In The Naughty Corner

Photo of the week. We reconnect with the Chichele alpha female

Highlight of the week: We meet our boss in Lusaka and join his alliance

Lowlight of the week: The cat is out of the bag. A 32kg beast breaks out en-route

Maximum temperature: 30 degrees centigrade

Rainfall: Patchy heavy showers

Events depicted in this blog may well be seen through rose-tinted spectacles. Time blurs. Memories fade. Naturally, as a young child I was an angel. With a blemish-free record to all intents and purposes. Without any need for a naughty step at home.

But at the age of four I metamorphosed. At infant school the docile pupa spawned a troublesome moth. Seeking light and heat. Full of chat. Restless and keen to learn. Miss Parr, my teacher, despaired and exercised her right to confine me to the naughty corner. Again and again. I was a prodigy at infant school. The product of scheming siblings. Robin and Sam had convinced me that school wouldn’t have me if I couldn’t already read. They gave me a head-start with home tutorials.

The criteria for admission to school were mis-sold. Consequently, my first year in infants was beneath me. Unchallenging. My advantage became a disadvantage. Easily bored by Peter and Jane (not forgetting Pat the dog). I spent some time reflecting on my aberrant behaviour. Sitting in the naughty corner. It was a bare wooden patch of floor. I had to sit crossed legged and stare into the corner. Even more boring. I soon learnt to contain my impatience. After a few visits, I was never there again. I was a quick learner.

But I digress. More on the naughty corner later.

Getting to Zambia, whilst war is waging in the Gulf, might have been fraught. It would have made good copy. But the truth is rather mundane. We bypass the Gulf on a plane that wins every category in Top Trumps. An A380 spirits us from Heathrow to OR Tambo in Johannesburg. Without a hint of drama. No missiles. Even the anticipated turbulence is cancelled out by our massive inertia. Most of which is surely our 150 kg of luggage. Trump card played. Yet we leave Trump behind. We will be cushioned from his tantrums for the next 4 months or so.

Our relief at dodging the war-zone is tempered by the automatic assumption of wrongdoing felt by all who pass through airport security. The officers manning the scanners at OR Tambo seem agitated. We brace ourselves for the ignominy of having to decant our trappings from hand luggage packed in a less than mindful way. Cables that seem to act like mating snakes. Impossibly entangled. A minute screwdriver enters the contraband bucket. A tiny roll of electrical tape follows suit. Even a roll of flimsy Sellotape and a box of rechargeable batteries require senior arbitration before narrowly escaping the guillotine. But our officer still seems unsatisfied. He needs something more incriminating. And then with a magician’s flourish: he fishes out what he is seeking. A silver sharp stiletto blade. Wait, my imagination is playing tricks on me. It’s merely a dinner fork. Ideal for your average mid-air hijack. It joins the rest of our contraband in the naughty bucket and somehow we are allowed on our merry way. Despite our evil intentions. Dinner at Kwetu in future will be a hand to mouth affair.

Our devil’s horns and tails betray us as we alight in Lusaka. The queue for immigration is shorter than we expect. Our paperwork is inspected and the officer smiles but says no. I can’t help you. Her body language says otherwise, but we swallow hard and expect the worst. You will need a report order, and I can’t do those. My colleague will gladly help.

 A report order! The naughty corner pulls me back in. Flashbacks fill my mind. PTSD on steroids. No amount of EMDR will sort this one out. I’m doomed to be in a perpetual  state of limbo. Not wanted in Zambia. Perennially in the naughty corner. Hands on my head. Feeling the class staring at me from all angles. Ignominy. Officer Branston reads me my rights and shows me where to stand. In the corner……… but then I wake from my reverie and realise that Branston is on my side. Although the report order warns me that I face a potential 2 year prison sentence for not heading, tout de suite, to the department of Immigration. All is good and I can breathe again. The naughty corner has been emasculated.

Meanwhile, our own imaginary Schrödinger’s cat is in a state of limbo. Four virtual bags full. Checked in luggage that may, or may not, still be in the hold of our various Zambia-bound aircraft. 3 flights. 3 rolls of the dice. Present or absent. Heavy or light. Each bag teetering on the brink of the 32 kg threshold. Too heavy for the ground handlers to nudge from plane to plane? Niggling lower backs, or aged knees, that might just say “no” at any point. Our cat vaporising in a virtual black box.

Thankfully, our bright red bag and our bright blue bag make an early appearance on carousel number one in Kenneth Kaunda (KK) airport. A promising start. Two black boxes bear fruit. A short interval and we glance around. Other passengers also wait in limbo. Keith spies an odd flash of green inside of a thick polythene bag. He pulls at the bag and realises that the polythene hides a tale. A tale of immense forces. A struggle between 32 kg of bootie, gravity, backs and knees, and heavy machinery. The bag loses its dignity and its integrity. The seam splits and the contents herniate. The heavy duty polythene bag a rush job. Somehow our bootie has arrived in Lusaka. Our third black cat is dishevelled but alive.

Keith begins the job of filing a report. The baggage handlers need to know of this sorry tale. Our cat may have vet bills, or missing innards to replace. Keith leaves me to watch the spinning carousel. So I watch. And I watch. But no amount of watching helps our 4^th cat appear. The last box is laid open and the cat has gone.

Dawn arrives in Lusaka city. Magical coffee materialises at my bedside. My breakfast is delivered by an apparition as Keith declares that the day has purpose. We won’t accept the offer of prison. And plan to take no prisoners. A swift walk up the road to the Central Immigration Office. Susan wrestles with a temperamental printer. A traditional part of the immigration dance. And by 9 am we each hold a shiny new 2 year work permit in a sweaty palm. The naughty corner now ancient history. Back in my childhood. Firmly. Guilt free.

Somehow the black box that holds our disapparated cat gives us a second opportunity to explore its contents. WhatsApp informs us that bag number 4 is at KK airport. Further enquiries outline a Catch 22 conundrum: Baggage handlers will not permit us to access the bag within 4 hours of our flight out to Mfuwe. They decline to deliver the bag to us too. They want us to fetch the bag at their convenience and miss our meeting with our Boss!

But serendipity is fighting a rear-guard action on our behalf. Coffee with Pam a crucial move. 37D Gallery a natural venue. Pam introduces us to Claire and Ross who own the gaff. Keith works some magic on Ross’ dodgy leg wound. And within minutes: Claire and Ross’ team have spirited our wayward bag back to our self-catered digs. Permitting Keith and I to join Fastone, our new Boss, at work and play for the afternoon and evening.

Sat in a window seat on the Proflight jet to Mfuwe, I place my shades on my nose. No need to use any rose tinting today. All this talk of the naughty corner is now historical but nice.

Meeting Pam at 37d for coffee

Keith gets to work while Ginny catches up with Pam

Our disapparated cat

The non-communicable disease alliance