Remember to have a look at my new blog – here is the latest post.
Recipes: salad dressing; deep fried chips.
When I was about 9, a little girl that we will call Emma befriended me. Her name was not Emma, we’re just calling her that. Now Emma was the child of a very well-known Johannesburg business woman, who at that time was just starting to become really successful. Emma’s parents were divorced and what Emma had in financial comfort, she lacked in parental attention. But what Emma wanted, she got – and she wanted to be friends with me.
So a playdate was arranged (although back then we just called it “coming to play”) and Emma arrived at our humble abode. Now my mother, at this time, was fairly enamoured with our relative poverty. Remember, she had come from the world of white nannies and she’d even had her own pony called Gipsy (which she hated, but still). In her eyes, the hand to…
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