at school and was thinking of taking it at Rhodes. “But after all the persecution Jews have suffered you can’t blame them for wanting their own homeland.”

“Ah, kak man.” Horry didn’t agree. “Look, what makes a Jew a Jew? You can’t tell me it’s genetic – that’s the Nazi way of thinking. No, it’s the fucking stupid religion that makes a Jew a Jew. The same with Christians, Muslims, and Hindus. God, or the belief in a God, or in any supernatural power, has failed the world. For there to be any hope for the future the eradication of religion should be tackled on a global scale, the way one would fight AIDS, or avian flu, or malaria. No man, if the Jews had all become atheists there’d have been no need for a Promised Land. All over the world they could have been assimilated by intermarrying with other atheists and the problem would have gone away.” To show how sincere he was about his anti-religion policy he added another statement. “I personally have no desire to be labelled Jewish or anything else, so I’m looking out for a nice black chick. She must be intelligent, broad-minded, well-educated and an atheist. And she must not only have turned her back on Christianity but also all that ancestor bullshit.”

“I bet you don’t talk like this in the synagogue,” said Matt.

“Jesus no; they’d crucify me.” Horry laughed. “But hey, I haven’t been inside a synagogue in five years. The last time I went was just too nauseating: this sado-paedophilic rabbi hacking away at some screaming little kid’s foreskin.”

Matt was amused and chuckled with pleasure. Horry always had something entertaining to say about the latest idea passing through his head. Even if it was an outrageous load of shit.

The middle-aged couple at the nearest table didn’t look amused at all. They must have overheard some of the antitheistic pronouncements and were now scowling angrily, thereby accentuating the ugly lines that time and natural disposition had conspired to draw on their faces.

They gulped down their coffee and gathered their parcels together. As they were leaving the woman glared at Horry and said, her voice loud with indignation, “Young man, you have no right to speak so offensively about religion. Have you no respect for anything? My husband is going to complain to the Manager.”

But the Manager wasn’t available. At the door they glanced back and Horry was able to wave goodbye.

“Stupid old fossils,” he said. “‘Have I no respect for anything?’ Well, certainly not for the likes of them. And you, Matt? Have you any respect for your parents’ generation? Behaved beautifully last night, didn’t they?”

The cheerful light that had been shining in Matt’s eyes was quickly doused. His shoulders sagged, the corners of his mouth turned down and his eyelid began to twitch. Dejection was back in residence.

The paperback version of Pop-splat can be bought from the author for R100. Contact blindoldtoppie at gmail.

To view my longer work as an author, you can find me on Smashwords here.

A Dilettante’s Interest in Heraldry

When, in my late teens, I encountered the word ‘dilettante’ I assumed it to be mildly derogatory. I consulted a dictionary and found this definition: 'A person who cultivates the arts as an amateur. A person who takes an interest in a subject merely as a pastime and without serious study. A dabbler.'

I took time to digest this and when I considered the definition and visualised the character, the lifestyle, I saw nothing to be despised. In fact, the more I thought about it the more the role appealed. What was reprehensible about dabbling? What was wrong with taking an interest in a subject merely as a pastime? I had already formed the view that life itself was a pastime and not worth serious study. 

On several occasions in my youth I was asked what I was going to be in life. Each time I took this question seriously and gave it some thought before replying. Because it was such a troublesome question, such a vastly open one, the process of answering it was lengthy. Even if the answer itself was always the same, it was preceded by varying degrees of confusion, anguish and irritation. The invariable response was, "I really don't know." Invariable, that is, until the brave bold day when I smiled brightly and spoke with self-assured candour.

"I'm going to be a dilettante."

This decision to become a dilettante has allowed me to take a superficial interest in anything and everything under the sun. Even Heraldry.

 

I was chastised for buying this book in 2000. How could I justify spending good money on a book about such an obscure subject? In my defence I repeated the assertion that the more one knows about the world, the more interesting a place it becomes. Five years later, when I was writing The Life of Henry Fuckit, I remembered from my time in the Dockyard the ships ‘crests painted on the walls of the Selborne Dry dock. Because of my new-found knowledge of heraldry these decorations took on significance and I was in a position to incorporate them in the story.

"Ah yes. See that chap in the brown dust-coat? That's Eddie Robinson. He's the Paint shop storeman. Forever coming up with ingenious inventions. This time he's trying to perfect an APG. Could save a lot of time and money, making all that cumbersome scaffolding obsolete."

"APG?"

"Airborne Paint Gondola. There they go. Seems to be working better now. Last time he used helium and some bungling fool let go the wrong rope and it required a major air and sea operation to rescue the painters." They turned away and sat down again. "Robinson's also a renowned expert on heraldry. You saw all those coats of arms painted above the waterline? Every ship that's been into dry dock over the past forty years has its shield on the wall. There's a small team of painters who do nothing but heraldry. If you were interested you could spend years making a study of medieval history, armorial design, heraldic nomenclature, the rules, regulations and guidelines set down by the International Academy of Heraldry. The conventional use of colours and tinctures in the decorative display of armorial paraphernalia could occupy your attention day in and day out. Like Robinson, if you so desired, you could immerse yourself in signs and symbols, seals, shields, standards and stamps. Not to mention mosaics, motifs, mottoes and monograms. And what of badges and banners, blazons, bars and bezants? The field is vast, festooned with flags and fesses and fleurs-de-lis, emblems, ensigns, escutcheons and escarbuncles."

Bergson reined in his galloping lyricism and returned to the central theme of his introductory prologue. "Yes, fascinating. But there are any number of these diverse microcosms in the Dockyard. The Paint Shop is only one such engrossing world." (Read more here.)

This is another illustration of the relevance of Heraldry in the 21st century. In October 2021 the Gansberg News devoted five History Pages by John McGregor to the origins of 20 common South African family names. The list was as follows: Le Roux, Groenewald, Barnard, Swart, Otto, De Villiers,Pieterse, Du Toit, Fourie, Germishuys, Visagie, Vermeulen, Kemp, De Kock, Van Dyk, Mathee, Vivier, Moolman, Lourens and Badenhorst.

Each family has a coat of arms that carries meaning and is of worth close examination, especially if one appreciates heraldic symbolism.

Even a box of matches can be of interest to the student of Heraldry. The lion is the most frequently depicted animal in armorial design, probably because of its reputation for superiority, fearlessness, strength and nobility. My book lists as many as 39 different stylizations. The one chosen by the Lion Match Company is known as couchant, meaning lying down with head raised.

To view my longer work as an author, you can find me on Smashwords here.