Still hot with inspiration, I decided to copy some of the ideas from other cute girl’s hairstyle blogs on the net and incorporate them into my own design. As there are so many incredibly talented people doing girls hair out there, this idea is definitely not original, but I am pretty proud of it nonetheless.
For this hairdo you’ll need your rat tail comb, spray (water or detangler), a brush and four hairbands. I use the tiny black ones that you get in a pack of about 50 from Boots. They cost about £1 and are fabulously stretchy.
Brush the hair until it is straight and knot free, then divide the hair across the top from the top of the left ear to the top of the right. Then part the hair again down the middle from the forehead to the base. Clip off each section as you go. You should now have four sections.
Starting at the top of the right section, French braid the hair for about 1/3 of the way until you have run out of hair to slip into the braid and then finish off by plaiting to the end.
Tie it off with an elastic and then take the hair that is clipped apart below and, using the plait as one strand, proceed to braid the hair again until the plait runs to the end. The side should now look like this:
I am willing to bet that my explanation was a bit sketchy so hopefully that pic gives you a better idea. Essentially you are using one plait to make another and creating a double braid look that’s quite funky.
Now, repeat the process on the other side so that it looks like this:
Ta da! You’re done! You have a really cute girls hairstyle that will take you about 10 minutes to complete and that looks really fabby for the school run. It is also really robust as this is the only style that has withstood the drama of the day!
Finally the power is back on and I can show you all the magical, brilliant, hilarious and wondrous posts that came to me for this, my first ever blogging carnival.
Before I stand on the podium and sniff into my hanky crying out, “You love me, you REALLY, really LOVE me,” I shall show you the genius of the humans who write on the web. (Ten points to whoever guesses the actress that said that at the Oscars many years ago…)
To start with we have a post from Kids Party Heaven that will make you nod in recognition of lessons learned and moments of cringe. It made me think of times when I did things so utterly daft I still blush today when I think about them. Not that this was that bad, obviously, but just how well it is written and how quickly you are taken into the moment. Grumpy, funny and inspirational. Just how we like it! And if you are ever on the lookout for a fab children’s entertainer, then Diane is your lady.
Next up we have Nelly’s Eggs, a delicious blog by Nelly that talks about her life and her first baby. Her post is called Welcome to Spain but only just and describes what seems to be the same holidays departures as I have. I too get all panicked and race to gates and end up late while The Husband looks all relaxed. I think Nelly did this with remarkable composure, if I am honest and boy can I relate! I love the way Nelly writes, it is very emotive and engaging.
Next up we have Tots 100 slebs Diary of a Frugal Family sending us their post on The Worst Weekend Ever… Cass writes this with such brilliance I was crying with laughter and empathy. Actually, it had me crying with laughter full stop. My favourite colour is pink, the same shade as your nipples. Oh, oh, so funny. Thank you for this, Cass. Thank you!
In A Bun Dance, a blog written by the witty and sharp Ellen (and I have to mention here that I am smitten with the nickname The Panther of News) had me pondering questions like – if you were stuck In The Night Garden who would you shag? Seriously? Answer that if you DARE. Her post Sh*g, marry, avoid – the Edinburgh Moonwalk version is very entertaining indeed. Although they were too nice in their options. Ha!
Muddling along Mummy sent me a post called The Friday Rant Club – give us some proper role models and boy did this post hit some spots with me. I completely and utterly and totally agree with her on this. I think anything that has Celebrity Dad of the Year attached to it is a waste of time and effort. Why not get real people to nominate real dads for real reasons. And who voted for these slebs anyway? Bravo on this post! Can you hear me clapping from here Mrs Muddling?
Joanne, another talented journalist and blogger, sent me her discussion of the week about reviews on blogs. She asks some serious questions and suggests some thoughtful answers that are well worth considering if you do blog reviews. Reviewing is a serious business and, as Joanne says, you have to avoid playing fast and loose with somebody else’s money. It’s definitely worth chatting about – what do you think?
Finally we have something to take your mind off the grumpiness and to make your troubles melt away. Scarlett’s Kitchen, a blog written by Alice that covers her adventures in the kitchen with Mini-Chef. There are recipes and stories galore. She sent me a post on Where does our food come from? that offers a lovely idea for a day out with the kids that is educational and fun. Well worth visiting for the recipes and the feeling of comfy relaxation you get when you sit down to read.
And that is it! I wasn’t inundated with entries, I’m afraid. I think this is due to the fact that I didn’t pimp it out as much as I should have. In fact, if it wasn’t for Alice I would have completely forgotten. If you have a blog that fits the theme and would like to be included, I don’t think it’s too late!
Go on, send me your entries anyway! I’ll keep this up all week so newcomers can get their carnival posts up and their genius out there.
And to round things off, here are two videos that make me scream with laughter.
I feel sorry for my husband. I really, really do. I mean, let’s face it, he is married to someone who would (in the old days) have been labelled as mentally unstable and put into a huggy jacket for all eternity. Nowadays I am merely considered “quirky” and he is forced to endure great pain. Like when I nearly killed him on Father’s Day…
Let’s start at the beginning of this truly insane weekend.
On Saturday, after a lovely morning of pootling through Brighton and purchasing all manner of delightful objects for Father’s Day, Squidge and I returned home to fetch The Husband. Then the four of us trundled off to her school to view their Art Day which was, essentially, the kids’ artwork in frames on boards.
We loved her pic. The Husband grinched about the fact that we have to pay £6.50 for a framed pic in yet another fund raising activity and muttering about writing a blank cheque and being a bank. I was all misty-eyed about the awesomeness of a painting done by my little genius, all framed and ready to go.
Then on the way home, on a narrow sidewalk, a woman hit my child with her mobility scooter. There was this sickening “crunch” and then that cry that no mother EVER wants to hear.
I felt her hand ripped from mine and everything seemed to go in slow motion.
It was like I was turning in syrup. My child lay on the pavement, arm outstretched, face almost under the wheel of the scooter. I screamed, “Oh my god!” The world ground to a horrible halt.
I cannot tell you how hideous that moment was. I ran to her, checked her out. Made her move arms and legs. And down the side of her beautiful face was a raw scrape where the wheels had ripped her skin off. Other than that my lovely brave child was alright.
The Husband and I were NOT.
I was so shaken I kept walking with Squidge, I wanted to get to a wider part of the pavement so I could put her down and look at her more closely without being bumped into by people. The Husband was torn between me and the woman. We both knew we couldn’t say anything more than the horror on our faces. She kept saying sorry.
I knew I couldn’t beat up a woman in a mobility scooter. But BOY was I angry. I had already been irked by her aggressive driving, practically forcing me to jump out her way. Now I was fuming. But I kept walking. I didn’t want to upset The Husband and Squidge any more than they already were.
We went to a local coffee shop as Squidge said she wanted a hot chocolate and we were both happy to oblige. Then we talked about what had happened and The Husband shared his bombshell.
He said that those machines are really heavy and that if it had been an inch to the left it could have crushed her skull. It sounds dramatic but he is not prone to fits of fancy. He was right.
The strength left my legs. Really. When that realisation kicked in I could barely breathe.
Two days later and we are both still very disturbed by it all. Something so simple could have been a tragedy.
Should mobility scooters be allowed on the pavements? I am inclined to say no, now.
In spite of our drama we forged ahead for a fabulous Father’s Day. He got breakfast in bed, lots of pressies. We went to the fair and did some random wandering around and looking at vintage cars and laughing at donkeys in the Donkey Derby and nibbling on fudge.
We also saw this at one of the stands.
No, I don’t get it either. A prize to the human who can connect the naked man in a thong with his legs chopped off to a Lion’s fundraising day and stuffed toy animals.
It was an ace day until, after eating the dinner I got for him, he fell over ill and has not been able to move much since. Awesome. I poisoned The Husband on Father’s Day.
So about a year ago, probably less but time has turned into chewing gum lately, I applied for a chance to do a blogging carnival with Mommy Bloggers and then, as usual, promptly forgot about it. If it wasn’t for a chance comment by a lovely reader, 21 June would have arrived and, along with it, a ton of emails that would have completely bewildered me.
If you happen to want fame and fortune and glory (Oh yes, a blogging carnival does do such amazing things) then please do join in. It’s free. Hahahaha.
Now the rules, as I can gather, are simple. I host the carnival by chatting about it here. I link up to all those amazing humans who have written posts and I admire their genius. I also take the day off because reading all those blogs is definitely going to be fascinating and I doubt I will finish quickly.
Then I panic after writing this post because I just spent half an hour searching the BMB carnival list to see what the bloggers before me had done and found nothing. Yeah. That’s right. Nothing. Mummy from the Heart did mention hers in May but I’ve seen nothing on her site. So if these finalists for the MAD awards are not getting responses, then I may well be that sad git in a dark blogging corner swinging her legs morosely.
Or I can pretend I didn’t want you here anyway and why do I care. Which is obviously the truth. Right?
The carnival cometh and I am hosting it. If you fancy sending me a post on 21 June and participating in this amazing exercise, then please, please do.
You are allowed to dictate a theme so here is my theme: Grumpy and funny
If you are grumpy and you wrote a funny post, send it here.
If you are funny because you are grumpy I’d like to read it.
Actually, just tell me why you are grumpy.
I am about to turn 40 and adopt the moniker Grumpy Old Woman. Join me. Share the grimace. Be at one with your inner GRRRRRRRR.
This rant has been building up for quite some time. It may get me stalked, stabbed, glared at, and possibly tarred and feathered, but I can’t hold it in any more. Don’t read on if you are easily offended.
You see, I am a journalist. A freelance journalist. I do this for a living. I have been doing it for around 18 years now and I still don’t think that I am a “proper” journalist. I can investigate, analyse, report, study, and understand a subject, and write about it in the correct way for the correct market. But have I been to Afghanistan and seen the suffering and reported on it in such a way as to change people’s lives? No.
I do, however, have a grasp of the fundamental essentials of writing. You know, things like grammar, punctuation, tenses. I may not be perfect (there are probably a ton of errors in this post alone) but at least I can recognise them and correct them, when I see them.
When I see badly written twitter descriptions that claim that the human who penned those hideously mangled words is a “freelance writer” or a “journalist”, I want to find them and spend some time explaining why they are neither of those things. With a sharp pen.
You are NOT a journalist if you write a blog. Sorry. Unless the site is a news site, or one of your blogs as you DO journalism, or a hyperlocal, or a place where you are honing your skills after training (important point that, training…)
You are not a freelance writer if you write a blog either. You are a person writing an online diary. Many people who write blogs have phenomenal writing skills and should be freelance writers, many don’t and shouldn’t. The problem I have with all this is that bad grammar, poor spelling, shocking tenses – these are all things that make potential employers think twice about hiring anyone who claims to be a freelance writer.
Those of us who know our libel law from our criminal law, who know what journalism ethics are and what to avoid, who spend hours every day poring over the news and revising our skills, we get tarred with that brush. We have our rates pulled down to below minimum wage because our craft is being devalued.
You wouldn’t claim to be an electrician because you printed it on a business card. You wouldn’t claim to be a lawyer because you read a book about it once. Words may be everywhere and abundant, but unless you know how to use them, like any tool, you are not an expert, you are not a journalist, and you are not a freelance writer.
Boy I have been invisible of late. It’s amazing how busy things have been and how quickly I’ve come to neglect poor Saffa. You see, I have just launched another webiste and it has taken up all of my free time. The Canny Crafteris my little baby and it needs lots of TLC. Still massively in development, this site is my dream come true.
You know, one of those things that you think of and think of until one day you go, “If I don’t do this now I am going to have to take my head off and leave it somewhere.”
So off I went and did it. Boy is it scary. Scaaaaaary. I have a massively loud negative internal voice. Actually, if any of you know of a way of switching the bugger off, let me know. The voice says things like, “Rubbish” and “Pah” – a lot. Stupid voice.
I also need to thank (as if this is some kind of insane Oscar speech by a deranged lunatic) The Husband for his patience and help, and The Person for HER patience and help. I have always said that the two of them are like brother and sister from another mother, and the help they have given me (as well as the rolling of eyes) has proven that quite thoroughly.
Why the Invisible Mother? Because I am shattered. My poor offspring is spending a lot of time with a zombie. I even drool slightly. Yesterday I fell asleep on my keyboard. My computer (thanks Windows. Not…) rebooted thanks to updates and while I was waiting for it to restart itself I fell asleep. How sad is that.
So, here’s to your weekend! May it be full and fluffy and lovely. Mine is going to be about a wedding! C and K are getting married (they sound like a designer brand advert, snort) and The Husband and I are their photographers.
Yes, I also think they are NUTS for choosing me, but hey…
We are off to Bath for three days of shooting, bonding, chatting and laughing. And celebrating the marriage of two amazing humans. Wahoo!!!
I promise to update here more often, and to try and be more entertaining. Promise.
WELCOME TO SUNDAY! Ohhh, I do hope you are having a fantastical day. Over here at Tamsin Towers it has been a manic couple of weeks. So much so, that I’ve barely been able to visit my favourite blogs and say hello to my favourite people. The next week isn’t looking that much better but Half Term is coming so enforced relaxation is on its way.
I haven’t given my blog a focus. This has been bugging me a lot lately. A focus means more ideas and strategy. So, hopefully, over the next few weeks I’ll be implementing a stronger focus on parenting issues and crafty parenting.
And here, in all it’s glory, is the week’s roundup…
This week I started my Get Fit for Charitymission. So far I have ten sponsors which is, I have to say, more than I ever expected. It’s been a tough couple of days and the past few days I’ve been the I in Pain. I had to go down the stairs on my bum for a 2am toilet break last night. My legs were just Too Sore For Words.
I can’t WAIT for the weekly measurement and weigh-in on Wednesday.
If you fancy sponsoring me, please do. Every penny is going to Learn As One, a worthy cause indeed. If you haven’t already seen how I look now visit here. Look right to see Sarah’s transformation and how I plan to look by Christmas. Wahey!
OH AND! AND! I was sent a Slendertone System Abs kitto try out for a month. Now, because I am also doing masses of crunches and stomach killing exercises with my diet and exercise plan, I wanted to make sure that this was a fair review.
SO, I am using it on the non-abs days and The Husband, who can’t exercise at the moment due to an arm injury, is using it on the same days for the same time! He is my control group. Not exactly a WILLING control group, I’ll give you that. There are yelps of, “It’s cold” and “Urgh, STICKY!”
It’s true. The pads are cold and sticky. But I am loving the tickly sensation when its doing its thing. Its quite relaxing actually. I find myself getting quite zen as I knit, watch Medium (one of my all time favourite shows EVER. How can you not love a show about a middle-aged mum of three who kicks butt?) and get stomached by Slendertone.
I am deeply sceptical of products like these but perhaps with The Husband as control group A, and Sarah as control group B (she knows how long it took her abs to show when she started the programme the first time) we can see how much of an impact this system has on my figure.
It was with vast quantities of anger and sorrow that I saw Baby Loss Awarenessget covered in chocolate. It was a sad moment in our media history and I truly hope their protest made some difference. Sadly I can’t find anything about it in the news. I wish I had litres of cash so I could make a difference.
I joined in with thousands of British Mummy Bloggersat their #savvyhalfterm twitter party. It was really good! Many of the ideas were pure genius and others extremely funny. I lost many hours to scrolling through the stream and reading the ideas. I know I’ve stolen several for my half-term plans! Here are some of mine.
And I uncovered an adorable free knitting pattern for babiesthat has had several emails come my way cooing in delight. This pattern is actually quite simple and will make anyone really happy if you decided to pick up the sticks and knit it for them. If you get stuck with any parts of the pattern just drop me an email tamsin [@] saffasogood [dot] com, and I’ll do my best to help you out.
Tomorrow will be all about dissecting the morning news of the day, an aching body update on Get Fit for Charity, and something insane this way comes…
Heeeeeere’s Heidi! This hilarious, brilliant and ever-so-accurate blog comes from the mind of a mum whose sense of humour has me rolling in the aisles on a daily basis. Don’t forget to catch more of her brilliance at Mums Rock.
A mother’s love knows no bounds.
I’ve just wasted an entire morning trying to find out who said that, to no avail. Of course, had I thought about it properly, I’d have realised that there’s probably no living record of the sucker who uttered such unfathomable nonsense.
They were probably hunted down by mothers across the globe and tortured to death. I envisage coven-like cackles as they pinned him down (it had to be a him, right?) and screeched “Feel the bounds of this, sunshine?” as they stuck pins in his eyeballs and laughed while he cried for his Mummy.
Phew. Did someone unleash the Kraken in here this morning? Sorry. Mama needs a little more caffeine to start her day with a smile instead of the fury that comes so naturally.
My point is this: the idea that a mother’s love knows no bounds? Well, it’s just that – a lovely idea – but I just don’t think it’s true. What’s more, it’s Stepford-style brainwashing like this that leaves many mothers so wracked with guilt about their perceived inadequacies that they can’t stop weeping over their failings for long enough to recognise that their charges are alive and not in jail, ergo: job well done.
I can say all this with some confidence because only last week this mother was suddenly confronted with the very real limit of her love. Faster than you could say Wow-that-scene-from-the-Exorcist-was-actually-pretty-true-to-life, every shred of maternal instinct upped and left my body.
Yes, my son was parted from the contents of his stomach in an abrupt manner on the drive home from school and yes, I did run screaming from the car and hide in the bathroom whilst trying to figure out what to do.
See? No sign of boundless maternal love here. Now don’t get me wrong. I would take a bullet for this kid, and have happily endured seasons of great heartache and anguish sometimes purely because I had his best interests in mind. He’s my first baby and to this day I don’t believe a more beautiful baby was ever born (except for his brother, who is his perfect match in the beauty department thing).
He’s funny, bright, kind and wise beyond his years, and a heartfelt hug from him is like nothing else on earth. I love him with every fibre of my being. I do not love donning wellies and rubber gloves to wade through several inches of his regurgitated lunch as it sloshes around in the footwells of my car.
I should have seen it coming and if I’d had the fortitude to encourage him to barf at the side of the road before getting in the car, perhaps I wouldn’t have encountered such an epic fail in the motherly love department. I was greeted at the school gate by the sight of him clutching his teacher’s hand, his face so pale it was practically blue and see-through.
“He says his tummy is sore,” she said, with the empathy that only a fellow mother can convey. I guided him gently to the car and deduced from his uncharacteristic silence and stillness that all was not well. Literally. Even the requisite after-school snack failed to rouse him but at no point did he say he felt like he might pebble-dash the back of the passenger seat or leave partially undigested strawberries lurking in the seat pocket.
And so it was that just as we reached the top of the road, the noise I fear most in all the world erupted from the back seat. For a split second I looked to the skies, and then to the ocean on the horizon, convinced that only a tsunami could be preceded by such aural horror. I glanced in the rear-view mirror and had to do a double take.
His brother started screaming in terror as he beheld the traumatic sight beside him and realised that his toy wrestler, which he’d accidentally dropped moments before, was about to be swept away. All the while I uttered soothing sounds of comfort, assuring my son that I would stop the car in a matter of seconds and rush to his aid. Except once we were stationary the first thing I did was remove his stunned brother from the scene of devastation.
It was like one of those gut-wrenching movies in which a mother has to choose which child to save when faced with impending disaster. The solution was surprisingly obvious to me. Take the one you don’t need full body armour and a nose peg to pick up. I placed him just inside the front door and as I returned to the barfmobile I was hit by – well never mind that’s probably way too much information but suffice it to say my own lunch threatened to make an exit in solidarity with my son’s.
There was nothing for it. I turned on my heel and fled. In my son’s hour of need I momentarily abandoned him. Wretching, I ran to the bathroom where I battled as I have never battled before, desperately drawing on every shred of decency I could muster to arm myself to return to the carnage that awaited me.
Within seconds, with new resolve, I ran to the kitchen like the firefighters in Backdraft returning to face down certain death in the name of saving humanity. I grabbed my Marigolds and silently thanked my mother for insistently bringing a pair with her whenever she comes to visit. And then, in a scene reminiscent of Lord of the Rings when the eagles swoop down to rescue Sam and Frodo, clutched from the jaws of death-by-volcanic-lava, I swooped upon my son and freed him from the confines of his car seat.
Stripping him of his clothes in the front garden, I carried him aloft to the bathroom where I hosed him down and showered him with love and comfort before dressing him in fresh pyjamas and making him a nest infront of the telly.
And then I spent an hour and 45 minutes squished in the back of my car where I wept as I confronted my greatest fear.
This mother’s love knows its bounds. That’s not to say that I stop loving my child when he’s dripping with the contents of his partially digested lunch, of course not. It’s just that my capacity to be a loving mother when faced with the v-word is drastically reduced.
Ok, totally compromised.
And if love is a verb – a doing word, as we learned in school – then being loving is what love is all about. It’s not very loving to weep with horror at the sight of your child demonstrating what a powerful muscle the stomach can be.
Give me those newborn nappies full of inhuman tar-like stuff that you practically have to scrape off with a scalpel any day. I think it all stems from a childhood experience when my cat puked in my lap and then preceded to walk in circles around me, continuing to be desperately unwell, until I was trapped inside a ring of steaming nastiness, squealing weakly for help.
It took some time for someone to rescue me, so at least I’ll be able to empathise with my son when he’s in therapy because of the time he was left alone in a putrid mess of his own making in the car while his mother momentarily contemplated running for the hills.
Joking aside, I do really think that image of boundless maternal loveliness is pretty unattainable. I also think its to blame for everything from the sense of creeping guilt that cripples some poor mums, to the manic sense of rivalry that leads others in a relentless quest to outdo their peers in the maternal perfection stakes. I’m not proud that I’m practically phobic about puke but I am proud that I’m getting better at compensating for my shortcomings.
No-one tells bedtime stories quite like I do, and I choose to believe that my kid is going to recall those magical made-up stories long after he’s forgotten the time I panicked in the face of projectile puke. Forget boundless maternal love that pretends it doesn’t occasionally curl up and die just a little bit – the ability to compensate for one’s shortcomings is what makes a mother truly awesome, in my books.
I have another fantastic guest post arriving at 9am tomorrow morning and I am actually rather worried about posting it. You see, the author Heidi (visit her blog at Mums Rock) is extremely funny and I’m terrified that you’ll read her post, cry with laughter and then go to her blog instead of mine.
I am very shallow, yes.
This particular post was inspired by an incident that most parents fear. In fact, it makes grown men quake with terror. It is also excellent fodder for a pant-wettingly hilarious post. You have been warned…
As promised, here is an interesting post from Jade from Now that I’m no longer 25…I know that I wish I was still under 30, gosh, I never creaked back then. Or put my back out opening the bin. Pah. Anyway, Jade visited South Africa and it really had an impact on her. I found her views really poignant. Enjoy…
Jade getting to know the locals...
I’ve only been to South Africa once so far but it is a country which has played on my thoughts since. I was both appalled and intrigued by my trip to Johannesburg. My return to the UK left me wanting to find out more about the country and its history.
I felt as if everything there was unusual and out of place from my common surroundings.
I travel quite a lot and I’ve never really had that feeling of such different surrounds, behaviours and attitudes.
There was definitely something different about being in South Africa, and Johannesburg in particular. Usually when I return from a trip I’m eager to blog about it and share my photos and stories, however, with this trip I took 6 months to describe what I thought of Jo’burg.
On arrival at Johannesburg the immigration staff were laughing and joking with each other while having a quick scan though my passport, a slightly different approach to the US customs officials!
I travelled by pre-booked taxi and I was amazed at the size of the city, it felt like one of the largest cities I had ever been in, this was both exciting and intimidating.
It was quite disorientated travelling from the airport which is quite unlike me, I usually have a pretty decent sense of direction.
I found Johannesburg both terrifying and compelling at the same time and I realised how little I know about a country in which there have been memorable and important events within my lifetime. I had heard stories about Johannesburg and seen snippets on the TV, for example, so I did arrive there with quite a lot of preconceived ideas.
I was staying with family too, so I had a different view of the city and the day to day living situation compared to if I’d been there as a lone tourist.
I passed by a township and I couldn’t even comprehend it having seen it with my own eyes, it was like watching a movie. I can’t even being to imagine what it’s like to live in those conditions. I did notice there seemed to be a strong sense of community, with groups sitting, chatting and laughing together.
I always find that no matter where people come from and what living situations they are in, almost everyone like to interact and laugh with someone else.
For many people there seems to be a constant thought or threat of something happening; with many people choose to live with electric fences, gates and panic buttons. This is so very different to what I’m used to in Scotland, not being able to walk down to the local shop or walk around the city is completely foreign to me.
I suppose if you grow up with these surrounding you accept them but I think I’d struggle to live like this and accept it as a normal way of life.
I couldn’t believe the difference between the wealthy people in Johannesburg and the people in the townships. In some ways there have been many changes since the overthrow of the apartheid government, but then again, there is still a long way to go.
I was really lucky to be able to visit Johannesburg and experience it, I’m glad I did and I would love to go back but I don’t think I could ever live there. I did have a really fun and interesting trip and it was great to catch up with family.
I got a glimpse of the beauty of this country, visiting the Elephant Sanctuary and also learned a lot more about what life’s like for some people in Johannesburg and the amazing contrasts that exist every day in this huge city.
Tamsin’s note: It really is a country of contrasts and a lot of work still needs to be done, but things are really changing for the better. And just look at that sunset. Oh man, that’s one of the things I crave from home.