Faces in the Stream

GARY

2011-09-28T08:39:00.000-07:00

I met Gary during a recent spell in hospital. And what a spell! I swear those wards are haunted by demon porters that come out at night when the sisters aren't looking. They trundle you off along dark passages and into tomb-rooms infused with noxious odours. I mentioned as much to Gary, who replied that he wouldn't be surprised, "After all, it's an ancient building and many have breathed their last in the beds we occupy." That wasn't an uplifting thought, especially for Gary who had received news that day that his cancer was incurable. I gave him the advice my grandmother gave me when I had bad news. "Run! Get outside into the light. Take deep breaths, chase squirrels, drink good red wine and don't let anybody stand in your patch of sunshine." I never saw Gary again, but I hope he has some fun before moving on.

UNCLE FRED

2011-07-31T05:32:00.000-07:00

Uncle Fred was a jockey. So was his dad. They lived in a house on a rise overlooking a race course in Harare when it was still known as Salisbury. Family and friends could make bets and watch the races from the comfort of their cool verandah until, as Uncle Fred said, "Some mean-minded capitalist bastard planted a row of trees to prevent poor people from viewing without paying."
His brothers were very tall and as the 'baby' of the family he was always given the care and respect that small people enjoy and deserve. Far from spoiling him though, it taught him to care too, not only for horses, but also for orphans, beggars and stray dogs. He would have given most of what he had away, had not our careful and devout Aunt Frances pocketed the purse.
Some of my happiest childhood memories are driving in the back of his truck on a long journey to picnic at Mermaids Pool. Once there we would dash to the top of the waterfall and squeal down the natural rock slide on tyre tubes, skimming across the dark-green water at breathtaking pace to land on the far side of the pool. Those were long-ago smiley times, and Uncle Fred was always at the heart of them.
Many years after Rhodesia became Zimbabwe, and friends and family had scattered across the world, I drove past Uncle Fred's house. The race course had moved to the north side of the city and the house had become a brothel, with a large sign on the gate proclaiming it as The Queen of Sheba. Uncle Fred would have had a good laugh about that, but I don't think Aunt Frances would have been amused.

PANSY

2011-07-10T07:00:00.000-07:00

When I was thirteen I thought Pansy was as close to a goddess as a human could be. Small, beautiful, and effervescent, she was my school-friend, Lavender’s, sister. Their father was a market-gardener who gave his children names of his favourite plants. When he was old enough, their younger brother changed his name from Chard to Charles, although I preferred Chard - it seemed stronger somehow. I often stayed on the farm during school holidays and Pansy, who was working then, used to visit at weekends. She would arrive in a vast American convertible with her latest beau, Larry, who looked like something out of a romantic novel - you know the type; square chin, smiling eyes, big shoulders. Pansy had a voice like an angel and every evening after dinner their mother would accompany her on the piano as she sang family-favourite songs. Larry was particularly partial to Ivor Novello and would sing along with her. I can see him now, gazing into Pansy’s eyes as he crooned, “I can give you the starlight, love unchanging and troooooo, I can give you the ocean, deeeeeep and tender de vo tion…”

Although we admired Pansy's voice, Lavender, Chard and I would cringe at this display of ‘slushy stuff’, and creep away onto the verandah, preferring the sounds of an African night. Pansy was also very perceptive. When she realised we had disappeared she would fold up the sheet music, clap her hands and say, “Okay, that’s enough! Why don’t we take the kids on a crocodile hunt?” You can’t help worshiping a woman like that! Then off we’d go, bouncing along dusty, potholed roads to the river, where we’d shine lights onto the dark water and search for those red eyes gliding silently along the surface.

You know the sad thing about this story? ( No, it's not because we hunted crocodiles; we only looked for them but never shot them.) It's that I haven’t a clue where Pansy is today. Or Lavender and Chard for that matter.

ZELDA

2011-06-19T08:46:00.000-07:00

John Galliano's make-up artists have nothing on Zelda when it comes to artful visages. Not many people have seen Zelda au naturel since she left school at 16 and changed her name from Mary. "Why Zelda?" I asked her. "I stole it from Zelda Fitzgerald, after I read that she promised to serve Scott 'sunshine and birdsong' for breakfast. That's so much better than muesli."
Zelda studied hairdressing first, and later fashion design. Now she owns The Curiosity Cave, a little shop under a bridge somewhere in London, selling things you'd never think of looking for but somehow can't live without once you've seen them. It's more than a shop, it's an extraordinary experience. As is Zelda.
She lives with her mother, Dinah, who sometimes helps out in the shop. They share a close and warm relationship, but, in her ordinariness, Dinah looks quite out of place among Zelda's curiosities. I mentioned that once, and she said, "Oh well, you need courage and unselfconsciousness to be ridiculous. And Zelda has enough for both of us." Indeed, she has both qualities in full measure, which is what I admire most about her.

MURIEL

2011-05-29T05:44:00.000-07:00

Whenever I see Muriel she is sporting a new hair colour. 'Sporting' is the right word to describe it because she plays a good sport for Luigi, her hairstylist, who uses Muriel to test his bizarre tint experiments. Muriel has no false modesty; she'll try anything once, and, if things go awry, Luigi knows he can always placate her with a cheeky kiss and a bottle of good Italian wine. The last time I saw her was at a marketing conference - she is a media buyer for a top advertising agency and was being plied with fiery cocktails by an executive from a large news corporation. He was looking for business, she was simply having a good time and I doubt that she would have remembered much of his sales schpiel the next morning.
Muriel is really good at her job, which is why she is able to hold onto it, despite her two weaknesses - booze and dogs. She imbibes too much of the former and collects too many of the latter - at last count it was four Afghans, three Daxies, a Collie, a Yorkie and a curious breed that her local Vet refers to as 'Toothbrush'.
Fortunately, she has a large property for her pets to enjoy, but she is notoriously diffident about poo patrol, which probably accounts for the poor turnout at the garden parties she likes to throw in summer and also for her lack of a long-term partner and 'single' Facebook status. Men don't like to compete with ten dogs and all their output. Does it worry her? I don't think so. Muriel's favourite quote is Madame de Stael's "The more I see of men, the more I like dogs."

William and Kate

2011-05-18T09:52:00.000-07:00

This was made on the day of their marriage,

It had to be done you know...

the customary kiss. Then another!

Her sister, his brother

and the world came along for the show.

They loved the ride in the carriage

And gasped when that dress was revealed,

But the one thing that made it for millions

Was the kiss, that balcony kiss...

Kate and William's love-match was sealed.

HENRY

2011-02-06T04:48:00.000-08:00

He doesn't look it, but Henry's a very shy person...deep down, I mean really shy. He has a good voice and loves to sing, but the only way he can summon enough courage to take to the stage is to down a double Scotch or two . Once the spirits soar, Henry grabs the microphone, takes a deep breath and the songs pour forth...and fifth... and sixth. Once he starts, Henry's hard to stop. Trouble is, his repertoire is somewhat limited, and after a while you tire of revisiting his old Sinatra and Satchmo favourites. The only person who can get him to stop is his wife, Sylvia. Last week, after an hour of hogging the stage at the club, he was crooning that old Louis Armstrong hit, 'We have all the time in the world...' when Sylvia piped up, "Oh no we don't, Henry. We're going home. NOW!" We've decided to add it to our requests whenever Sylvia's around.

MISS SILK

2011-01-10T07:46:00.000-08:00

We never knew her first name. Miss Silk taught scripture at Girls' High School in Salisbury, Rhodesia, in the fifties. She was tall, upright and matronly, with enormous breasts that seemed to end at her waist. Well-spoken and devoid of humour, she was so committed to her subject that she never taught anything else. Scripture lessons were dull and dragged on interminably. Sometimes we'd see Miss Silk at the cathedral on Sundays in earnest conversation with Sister Ailsa, who had a much more cheerful attitude towards her calling and tried to encourage Miss Silk to take a lighter view of life. It didn't seem to do much good until one day a girl brought brought a book to school, called The Robe. It was a novel about the robe that Jesus wore at his crucifixion and Marcellus, a Roman tribune who won the robe in a game of dice. We persuaded Hester, Miss Silk's favourite pupil, to bring it to class and show it to her. At first she was horrified. "How can anyone possibly write fiction about this?" "Read it, Miss Silk, I'm sure you'll like it. In fact, we'd love you to read it to us." From that day, every scripture class was a pleasure. Miss Silk would keep us entranced, one chapter at a time, although if there were any lusty bits she left those out and probably enjoyed them at home. The book seemed to change her personality too and she even smiled occasionally. I don't remember ever scoring a pass mark in scripture, but Hester shot to the top of the class.

HUBERT

2011-01-05T09:33:00.000-08:00

Our gay friend who once lived in Cairo,

Wrote novels in pencil and biro,

The stories he’d pen

Made heroes of men,

But his women were limpid and shallow

PHILOMENA

2011-01-04T08:51:00.000-08:00

My friend's gran is nearing her century

And gradually losing her memory

She said I should mention

She’s not a ‘dementian’

Life’s simply becoming imaginary.

NAJIB

2011-01-02T07:53:00.000-08:00

My uncle, whose dad came from Turkey

Had a girlfriend quite pretty and perky,

He wanted to wed her

Soon after he met her

But her past was suspiciously murky.

JIMI

2011-01-01T01:38:00.000-08:00

My friend, Jimi, lives under the sea. I visualise him searching for pearly shells and golden coins. He was a true artist who lived only to experience life through his art. Extraordinarily kind and generous, Jimi would share his food with any stranger, even if it was all he had. I met him in Nigeria. He never stayed in one place very long and it was always a surprise and delight to see him on my travels. He seemed to survive on his wit and goodwill, surrounded in a haze of wonder which he expressed in his paintings and carvings. He would give them away to anybody who showed an interest in his work. Whenever we met he would greet me with his extraordinary smile, waving a large roll of happy baccy. Our last encounter was on a faraway beach where he would go to watch the birds. It was from there, on his birthday many years ago, that he wandered into the sea and never returned. The memory of Jimi always makes me smile.

PEREGRINE

2010-12-18T01:49:00.000-08:00

Peregrine is delightfully different. He has the curiosity of a child, so his world is constantly filled with wonder. At school he was the bane of teachers. He would always be daydreaming, watching birds out of the window when he should have been looking at the blackboard. He was also fascinated by faith - not a particular religion, but by the mystical nature of it and its effect on people. For a while he was persuaded to be an altar boy, but the priest had to let him go because his spontaneous nature was not suited to the task. "Hello Mrs. Roberts!", he'd greet an elderly communicant, proffering the wine chalice after Father Henry had dispensed the 'bread'. He often got into trouble and would always gaze upwards when the headmaster was admonishing him. "Why do you always look up? Look at me when I'm talking to you, boy!" he would yell. "Sorry Sir!" Peregrine replied, "but Father Henry says whenever we're in trouble we should lift our eyes to the mountains, whence cometh help." Peregrine escaped a beating that day, but I heard Father Henry got it in the neck.

SMUDGE

2010-12-17T10:16:00.000-08:00

When I asked her mother, Joan, why her daughter was known by this strange name, she said it was because Smudge always left her mark wherever she went. Books were her first love, and she would have preferred to spend all her time in a library, but she needed to earn a living. Her first job, in the days before computers and credit cards, was as a receptionist at a posh restaurant. They fired her because she could never balance her receipts with the cash register. Some time later she discovered that she was using receipts as bookmarks in the novels she would take to work to read in quiet moments. Smudge's second love was travel. She would always go alone and abandon herself to her many experiences - like the time she flew to Cyprus and sent me a postcard with the message, "I had a ride on a donkey and a Greek on a Flokati". Her admirers were legion, but she never married. Her third love was Russian vodka which she would enjoy at any hour of the day, although I never saw her inebriated. I will always associate Smudge with the tinkling sound of ice in a martini glass. It was probably the vodka that killed her, but I know she died laughing.

GORDON

2010-11-29T04:01:00.000-08:00

Sportsman, linguist, intellectual, Gordon filled a gap I didn't know was there until he wasn't. He was my working colleague, friend and close companion. I often recall driving across the Karroo and over mountain passes in our mobile laboratory, to research remote communities in the forest by the sea. When our truck broke down, Gordon always knew how to fix it, while I sat on the sidelines, passing spanners, encouragement and futile suggestions which always made him laugh.

He smoked a lot and the Big C eventually got him. His wife had died suddenly a few months earlier; she collapsed over the soup as they dined out in a fancy restaurant. "It was a good way for her to go", he said when he called to tell me the news. "Rather that, than coughing your way into a coffin!" he added.

We shared a spliff and a last laugh in his sick-room as the midday sun warmed a pretty garden outside the window.

After he died I realised the size of the gap he left behind.

I'm busy filling it with splendid, happy memories.

ANASTASIA

2010-11-21T06:13:00.000-08:00

Anastasia loves children. She has five, fathered by four different men, and has supported them all herself with money earned from her fabulous hats. The children live a life of fantasy, playing in rooms swathed in satin and velvet. They pin silk flowers onto paper-mâché heads and run through the house trailing muslin veils and colourful ribbons from their hair.
Anastasia's hats make headlines every year on Durban's favourite July race day. Women vie with each other to have the most memorable creation and punters are known to put more bets on the hats than on the horses. Last year Harriet wore the winning hat. It boasted a shiny antenna and had mobile phones dangling from the brim. She invited friends to call their bookies from her mobiles. Anastasia and Harriet are still enjoying their winnings from the tips they overheard.

FLYING EAGLE

2010-11-08T00:57:00.000-08:00

This portrait was painted for Jean. She says Flying Eagle is Ariadne's spirit guide. Of course it's all imaginary because I've never seen a spirit guide. But I like the idea of having an eagle as a guide; they have powerful eyes and can see everything. We once had an eagle visiting our garden in Africa. It flew over every day for several weeks. The day before we were due to leave our African house forever, it swooped down low over our heads as we were walking in the garden, before flying away. I like to think it was bidding us farewell and ensuring us a safe journey. Jean says it was.

ARIADNE

2010-11-07T04:36:00.000-08:00

Ariadne is my friend Jean's spirit medium. She's quite famous and has written a few books about her work. Jean has read them all and follows Ariadne faithfully. When I say 'follow' I mean she goes to all her meetings and sometimes has personal sessions too. It started after her husband died. She was inconsolable until a friend took her to meet Ariadne at a public meeting. I don't really understand anything about it, but I have to admit, since her first meeting with Ariadne, Jean has changed completely; from a sad, withdrawn person she has become calm, outgoing and contented with her situation.
It just goes to show how much we don't understand about what we don't know.

ANTHEA

2010-11-04T04:20:00.000-07:00

Anthea is a mystic. Wide-eyed and serene, she has charisma piled high in woven reed baskets. People love her, but she'd rather be alone with her thoughts, music, books, and the birds that visit her secret garden. It's a place she keeps to herself, and to be invited in is considered fortunate. She will sit with you under her favourite jacaranda tree and feed you lemon poppyseed cake and mead made from wildflower honey. Sometimes she will read Tarot cards for you. Quite unreal and hard to define, Anthea has, in the past, led what can be described as a real life. She was orphaned at an early age and sent to live with a rough bunch of male cousins. An uncle abused her. Men have loved and left her with four babies to care for.When I first met her she would rail against men and call them all 'monsters'. Then her son died, and she cried for a year before finding solace in mystery and magic. Her children have grown up and left home and despite her many admirers, Anthea chooses to live a solitary life. She quotes Einstein when questioned about this,"Solitude is painful when one is young, but delightful when one is more mature." You may think she has her head in the clouds, but Anthea is the most grounded person I know.

EILEEN

2010-10-24T08:02:00.000-07:00

Eileen is a saintly woman. She's a distant relative; so distant, we haven't yet worked out the connection, but I call her 'cousin' because she seems to like it. Despite disapproving of the choices I've made in my life, Eileen always welcomes me with a hug and a wry smile. "What have you been up to lately?" she'll ask, as she pours beer into a long glass for me and tea for herself, before sitting down to join me on a shady bench in her English country garden. We'll spend a lazy summer afternoon catching up. Despite her disapproval, she seems never to tire of my stories. Her life has been an unchanging melody of serenity and goodness, mine a cacophony of crazed happenings.

We're good for each other; forever friends that provide one another with experiences and thoughts we can't create for ourselves. Before the night sets in we'll part with a continental kiss and a warm hug. And as she waves goodbye, Eileen never fails to say, "See you again in six years". Perhaps she will.

BLYTHE

2010-10-23T05:58:00.001-07:00

Blythe has an eye for the unusual and a delight in the extraordinary. She’s quite strange, a free spirit, which helps her find the kind of people she likes to write about. Her stories have to be factual – she’s a journalist, you see. Sometimes you’ll watch her cornering a distracted actor at the opening party of a controversial play. At others you’ll find her trawling libraries and museums for lone eccentrics. Blythe works hard, plays hard and drives her vintage Jaguar very fast, which has in the past resulted in a series of unfortunate accidents. Her feline fortuity enables her to escape unscathed, apart from a few scars which she refers to as her life marks and wears with pride. She’s like a character in a novel by JG Ballard; one that is admired by many and feared by some. The last time we saw her she was recovering in hospital, following her departure from a particularly riotous beach party. She can’t remember much about the accident or the party, which is a pity because she danced a divine striptease.

FANNY AND FREDDIE

2010-09-02T05:16:00.000-07:00

Do you know people that never seem to age? Fanny and Freddie are like that. We've known them forever and they appear to be exactly the same today as when we met them in the last century. It's probably because they do as they please and never worry about consequences. Fanny has her heart permanently fixed on the sixties and still sunbathes in an itzy-bitzy, teeny-weeny bikini, although it doesn't have yellow the polka dots from the eponymous song. Lately, I've noticed Freddie admiring his wife's trim shape while singing along with Mick, "I can't get no satisfaction". Age eventually catches up with us all, but Freddie consoles himself by saying "What doesn't work, doesn't hurt." There has to be some happy truth in that.

DAMIEN

2010-08-23T03:09:00.000-07:00

Damien was a problem in his teens. He hated his home, his parents and his school, but most of all he hated authority. He dropped out of school, dealt drugs and got caught. A wise old woman told him that hatred is usually born of fear, and fear is often born of ignorance; the only way to challenge authority was to get an education. Damien thought about what she said. He returned to school, worked hard, got top grades and earned a university bursary. There he studied Socrates, who said, “I cannot teach anybody anything, I can only make them think.”

MAGNUS

2010-08-20T04:15:00.001-07:00

Colleagues used to describe Magnus as a 'nasal drip’. He had a tendency to complain about things in a curious voice that seemed to emanate from the back of his left nostril. However, I always liked Magnus. He had a warped sense of humour, despite his constant moan about the conditions under which he worked. Actually, they weren’t all that bad if you ignored the fact that his ‘cell’ had no window and his desk had no drawers. The thing I admired most about Magnus was his magnificent nose. It was unlike any other I’ve ever seen and, on those rare occasions when we were invited to business lunches, Magnus had a knack of sniffing out the best wine on the menu. I was sorry when he left, but I reckon the distillery he now works for has hired the best 'nose' in the business.

CHATWIN

2010-08-18T02:36:00.001-07:00

I knew Chatwin as a boy. He has never worked; he inherited a fortune from his father – along with his prejudices.. We called him ‘Chat’ but that was a misnomer. He never ‘chatted’, he would harangue you with his opinions on culture, heritage, foreigners… I cannot recall a single occasion when I agreed with anything he said. Chatwin is an arch racist and sees himself as a defender of “British Values” He’s trapped in a web of biases, so he’s never experienced the exuberance of an African wedding, the wisdom of African literature, the warmth of an African welcome.
I don’t envy Chatwin his wealth. I pity his ignorance.

DORA, REVEALED.

2010-07-23T01:07:00.001-07:00

Should you wish to meet the face that goes with this figure, you'll find her here:

http://mundycastle.blogspot.com/2010/05/dora.html

HENRIETTA

2010-07-23T00:27:00.001-07:00

When you're out with Henrietta the world seems so much better

than it was before you met her at the pub in Gordon Place.

It's the way she moves her eyebrow when she thinks you're being highbrow,

makes you laugh, and you can recognise the brain behind the face.

She is lovely, but quite 'frilly. You expect her to be silly

But she's not, she knows a lot about a lot more than she says.

Young Cyril, who's a boffin, took her dining pretty often

but she drove him to distraction and left him in a mess.

Many guys have tried to woo her, and some would like to sue her,

she'd lead them on, then leave them, as she tossed her fluffy curls.

But I've a sneaky feeling the woman's more appealing

to the fairer sex. I've noticed Henrietta prefers girls.

LILIAN-ADA

2010-07-19T05:59:00.000-07:00

Lilian-Ada was a matron in a children's home somewhere in Africa. She had emigrated from England in 1945, after the war ended. Small, bright, and obsessively neat, Lilian-Ada nurtured the girls in her care with fussy love and fierce discipline. Her favourite things were two large chocolate boxes; one with a glossy picture of roses on the lid and the other with a scene of a bluebell wood. In the Rose Box she kept a collection of colourful satin ribbons, with which she tied up unruly hair. She would select a colour to suit the girl, not her dress. Daisy, who was raucous and needed to calm down a bit, always got a blue ribbon. Shy Magdalene would sport a giant yellow bow 'to draw her out'. For some strange reason nobody ever got the dark-purple ribbon. It was as if this particular hue was tinged with emotions and attributes that were best avoided. The Bluebell Box held a collection of the prettiest handkerchiefs imaginable. Nobody was allowed to use them for anything as crass as nose-blowing; they would be tucked into blouse pockets to display their exquisite embroidered flowers and delicate lace corners to fellow cummunicants at the cathedral on Sundays.

Those were the two unforgettable things about Lilian-Ada. I always thought she was a confirmed spinster, a devout Anglican, but, many years after we last met, I heard she had forsaken the cathedral crowd, joined an evangelical church and had stolen somebody's husband!
You never really know people, do you?

JUNE AND HER BROTHERS

2010-07-16T09:10:00.001-07:00

There are people that make you feel bigger,
And some who can make you feel small,
And then there are others, like June and her brothers,
Who seem to feel nothing at all.
They never say thank you on birthdays
for gifts that arrive in the post.
They’ll have no compunction gate-crashing a function
And not give a hoot for the host.
June thinks the whole world should respect them,
“Why not, can’t you see that we’re rich?”
You may be well dressed, but no-one’s impressed
With crude boys and a girl who’s a bitch

THEMBA

2010-07-11T06:27:00.001-07:00

We saw him in downtown Harare

Showing off in his First Street Ferrari

His dad was a minister

With others more sinister

In the cabinet of Bad Bob Mugabe

MADELEINE

2010-07-10T01:19:00.000-07:00

This story begins in the mid sixties. You have heard about my wife, Dolly, who met Mukhtar. She died shortly after we arrived in the USA. A friend, trying to shake me out of my depressed state, took me to a party in New York, where I met a beautiful young woman, Madeleine, and felt an instant attraction - a coup de foudre. It was obviously mutual, because Madeleine took me back to her little apartment where I immediately stripped off, and didn't return home for two weeks! It was a blissful, romantic interlude, but neither of us expected it to last, and when I had to leave, she slipped a little note into my pocket and told me not to open immediately. It read the pain is unbearable!

I am notoriously bad at remembering names and directions and on many subsequent visits to New York I tried to find Madeleine. I searched for hours, stopping off at pubs to quench the thirst I built up trudging the pavements, and usually ended up inebriated and sad at not having found her. So we lost touch and my career took me to the other side of the world.

Fast forward forty years. I was at another party, this time in Harare, Zimbabwe. A friend had just arrived back from Paris where he had been judging an international poster exhibition and was recounting an evening he spent at the home of a French graphic designer. "Strangely enough, Mundy, his partner asked me if I knew you. I told her I had been with you the weekend before. She had spotted your name on one of my emails"

You've guessed...it was Madeleine! I immediately communicated with her and, when visiting my sister in England the following year, she came across from Paris to meet up again. With her she brought a Ghanaian coin that I had given her when I left her all those years ago. She had kept it in a little jewellers box in the hope we would meet up again. It is a wonderful memory enhancer. Each time I see it I remember those heady days in New York when Madeleine and I experienced the bliss of a fine romance.

MUKHTAR

2010-07-05T02:27:00.001-07:00

This portrait is dedicated to my friend Mukhtar. I was once on my way to meet my wife, Dolly, in Tangiers, travelling via Dakar where I planned to spend a few days with an old friend, Dickie, who was working as a simultaneous translator at a conference there. As we drove out on my last night there, we had an accident and both landed up in a hospital with questionable hygiene from which we were able to escape. However, this delayed my flight to Tangiers by several days and I had no way of notifying Dolly about my date of arrival. When, eventually, I was able to travel (both arms in slings), I landed in Morocco and was greeted by a stranger who said, with some concern, "Are you Doctor Mundy?". Delighted by my affirmative reply, he added, "I am Mukhtar and I am here to take you to your wife". You can imagine my relief!

I learned that Mukhtar had been coming to the airport every day to meet incoming flights in the hope of finding me. Dolly had met him in a market and they had found mutual interests in the Malay culture of the Cape from where she originated. When I had not arrived, and she had not heard from me, Mukhtar advised her not to worry, as he would keep going to the airport until he found me. And he did. More than that, he took me to see his family doctor, who gently nursed my wounds and restored my health until I was fit enough to fly to USA, to where Dolly and I were migrating. We never forgot the generous hospitality of these warm, friendly people in Morocco. I have travelled to many places in the world, but nowhere have I received in such full measure the extraordinary kindness of strangers as I did in Tangiers.

JIM AND BRUTUS

2010-07-02T08:52:00.000-07:00

People say that dogs and owners resemble each other. I reckon Jim and Brutus could be said to be alike. They both like walks, chats with strangers in the park and a good t-bone. They're also both bachelors. Despite all the attractive female dogwalkers that Brutus attracts, Jim has never plucked up enough courage to take their conversations further. Nanette gave him the glad eye when they met while she was out walking her poodle, but then she does that a lot and Jim hasn't got the kind of fortune she digs. He'd be much better off with Jude, except she's a vegetarian. It's quite hard to match a beef lover with a woman who prefers lettuce.
(ps: for those who can't see Brutus - he's the curious dog on the bottom half of the picture.)

ZUO

2010-06-25T07:02:00.001-07:00

All my African friends have the most wonderful teeth which they clean with unusual objects. I’ve even watched them burnishing their molars with a bone. Zuo is no exception. His teeth are the brightest and most beautiful I’ve ever seen and he displays them with the friendliest smile imaginable. It stretches across his face in a manner so infectious that even the unhappiest passer-by will smile in return. That’s the real beauty of Zuo’s smiles – they spread a joyful feeling wherever he goes. And he certainly moves around; I’ve met up with him in all kinds of settings. Once, at a Moonies conference, where we had managed to get invited and paid to give a paper on morality, Zuo arrived with a beautiful prostitute on his arm. The organisers wanted to throw him out, but he made such a case for the morality of his behaviour, they not only doubled his fee, but granted him a luxury suite at the best hotel for Zuo and his partner. I asked him what he had said and he replied ,“My name is Zuokemefa – it is an Ijaw name which means God has not forgotten – and he never forgets prejudice."

LEONARD

2010-06-20T04:18:00.000-07:00

Leonard’s sad all over. Sad face, sad thoughts, sad life. The problem is, he wants to change the world to suit his view of how things ought to be. When he was a boy he thought he could do it through religion, but was confused because his parents were Jews who had become Christian missionaries. They lived a comfortable life, as missionaries did for many years in Africa, with servants that cooked, cleaned and served dinner on a large mahogany table, adorned with a crisp white cloth, starched napkins and cutlery shined with Silvo. He was still young when his parents were murdered by a deranged convert and Leonard moved to the city where he was taken under the wing of an elderly maiden aunt who indulged him with a comfortable, contemplative life and he became interested in poetry. When she died she left him a small legacy, so he decided to use it to further his career as a poet, but everybody knows poetry doesn’t make money and the legacy soon ran out. A friend got him a copywriting job in an advertising agency, which was a bit of a battle for poor Leonard; not surprising in an industry that is unkind to romantic poets. Clients don’t want world-changing ads, they want to change attitudes to boost the bottom line, and if this means putting your name to a mind-numbing jingle instead of an epic aria you just have to live with it. Leonard couldn’t. Well, not for long. So now he’s a carer, and recites his poetry to appreciative audiences in homes for the aged. Actually, I would say that Leonard is learning how to be happy; he’s discovering that changing the world is simply changing your world.

ADELEKE

2010-06-17T23:29:00.000-07:00

Visual problems have plagued Adeleke all her life, but that hasn't prevented her from doing what she wants to do and succeeding at it. I met her many years ago in Nigeria when she was a student and I was a professor, and I knew at our first meeting that she was an exceptional woman. She's a doctor now and still as beautiful as she was when she was young. Her field of study is language development and she specialises in teaching children with learning difficulties. Extraordinarily kind and caring, her success rate is outstanding, as is her popularity. The last time I saw her in Lagos she had a trail of young people behind her, carrying her books and laptop, ensuring she was safely escorted to her car which was chauffered by an adoring student. Over the years we've spent a lot of time with each other and often attended international conferences together, but I was never able to woo Adeleke because she always insisted "You cannot kiss me, my dear. I love you in a special way but I'm married to Jesus".

MADGE AND TONY

2010-06-15T00:14:00.001-07:00

They were once rugby fanatics shouting for the Sharks but, now that the World Cup is in South Africa, football is getting their support for the first time ever. Madge's vocal enthusiasm is legendary; she has a voice like a vuvuzela, cultivated at rugby fests the world over. To sit beside her is to lose your hearing for at least a week. Tony has been deaf for years. They are the most generous couple you could meet. When we lived in Durban we would join them for post-match picnics in the car park, where they stage celebratory feasts for winning and consolatory feasts for losing. Plenty of beer, boerewors and biltong is always on the menu, along with home-made herb and garlic rolls and a splendid green salad which Tony tosses like a mad man. They also excel with their cheese choices and a variety of good South African wines. Blend this with aftermatch merrymaking and, win or lose, you have a scene set for a good time all round. We miss them and we miss that carefree, fun-loving, South African lifestyle

COLIN AND JEAN

2010-05-22T09:32:00.001-07:00

I have never known a couple that argue as much as my friends, Colin and Jean. When I first met them I found it uncomfortable to witness their wrangling, but then I realised that they were really enjoying it. I began to observe their clever ruses to edge themselves into a conflict, deliberately baiting one another with words and actions that would inevitably ignite an attack. At one time I would make my excuses and leave, but I realised they like an audience so now I stay and witness the spectacle. Sometimes I'll be called in to adjudicate. "Don't you think she's stupid?", "Isn't he an absolute bastard?", but I don't allow myself to be drawn in and, anyway, they're not really looking for my opinion. They just need to disagree with one another. When it's all over Colin will inevitably open a few bottles of good red wine and we'll all enjoy the aftermath. They keep an an excellent cellar so it's always worth waiting it out.

AVRIL

2010-05-22T08:59:00.000-07:00

I think she was born in a boardroom. Avril keeps the books at Donovan's, a small furnishing company in the city. Once she was book keeper, but now the sign on her door says Financial Director in shiny brass letters. Avril's been there longer than anyone and knows all the nuances of financial fiddling . If she left, the owner would crumble. Nobody else would mind much because Avril is possibly the most difficult person you could ever work with. The only person that really loves her is Toby, her dog. He's something of a snappy chappy too. Try to pat him and he'll nip your hand in a flash of sharp teeth. Avril is allowed to bring him to work because Mr. Donovan, the boss, thinks she is indispensible and she's threatened to leave if she has to leave Toby alone at home. Year end is her favourite time when Avril takes her place at board meetings and her opinion is sought on matters which only she and Mr. D can fathom. I've been told it's because they have sabotaged the system so that nobody else can possibly find their way around it. Not even the tax man. Oh clever Avril! Oh poor Mr. D!

DORA

2010-05-19T00:32:00.000-07:00

When I was Chairman of a department Dora was, without doubt, the best secretary I ever had. Anybody who has ever had a good secretary knows the streamlined excellence they bring to the boardroom. Her keyboard skills were legendary; she could type as I talked and never miss a word. Daily intrusions on my time were dealt with expertly - Dora was like a skilled border collie at herding unwanted people away from my door. I think I must have been the only person in the entire organisation that had no problems with email or an overflowing in-tray. Unfortunately for me, her skills soon caught the attention of a visiting CEO who wooed her away to his glass edifice in the city and doubled her salary. The most interesting thing about Dora, though, was her after-hours activities which nobody was aware of. Despite her well-paid office skills, she never gave up her evening job as a sensuous pole dancer. I discovered her secret on a pub crawl in a forgotten part of the city and made her a promise that I would never divulge it. This doesn't count, because you'll never find the pub and Dora isn't her real name.

HARRIET

2010-05-18T09:02:00.001-07:00

Don't be deceived by her vacuous expression; there's nothing bland about Harriet Jaysmith.
She's a person of considerable complexity. On Sundays she joins bellringers pulling on ropes at at her local church. She's not particularly taken with religion, but she's wild about bells. During the week she studies the sex life of gnats, or something equally miniscule, and writes incomprehensible papers to present at academic conferences all over the world. When you first meet her, Harriet seems quite shy, but it doesn't take long to break through her reserve. The last time we went to the races together she wore a hat of extraordinary proportions and a dress of remarkable transparency.

NANETTE

2010-05-18T08:39:00.001-07:00

A woman whose name is Nanette

Seduced every man that she met

But they had to be rich

For this infamous bitch

Would leave if they got into debt.

Which they usually did, because Nanette is renowned as a big spender. The eponymous song seems to have been written with her in mind. Her latest victim started out with a Porsche and when I last saw him he was driving a Golf.

NICK AND DAVID

2010-05-13T10:57:00.001-07:00

You've never seen such a scene! Everyone that knew how to tell their story was gathered in the rose garden at one of the best addresses in London. Seated on chairs in well-behaved rows - which is unusual for journalists, we were able to witness Nick and David give their vows, swathed in love and spring green. Hushed, amazed, we listened to their words. And what a story it was. The big make-up. From tearing each other to pieces just a week ago, here they were bringing tears to our eyes. Tears of hope. Tears of joy...or was it mirth? Whatever...it made for big news.

YVETTE

2010-05-01T02:47:00.001-07:00

The French have an indescribable charm. It is not easily encountered, but when you do it is sheer delight. French women, like Yvette, exhibit no false modesty and what they
reveal can be quite breathtaking. Warm and attractive, Yvette adopted me at a party on a small beach in Marseilles and I was instantly transported to ooh-la-la!-land.
She would take me for long drives along the coast, constantly encouraging me to parle en Francais. Then we would return to her home and indulge in wonderful French feasts,
seated at a vast table with family members of all ages.

I was taught more French in that week than I ever learned at school.

MILLIE

2010-04-27T08:50:00.000-07:00

Normally, one has to be wealthy or privileged to have a maid. We were neither, but my parents, somehow, were able to employ Millie. Not very much older than I was, she was a constant in my childhood - an abiding maternal figure. Millie was always there, waving me off as I rode down the driveway to school, and welcoming me home on my return, with baked beans on toast for 'tea'. I remember her smiles but cannot recall her ever getting angry. I have no doubt she encountered many of my misdemeanours, but always handled them with with an equanimity and understanding seldom encountered in other adults. Millie was a joyful companion on holidays and festive days. Her feminine kindness and gentleness made a profound impression on me; virtues which I have sought in women all my life. I have not always found them, but when I have, I remember Millie. She left us when I left home to join the RAF in the second world war. With the self-centeredness of youth, I did not contact her for several decades. When I did, she was the same gracious, welcoming woman I had known all those years ago.

MALIKA

2010-04-26T01:28:00.000-07:00

We were 'ships passing in the night' and will never see them again. Malika and her husband, Hasan, were stuck with us for hours in Dubai on a flight from Johannesburg. Our destination was London, theirs Casablanca. She was one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen with eyes as gentle as a dove's observing the airport chaos - a world that appeared to be entirely separate from her serenity. They couldn't speak English, and we couldn't speak Arabic, but there was an unspoken regard and mutual understanding between us as we communicated with single words and signs, smiles and laughter. When, eventually, it was time to go our separate ways, we said sad goodbyes and Malika blew us kisses until they were out of sight. A beautiful moment, a chance meeting, and one we will not forget.

GUY AND NIGEL

2010-04-24T00:31:00.000-07:00

I knew Nigel as a boy, he's the one on the left. We used to compete with friendly rivalry in the annual CRAS - a cross-country race at school. I always beat him, but only ever came second in the race, so I was somewhat peeved when he won it the year I left school early; my father took me out to toughen me up for the war!

We met up again in Hong Kong, many years later, when I was attending a conference in that amazing city. He lived high up in a skyscraper apartment, with his partner, Guy, whom I met briefly when Nigel took me 'out on the town' one night. We returned to their place very late, much to Guy's chagrin. I don't blame him for being upset. Nigel told me later that he had managed to console him with the fact that I was a relentless heterosexual, so he had nothing to worry about. I had wondered why Guy was so warm towards me the next day.

GAVIN

2010-04-06T08:38:00.001-07:00

Gavin was my best friend at school. He was a teacher's nightmare - very bright with the mind of an artist and dreamer. He only ever did enough work to get by without failing. I never met his father, who deserted his mother, Gwenyth, when Gavin was five. He loved climbing trees and lying beneath them, watching air fights from the top of One Tree Hill and collecting debris from crashed planes. We would explore woods together and make up languages that only we could understand. Gwyneth was a very kind person and a wonderful mother. After school we would go to Gavin's house and she would cook us the kind of food that boys love; thick chunks of bread fried in tasty lard and beans on toast. Our best adventure was cycling from Tonbridge to St. David's Head, camping out in a little tent in fields along the way, living on condensed milk and sardines and climbing Cadair Idris.

Like me, Gavin joined the RAF as soon as he left school and we were sent to different training camps. I met up with him at an airfield in Canada and we spent a few happy days together, being generously hosted by a local family. We shared a feast the night before he was shipped out and as we waved goodbye he shouted "See you on One Tree Hill". But we didn't. Like most of my friends, he was killed in the war.

ISOBEL

2010-04-06T07:18:00.000-07:00

Isobel is an enigma. I've seen her weep at weddings and guffaw at a friend's funeral. She looks like she should be editing a glamour magazine, but in fact is the only woman director on the board of a large financial institution. I once asked her how she achieved her impressive status and she replied, with tongue firmly lodged in cheek, "through keen observation and assiduous ass-licking."
Nobody seems to know very much about Isobel's background, but I heard that when she was starting out, the opening salvo in her application for a male-oriented job was, "Due to circumstances entirely beyond my control, I am not a man." She got the job and never looked back.
Although she has the appearance of a model, this is a woman who is no slave to fashion. She is the bane of designers, who would love her to wear their creations when she accompanies her famous musician husband to concerts and televised functions. She always declines their offers.

But she is a soft touch for street vendors. Jim, who sells The Big Issue outside the station, adores her. "Iso's a saint." he enthuses, "She often buys several copies and leaves them in public places for others to read". Her children, on the other hand, have to earn their pocket money, and treats are dispensed only when they are well-deserved. It hasn't done them any harm. Isobel's children are the nicest kids I know.

JACOMINA

2010-03-10T02:04:00.001-08:00

Overweight and undervalued as a child, only one person gave Jacomina the attention and encouragement she deserves; Miss Timmins, her art teacher. She was teased mercilessly at school, but had the strength of character to overcome her bullies. Don't you hate them? her cousin, Hester, asked. No, I simply ignore them.

Being reclusive all her life has given Jacomina the time and freedom to pursue her interest in painting exquisite miniature pictures and illustrating illuminated manuscripts. You may wonder that there is still a market for this kind of art. Jacomina gets commissions from people all over the world. Not that selling is important to her; It's the doing that matters, she says.

Many critics and journalists have tried to interview her, but being a private person, Jacomina always refuses. I am my art. Write about the picture, not the person.

So, in deference to her wishes, that's all I can tell you about her.

BARTOK

2010-03-08T08:45:00.001-08:00

BARTOK
Named after the famous Hungarian composer, Bartok is singularly unmusical. When he was a boy, his mother, Gizela, a somewhat eccentric musician herself, tried to teach him to play several musical instruments. She started him on the piano, but he developed sore wrists. The doctor said it was carpal tunnel syndrome, but Gizela said it was all in his mind. Then she tried the violin, but the excruciating sounds he performed with the tortured instrument got so many complaints from neighbours she had to stop. Singing lessons were no better; Bartok is tone deaf. Despairing of his lack of progress, Gizela decided to change his name to Atilla, but his father told her to stop being ridiculous and let the boy be what he wanted to be – a writer. He hasn’t become famous yet, but he keeps working at it. In the meantime Bartok earns quite a good salary as an assistant manager in a popular restaurant, generously supplemented with tips from his faithful customers, who enjoy his efficiency, his unfailing good humour and his hilarious reviews of the daily specials on offer. Last time we saw him, he told us he was getting married soon. How does your mother feel about that, Bartok? We asked him. Oh, she is very happy. My fiancé is a wonderful pianist and Gizela is already thinking of naming our first child Liszt!

VINCENT

2010-03-06T08:17:00.000-08:00

Vincent wanted to be a ballet dancer when he was a little boy, but his parents talked him out of it. He doesn't have too many regrets about it because he feels he probably wouldn't have had the dedication or stamina needed to be a professional "And if you can't be a professional ballet dancer, what's the point", he says. Instead, he did an apprenticeship as an interior designer and today has a wonderful shop filled with things you won't easily find anywhere else. He's called it Carte Blanche, because he believes people should feel free to decorate their homes in any way they choose and not be restrained by convention, fashion or trends. His influence seems to be pervasive. Last week I asked a friend where she got her unusual rug. She replied with a smile that bordered on a smirk, 'Vincent's place', knowing that I'll never find another like it.

MANU

2010-03-06T07:37:00.001-08:00

Manu was an artist I met in a chaotic bar in Dakar. I had gone to look for local food and entertainment and he saved me from getting scammed when trying to hire a taxi. I only had two days left of my stay in that crazy city and Manu took me to places I would never have discovered on my own. The most memorable experience was visiting the shack where he lived and painted his extraordinary pictures. They were nothing like the street art you find in many African cities. These were explosions of colour and texture, with shells, rope and even sunglasses embedded in them. Unfortunately, they were too big to carry, and I was on my way to Tangiers, so I couldn't take him up on his offer of one as a gift. He was a solitary man. I was fortunate to meet him because he didn't really like mixing with people, especially Westerners. I went back to Dakar some years later and tried to find him. A woman who lived near his old house said he had moved away to his village. He had been ill and she didn't think he was still alive.

SALOME

2010-03-06T07:10:00.000-08:00

Salome isn't her real name, but it's what women call her because of her seductive appearance and provocative nature. Only the most confident among them would leave Salome alone with their husbands. Not that she goes out of her way to lure men, because she is quite happy being single. There's something about her walk that attracts them, and when she dances people get quite mesmerised by the way she manages to make the most simple steps look tantalising and sensual. Salome could wear a rag and still look sensational; the kind of person women love to hate. She never had too many women friends until our neighbour, Elly, said she had the answer to Salome-anxiety, make her your best friend and she would never, ever allow any man to compromise your friendship. She tried it and it worked. Now Salome's on every guest list in town.

THE TRIO

2010-03-06T06:57:00.001-08:00

Jason, George and Nev won the prize for group singing at our old school in Tonbridge in the thirties. The teachers used to call Jason and George the Terrible Twins, but their mates called them The Gruesome Twosome. And they were. We were all surprised when they won, because individually they seemed to be tone deaf, except for Nev, who loved to yodel at dawn on One Tree Hill. He said he was 'tuning in' with the birds, but we always wondered whether he was 'tuning in' with a different kind of bird. Girls seemed really to fancy Nev, but he was extraordinarily shy. On reflection, that, too, is surprising, because once he discovered his courting prowess, Nev had a string of conquests that amazed the most robust romancer among us.

JASMINE

2010-03-02T07:39:00.001-08:00

Jasmine is splendid! She's also - artistic, provocative and exhilarating to be with. Her husband, Humphrey, is as mild-mannered, contented and loving as a labrador. He's a perfect foil for her, and to be invited to one of their weekend parties is an experience not to be missed. Jasmine floats among her guests in multi-layered, diaphanous kaftans, jangling bangles on both milk-white arms as she waves them about when she talks, while Humphrey regales us with tales of their exploits as he pours perfectly-measured martinis and generous tumblers of single-malt. Musically gifted friends bring along their various instruments for our entertainment and the food is both a visual and gustatory feast. They are, without doubt, our favourite couple. Jasmine and I have a mutual admiration for our work; she loves my drawings as much as I do her paintings - vast mosaics of intricately worked colour in horizontal bands across the canvas. No matter how often you view them you will see some exquisite detail you had missed before. Much like Jasmine - each time you meet her you discover something that makes you feel happier about being alive.

LOUISE

2010-02-28T02:31:00.001-08:00

This is a woman who really knows how to make the most of herself. Born to a single mother, who joined the Salvation Army when the father literally left her holding the baby, Louise is gifted with neither good looks nor a decent education. But she has a good figure - a waistline that many a celebrity would treadmill ten thousand hours for - and her hair is thick and glossy. On leaving school, and much to the surprise of her bullying classmates, she got a job behind a cosmetic counter at a department store. Louise soon learnt the art and artifice of that inconstant industry. She discovered how to make her small eyes look like limpid orbs, how to refine and narrow her nose, plump up her lips, and dress her hair with classic stylishness. And with a few lessons from her beauty-counter colleagues she came to understand that fashion and flattery acts like a chairlift to the pinnacle of success. It got her many wealthy customers, a rich husband, a lavish lifestyle and a seven figure + two houses divorce. Not bad for a girl they used to call 'Poor Louise'.

DEDE

2010-02-26T09:03:00.000-08:00

It's hardly a name you'd attach to a hard-nosed business woman, but that's exactly what Dede (pronounced Deedee) is. She owns the best contemporary art gallery in the city and nurtures many big-name, high-price artists. If one of them defects to another gallery she is inconsolable for a while, but will never take them back into her fold no matter how much they implore and apologise.
Dede scouts the country for new artists and her annual art nursery event is attended by wealthy collectors from far afield. She knows the difference between a trend and a fad and can spot a trendsetter on first sight. If you ask her how she does it, she shrugs her shoulders and grunts,"It's obvious". Dede terrifies most people and is notoriously dismissive of art critics who write bad reviews. "They make no difference, and if you don't make a difference, you don't really matter."
She once bought some of my drawings, and for a while I had visions of becoming rich and famous. It hasn't happened yet, but the visions haven't faded. Neither has the memory of Dede; a vivid, vital woman who was able to see my drawings through my eyes.

IRWIN

2010-02-26T07:54:00.001-08:00

Women adore Irwin; they either want to marry him, or mother him. But he's a confirmed bachelor. Raised by a maiden aunt, a librarian whose house was filled with an eclectic book collection, he seems to know a great deal about an amazing array of subjects. He can talk intelligently about almost anything, which is why men like him too.
Irwin has a wonderful art collection and is often to be found at Dede's gallery on opening nights. She is the only woman I know who hasn't tried to marry him off.
Everyone would like to see more of Irwin, but he is usually away on his yacht; a lone sailor, happy with his own company, but equally happy to encounter others on his world travels.

BOYCE

2010-02-26T07:40:00.000-08:00

Boyce is happy and Gay. You'll find him at all the best parties, circling the room, cheek-kissing everyone he greets. Some people he'll kiss one cheek, others on both, depending upon the kissee. He loves earrings, and often sports exotic, dangly things. The one featured here was a gift from a lost love, who left him for a handsome Moroccan, which is why he has never returned to Cabalanca, his world-favourite city.

MONTY

2010-02-25T10:05:00.000-08:00

Monty's not a real person, but he is a real character. He's a multi-mix, slightly insane doggle who belongs to our friend, Henry. Sometimes I'm allowed to walk Monty and he goes mad with delight whenever he is shown the slightest hint of attention by passers by. He loves everybody - give him a wink on the street and he'll strain at his leash to follow you home. He chases rabbits and pigeons, but only because he wants to play with them. Mont's definitely an outdoor dog that needs a lot of space, but he quite fancies listening to jazz - Henry's sure-fire method of calming him down in the evening after a romp on the beach.

NANCY

2010-02-25T09:59:00.000-08:00

Nancy lives in the block next door. We often see her walking to the post office or chatting to people in the popular bagel shop on the corner. She always seems very busy. And she's very observant (you can see that in her eyes, can't you?). Some may even call her nosey. She is the kind of woman that loves organising things - club committees, church teas, and flower arranging are her special skills. Nancy is warm and gregarious, which can occasionally be a bit overwhelming for nervous types. Shy Michael down the road goes into reverse or ducks around corners when he sees her approaching.

LANKY LOADER

2010-02-25T06:31:00.000-08:00

We haven't seen old Lanky for years. He's a legend - a free-wheeling kinda guy that lands on your doorstep once in a blue moon and behaves as if he last saw you yesterday. For as long as we've known him he's been HAH (harmless, aimless and homeless). But he's never at a loss for somewhere to stay because people are happy to have Lanky spend a night or two with them, which is as long as he ever stays anywhere. The stories this man tells could fill a large compendium. We've often asked him, "When are you going to write your book, Lanky?" and he always replies, "I'm too busy living it".

CYRIL

2010-02-25T06:29:00.000-08:00

Our friend Di says that Cyril's looks are wasted on a man. He is 'pretty' rather than handsome. He is, however, an enthusiastic heterosexual, and a brilliant IT engineer. He used to be quite shy, like his reclusive father, but his mother always encouraged him by saying, "go for it - you can do it". So he did, and he's done jolly well despite being rather lazy. He calls her 'Maman' and she refers to him as 'Mon Brave', which is interesting because there isn't a trace of Gallic blood anywhere in their family tree. He's often to be seen at clubs favoured by geeks rather than trendies, where they discuss and laugh about things that most of us don't understand. Still single, Cyril prefers to stay that way - as does Maman - after he was bruised by a failed romance with the beautiful Henrietta. But that's a long story...

CINDY

2010-02-25T06:14:00.000-08:00

Cindy's a lapsed Baptist. She used to be a very 'strict' churchgoer, at one time she was the hottest member of the Friday Youth Club at Evelyn Road Baptist Church. Now she's lost God and found Goa. She first went there to 'find' herself and discovered so much she seems to have lost the plot. Cindy has many sides to her. She is more complex than a Rubrik cube. When she is hot, she is very, very hot and when she is cold she is horrid. Still, there's a lot going for Cindy in Goa. She has the sea, sunshine, colourful sarongs, friends that come and go, and a great tan. She's been away for so long, back home when people ask, "Where is Cindy?" you'll often hear the response "Who is she?"

LULU

2010-02-25T06:12:00.000-08:00

I met Lulu on a beach in Ghana. There were many friendly people there all drinking, dancing and enjoying themselves. I had actually seen her there before. The next week I brought her to the beach in my ancient VW with four of her female friends. How lovely it was to be driving along with five beautiful girls in the car! We were very happy lying in the sun and telling stories of our lives. There was music playing and everybody was very happy. Then one of the girls said "there's an even better place further along!" We all proceeded there and decided to swim. After frolicking in the waves we returned to the beach to discover our clothes had been stolen. I managed to find one or two garments and we were able to somehow get enough cover to get back the car and leave this dangerous place. We all departed from there aiming for a good lunch in a nearby home where clothing and food were available. Afterwards, I dropped the girls off in various places and we promised to meet up again soon. I'm still in touch with Lulu who has all the warm, friendly and generous qualities I associate with Ghanaian people.

JOSEPHINE

2010-02-25T06:08:00.000-08:00

Aka Crazy Daisy. She changed her name because she could never spell Josephine and said it was too long, anyway, for someone who is less than five feet tall. She likes to crochet and knit, but never gets measurements right - one sweater she knitted for me had sleeves down to my knees and a neck opening that wouldn't fit over my head. She's also getting a bit forgetful and can spend hours looking for her spectacles. I bought her a holder to hang them around her neck, but she forgets she has it on and still searches for them all over the house. Daisy's never had a husband of her own, although she has experimented with other people's. Once at a party she gatecrashed with her sister, Mabel, the hostess asked them "Where are your partners?", to which Daisy replied "At home with their wives."

DAN

2010-02-25T06:03:00.000-08:00

"Dan's your man!" is the slogan printed on his van alongside a big, yellow smileyface. It's a perfect depiction of Dan, who believes there is nothing he can't or won't do to make a buck or two. He's fixed roofs and washing machines, unblocked drains, painted ceilings, washed cars...you name it, Dan's done it with enthusiasm. I once passed him being pulled along by six large dogs on his way to the park. "Those all your dogs, Dan?" "Nah. None of 'em, and after I get this lot home ..." that was all I heard before he was dragged away, laughing out loud as he disappeared around a corner. He used to be married, but his wife got fed up with his infidelities. Yes, that cheeky grin really gets the girls! She put up with a lot, but the last straw was when she spent her savings on a little machine that prints business cards and sent him out to get orders. He was away all day and half the night and returned home with only one order - from the Queen of Sheba, a notorious massage parlour.

PERCIVAL

2010-02-24T08:30:00.000-08:00

Percival's a very nervous man. I don't blame him, actually; his wife is a terroriser. I nearly said a terrorist! She puts the fear of God into anyone that crosses her. Poor old Perce manages to do that without trying. The trouble is, she got him on the rebound. His first wife died and there Alice was (aka Malice), waiting in the wings as he left the funereal stage. She's wielded the whip hand ever since. He's such a mild, well-mannered man. A real gentleman, in fact. When Malice throws hysterical fits over burnt toast or spilt milk, he genuinely tries to help her through her pain. But enough's enough for anyone - man or woman. Nobody would be surprised if Percy did a bunk. Last week I saw him having a drink with a really attractive woman in a country pub, and I thought "Good for you, Perce, it's about time you had a break." I went across to say 'hi', and he introduced me to his sister!

CHLOE

2010-02-24T08:28:00.000-08:00

Chloe is Percival's sister-in-law. She's as timid as he is, probably a result of having to live with Malice as a child. She has one bewildered eye to see what's happening and the other nervously looking out for her sister, who might appear at any moment. Chloe has never married. I think she's actually in love with Perce but could never admit it to anybody, least of all herself. He's so kind to her and tries to protect her from Malice's tirades. She's had many hours of CBT therapy but nothing has helped her to stop worrying and start living. Now Chloe lives in a strange, but comfortable, institution, with many others, who, in life's battle to be themselves, have not been able to unknot those family ties that strangle.

BUCKINGHAM

2010-02-24T08:26:00.000-08:00

Think of a life of privilege, of vast estates, exclusive schools, visits to princesses and palaces...that's the kind of life that Buckingham has lived and rebelled against. At heart he's an artist, who has had to conform to the rules of privilege but who has kicked against the gilded barriers enough to be seen as an eccentric aristocrat; a certain notoriety, which allows him to indulge himself and his many female partners in the style he enjoys.
It's a treat to be invited to a summer luncheon at Buckingham's country house. You dine outside in his sun-drenched,private garden, away from the inquisitive eyes of Sunday visitors on guided tours. Beautiful women abound; the current favourite sits at his side, sometimes on his lap. A generous host, Buckingham's food is simple but tasty, wine is plentiful and the conversation always stimulating, since he chooses his guests with that in mind.
But a privileged life isn't always easy and Buckingham's childhood, like so many children from similar wealthy backgrounds, lacked family warmth,empathy and demonstrations of parental affection. "I cannot recall anybody ever using the word love", he once told me, which is probably why he enjoys the attention of his many paramours and his pack of faithful dogs.
Despite his inherited fortune, Buckingham has to work hard at maintaining the estate, interviewing publicists, writing up his family records, entertaining many visitors and painting when he has the time. Sometimes he is able to escape to the city and we meet for a lunch at a quiet pub. He's a favourite with the landlord, Peter, who believes that beneath his colourful, womanising facade, Buckingham is a simple, kind man who has never discovered true love.

MALIA

2010-02-24T08:25:00.000-08:00

When I first met Buckingham, Malia was his chosen companion. Tall, dark and exotic, she originates from an island in the Pacific but has had a western education and has spent most of her life in England. Although Malia is clearly one of the most beautiful women in Buckingham's entourage, she is probably the most self-conscious and insecure. She thinks all his friends resent her and laugh behind her back. The problem is, unlike many of his other women consorts, Malia is in love with the man rather than his wealth and status. He doesn't understand this kind of emotion, so cannot respond in the manner she desires. He would never marry her, and won't have children with her, which is what she wants most. Unable to break away and live a life without him, Malia is often seen on Buckingham's arm accompanying him to the theatre or book launches, although I haven't seen her at one of his popular luncheon parties for ages. Perhaps she prefers to be alone with him without competing with his latest inamorata. Or perhaps she's freed herself from unrequited love and found someone else. I hope so.

ETHEL

2010-02-24T08:22:00.000-08:00

Ethel, the brave. Always smiling. Girlfriend of our good friend, George. She was a most cheerful, happy person. Loved to dance, loved to sing and especially loved being with George and his friends. We only knew her for about a year because, sadly, she died of AIDS much too early in life. This beautiful young woman came from Victoria Falls in Zimbabwe, a tourist haven, where she probably caught the dreaded disease that eventually killed her. This picture of her is a celebration of her short, sweet stay.

IVAN

2010-02-22T08:05:00.000-08:00

The last time I saw Ivan was in the airport bar in Lagos. I was flying out and he had been there for a week. He had returned to Nigeria, where he had previously earned a fortune in the building trade. Leaving his wife in England, he had come back to find his girlfriend, Bimbo. It was not a happy occasion; Ivan was sad because all his friends had left or were going to leave, and he hadn't been able to find Bimbo, who had taken his parrot, Torpedo, to look after until he came back. Torpedo was very special to him...they would have long, drunken conversations late into the night. People used to take bets on who would swear most, the bird or the man.
Ivan was a legend in the city. A colourful character, he knew many powerful people, and this, along with his building skills, contributed to his winning many large contracts. He was generous with his friends and always had a crowd around him wherever he moved. But if you crossed him, he was unrelenting in his anger and would never speak to you again.
He never returned from Nigeria. Years later, I learned that he had driven north to find Bimbo and caught one of those deadly African diseases, from which white men seldom recover. Nobody really knows, but then no-one has seen or heard of Ivan since.

POTTY PORTER

2010-02-22T08:01:00.000-08:00

His real name was Toby, but we all called him Potty because he did such foolish things. He didn't think they were stupid, but any normal person would know it's difficult to keep two wives with children and two households in neighbouring towns without somebody discovering your secret. He managed it for a few years, though. Then all hell broke loose when his wives met one another at a maternity clinic and started comparing notes because they had the same name.

Thrown out of both houses, Potty set up business in a town a bit further away. He called his new company Dream Kitchens; an appropriate name because it was all a dream. Despite putting down hefty deposits, customers never enjoyed their kitchens as the dream never materialised. When things got too hot, Potty high-tailed it to somewhere in Europe. Nobody has been able to discover where. Yet. But his ex-wives are still on the lookout for him.

BERT-HA

2010-02-22T07:55:00.000-08:00

Bert by day. Bertha by night. Bert-ha is completely happy with this chosen lifestyle. S/he feels s/he has the best of both worlds and fits perfectly into them. By day he is a librarian, by night she is a hostess at an exclusive club where her beauty and social grace are valued by members and the owner. Intelligent, well-read, with a biting wit, Bertha is a favourite of Lord Singleton (unsurprisingly, sometimes unkindly referred to as Lord Simpleton), who loves to invite her to his fusty dinner parties, to liven them up and entertain his wife, Antonia. Neither the Lord nor his wife are aware of Bert-ha's dual identity. Antonia considers Bertha a fun friend, who gives her advice on all kinds of feminine issues - dress, cosmetics, perfume, sex. It has done wonders for Antonia. And her marriage to the loopiest lord in the land.

TICKLES

2010-02-22T07:52:00.000-08:00

Tickles is a clown. Not a real clown, the the kind of person who likes to humour people all the time. He doesn't always succeed, of course, and when somebody doesn't respond to him in a positive way, he'll say "I'm only joking!" Which he is. Always joking. He plays with words, with people and is a practical joker with a cruel streak. April 1 is his birthday and his favourite day of the year. He plans his pranks for weeks in advance and carefully chooses which acquaintances will be the recipients of his curious brand of humour on that day. This year many of us received an anonymous card containing a piece of his pet's poo, which we all mailed right back to Tickles, knowing it has been sent by him. And when he recounted this tale at the office he still found it amusing. It seems you can't put a clown down, and, somehow, I can't help liking the man.

GRIM JIM

2010-02-22T07:50:00.000-08:00

Mr. James, who we all called Grim Jim, was the most despised teacher at our English boys private school. In the thirties it was permitted to flog boys, and Grim Jim delighted in this. For the mildest misdemeanor, like snorting at something he'd said, you'd be forced to stand in the corner for the the rest of the history lesson, and then be escorted to his office. Bend down boy...lower...is that a book you have in your trousers? Thwack! Ouch! Thwack! Ouch! Thwack! Ouch! I cannot think of a single redeeming feature this man had. Devoid of humour, he was unpleasant to look at, unpleasant to be near - we all complained of his smelly breath - and a lousy teacher to boot. History lessons were bum-numbingly boring. We scraped through our exams and most of us took a pretty dim view of the subject for much of our lives. Today, he wouldn't be able to get away with his bullying. In those days, he could revel in it.

EVE 'N EVE

2010-02-22T07:46:00.000-08:00

Eve has a split personality. The good Eve is caring, kind and generous. She'll constantly enquire about you, call to see how you are, invite you to the tennis club or a beach party, and never forget to send you cards at Christmas and your birthday.

The other Eve is unreliable and insincere. She can easily deceive you with her supposed concern, but, immediately you are out of earshot, will say something negative about you. I've seen her do it. She works in a hairdressing salon and will gush over a customer while doing their hair and immediately criticise them as they walk out of the door. I'm amazed that she keeps her job.

One person who had a particularly bruising encounter with Eve was a married man from the tennis club after whom she had lusted after for years - we'll call him John. He was unaware of her 'bad' side and was flattered by her obvious admiration. However, when she tried to take the relationship further, John said he would never leave his wife and children, and told Eve he could not be more than a friend. She appeared to accept his decision. One day she phoned John and asked him if he'd like to call around after work and collect his tennis racquet which she had 'accidentally' picked up at the club. She also phoned his wife, Anna, pretending to be somebody else, and asked if she knew her husband was having an affair with Eve Simpson from the tennis club. I'm her flat-mate and I'm fed up with her messing around. If you don't believe me, go around to our place after work - you'll find him there.

Unfortunately, Anna fell for this line and found John just leaving the apartment, where Eve was saying goodbye wearing nothing but a silky housecoat. Despite his protestations of innocence, the damage had been done and he had to endure Anna's hysteria, disbelief and the threat of divorce before he could reassure her that nothing had happened.

The most extraordinary part of this story is that Eve still goes to the tennis club as if nothing happened, and nobody knows why Anna and John aren't members any more.

HORACE

2010-02-22T07:25:00.000-08:00

I met Horace when I was a teenager before the second world war. He was a very gentle person, a homosexual at the time when it was condemned, and a companion of a famous male diarist who lived next door to us. Horace was Irish and was said to be a far-distant cousin. I loved it when he visited our house. He was my best friend and would spend time telling me about his life and adventures. When he played the piano everybody was very happy, especially my mother, who adored him. The family believed he was destined to be a brilliant concert pianist, but war intervened and Horace was sent off to fight as a rear-gunner in the RAF - the most dangerous position in bombers. He died, of course.

EDNA

2010-02-22T06:50:00.000-08:00

Edna was a matron in a big hospital in the days when matrons ruled the wards. She was ideal for the job; totally focused on order and perfection. Fortunately, she had a measure of flexibility, so it didn't impede her ability to get things done. Fast. Edna set high standards for everybody, but never higher than those she set for herself. Doctors were intimidated by her sharp retorts, which amused the nurses who often bore the brunt of their conceits and bullying.

Men thought she was a shrew, a spinster who led a loveless life. But there was a different Edna outside the long, white, hospital corridors. She was, in fact, something of a madcap, and always took adventure holidays. Whitewater rafting, mountain and rock climbing, potholing, trekking in remote safari parks, you name it, Edna did it. To her nursing staff she was an inspiration, never giving an instruction or admonishing someone without explaining why. Edna's farewell party was a riot. Many people saw her let her hair down for the first time and regretted that they had not got to know her better when there was the opportunity. It was the last time any of us saw her. The next day she set off on a journey around the world on cargo boats and nobody has ever heard of her again.

HELENA

2010-02-22T06:49:00.000-08:00

Most of the writers I know are solitary people, spending hours in seclusion, pounding out thousands of words and only emerging into public spaces once their latest work has been published. Helena's not like that. She's a very sociable person, who organises her weekly 'salon' with the most lively people on her list. Most consider themselves fortunate to be invited, because she limits the number to ten at a time, but I swear she does it so that she can listen to all their conversations and milk them in order to get ideas. She's very clever at hiding the information, of course, because to be charged with libel would be disastrous; nobody ever recognises themselves in her books, blogs or newspaper articles.

Helena's very glamorous and you'll find her at the centre of an admiring circle at social gatherings, like gallery openings, or first night at the theatre. We used to meet often in our younger days, but not in a romantic way, despite the fact that she pursued me relentlessly. Helena wasn't my type, she can be rather bitchy. She never forgave me for telling her that. The last time I saw her was at an exhibition in London. We had lost touch after I had been away from the country for years. At the time, I was a poverty-stricken artist and had only been invited to this lavish affair because I knew the curator. Helena spotted me as I was leaving and called out, "I hear you need work, darling. I need a gardener - come and see me!" I decided being a poor artist was preferable, so I replied, "Sorry darling, I don't dig you!" I haven't seen her since.

JUDE

2010-02-22T06:48:00.000-08:00

Judy's one of Manfred's beauty consultants. She's the top of the crop, so to speak, always getting the highest monthly sales and having the most constant customers at her counter in the best department store. It's not the biggest department store, but it is the most exclusive, which probably accounts for her high sales figures. Wealthy women rely on Jude to bring out the best in them, to advise them on what treatments will suit their skin type, what make up will cover up their blemishes and what colours will suit their complexion. She's an expert at facials. People are prepared to queue for Jude, or go on a waiting list, to experience those little hands stroking and massaging with skill and speed that is fascinating to watch. Of course she's oozing with empathy, too, which contributes to her popularity. People tell her the most amazing things about their private lives! You think wealthy people are happy and comfortable? Jude knows different. She'll tell us extraordinary stories, but never reveal names, which is probably why customers trust her. She's writing a book, but not about her experiences, which would make a bestseller. It's all boring stuff, like how to arch your eyebrows without plucking them into infinity. I told her not to waste her time, or at least to add a bit of spice - like how Dame Forster sorted out her eyebrows and her husband's mistress. From the look on Jude's face when I made my suggestion, I think she might well consider it.

MANFRED

2010-02-22T06:46:00.000-08:00

One of the kindest people you could wish to meet, Manfred is in charge of a bevy of beauticians. He's assistant to the marketing manager of a cosmetic company and spends his time going around the country checking on sales and making sure 'the girls' are happy and working well. He loves his job, and the consultants all love him because they know he has their interests at heart. That's the trick, you see, let people know you have their interests at heart and they'll do just what you want them to do. But with Manfred it isn't a trick. He's genuine. He'll bring you flowers on your birthday - and they'll always be your favourites, nobody ever knows how. He'll ask after your parents, or your sick brother, with real concern. The extraordinary thing about Manfred is that nobody knows anything about his life outside work; where he lives, what he does in his leisure time, where he takes his holidays, whether he has a partner - it's all unknown. One day at the office, a tall, elderly, well-dressed man asked for him at reception. Manfred hurried down, shook his hand, greeted him in German and escorted him out of the building. They walked to the corner, talking along the way, bade farewell in what seemed to be a cordial manner, and then Manfred returned to work, smiling politely at the receptionist as he passed. And, despite much speculation as to whether he was his father, we never found out about Manfred's one and only visitor. Or anything else about him for that matter.

SHIRL

2010-02-22T06:37:00.000-08:00

Shirl's big. Big heart, big laugh, big sense of humour. You seldom see her without a smile. Life is meant to be fun, she believes, and her light-hearted approach puts people at ease in the most trying situations. I've seen her entertaining people in an all-night petrol queue in Zimbabwe in the bad days of rationing. And what a nightmare those queue's were! Children say her kids' birthday parties are the best ever. The food is colourful as well as delicious and Shirl creates extraordinary puppet shows in her own inimitable style, keeping parents as transfixed as their children. Sadly, she left Zimbabwe and went to live in Australia with her happy family. Her friends really miss her, but she keeps in touch with daily postings on her blog, sharing her experiences, recipes and hilarious videos of her puppet shows. Thanks to the internet, Shirl's spreading her special brand of friendship around the world.