Karl commented that he's recently seen the film 'District 9' and jokingly remarked: 'Is it true that South Africans were so awful to aliens?'.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Karl commented that he's recently seen the film 'District 9' and jokingly remarked: 'Is it true that South Africans were so awful to aliens?'.
Monday, August 30, 2010
One of the books I bought this weekend (Pamo, hwfarber, Karl and the rest... its all your fault!) was a volume entitled 'How to draw'. Sounds good. I also got a sketch book and a number of pencils, only I didn't know about water-soluble graphite pencils yet. Darn! They sound like fun!
Saturday, August 28, 2010
After spending most of my life being terribly serious and working awfully hard, I decided that it was time for my mid-life crisis. I took a bit of a run-up to it, but now I'm really enjoying it.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Thursday, August 26, 2010
As horticulturist, manager, HR 'specialist', PR and general dogsbody, I often get to handle oddities on the farm. Yesterday, I was asked for help in replying to a request for a donation of goods from... wait for it.... a multi-million rand, five-star golfing estate.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Last night I nearly repeated the 'killing of computer keyboard' exercise I conducted with the coffee a month or so ago. Never, ever, ever play 'chicken invaders' with someone who might make you laugh when you've just taken a swig of some or other liquid!
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
I'm malignantly amused by a recent incident regarding a Health Workers' strike. Normally, these things make me very angry: patients don't receive proper care in what are often literally cases of life and death.
Monday, August 23, 2010
I'm writing this to inform the world that Gertrude or no Gertrude (that's my tummy), I'm still in pretty good shape. I rode my non-state-of-the-art bicycle from the farm to town in thirty minutes flat. Its mostly uphill, too. Pauses to admire thighs. Good thighs. Powerful (but not too thunderous) thighs. Sighs.
It didn't work out well, though. Although I was spared any stiffness of the muscles, Gertie (the tum) and Jenny and Penny (the lungs) conspired in a revolting revolution and I am shamed. Yes, shamed, I tell you!
Thing was, I thought I might impress and surprise the DBF (delicious boyfriend) by arriving at his work around closing time. We could then go for drinks and a snack (treat's on me), chuck the bicycle in the back of the pickup and meander home in a well-fed haze.
However, the best laid plans of mice, men (and more often than not, MM) are often foiled. DBF's gorgeous colleague wanted to come along. Fair enough. Then DBF's gorgeous colleague wanted to do some workaday bitching (and lotto dreaming), which wasn't at all what I had in mind.
It was around about then that Jenny and Penny (lungs of fame and endurance - you don't know what I put them through) started to play up causing MM (that's me) to become tetchy. MM (see how I distance myself from this!) proceeded to inform DBF and gorgeous colleague that they shouldn't pin their hopes on the lotto and should stop complaining about work and actually do something about the situation.
She (The silly bint, MM) then compounded this faux pas by adding that since they weren't doing anything about it, they probably were exactly where they wanted to be (At least for the moment). 'The time is now!' she declaimed 'Live! If you are where you want to be, be happy! If you aren't, move on!' - something like that, anyway.
As you can imagine, this went down like a lead balloon. So while DBF and gorgeous colleague were expostulating about how very dreadful things are, and how they can't do anything about it, Gertie did a little wriggle and MM had to run for the loo and throw up the dinner, returning to an atmosphere of constraint.
Good one, MM!
Went to the doctor on Saturday and spent the weekend in a medicated daze. Relapse caused by excessive exertion. Smart move, MM...
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Gertrude is starting to get slightly vexing. She's placed me in a quandry. I didn't invite her, although I might have created conditions that are attractive to her. I've decided something's got to be done.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
As you may have gathered from my previous post, I had a great deal of liking and respect for the staff of the Lowveld farm, and I think that it was, by and large, reciprocated. There were times, though, when we just didn’t understand each other, and not only because the hundred workers there (with a few exceptions) didn’t speak English.
During the time I worked there, a small child strayed from its mother’s supervision while she was busying herself with housework, fell into the irrigation canal and drowned. A tragedy. Bad enough in itself, but the tragedy was compounded as follows.
There was a widow-woman who lived with her children in the compound, and who worked on the farm. Now, in African tradition, a widow is ‘bad luck’. Then too, this particular woman was… unlikable. Bear with me: her role in this becomes clear as my tale unfolds.
Some of the ladies of the farm requested a ride to see a sangoma (witch doctor or traditional healer) subsequent to the tragedy, and I, like a fool, took them there, blithely thinking that they had a need for comforting and this might do it. They took along a tape-recorder and held some sort of séance, the tail-end of which I witnessed when I went to fetch them.
On the Monday, I found the entire staff waiting outside my office with the following tale: the child had been murdered by the widow and thrown into the canal. How did they know this? The sangoma had told them, and they had a tape-recording to ‘prove’ it. Ninety-nine people waited for me to arrive at work so that they could demand that I dismiss her.
The police had declared the accident to be just that. There had been no marks on the child’s corpse. It was a simple drowning. The accused woman was a good worker, I had no legal cause to dismiss her. I couldn’t. It was as simple as that. I couldn’t fire a woman based on the assertions of a sangoma who had been 100km away at the time of the drowning, nor could the police arrest her.
The demands intensified, it began to become more than a little intimidating. At last, I raised my voice and announced that I was deducting every minute they weren’t at their work stations from their pay and that this was an illegal strike. I threatened that I would dismiss the lot of them if they continued. They melted away, rumbling angrily as they went.
Of course, they got the widow and her children off the farm. If I was frightened, she must have been terrified. I remember angrily asking if the death of one child was, perhaps, not enough of a tragedy for them. Must the widow’s three children starve in order to satisfy them? They shook their heads and said I didn’t understand.
I didn’t. I still don’t. The incident was alienating: me and ‘them’ and neither party understood the other.
In a simlalr vein, there was a belief that Malaria is not caused by Mosquitoes, but by a curse. It didn’t go as far on my farm as on some others. I heard dreadful stories of farm supervisor’s houses getting burned down because workers had become ill, and sometimes, the indunas (supervisors) who worked under me would be very afraid because it had been claimed that they had cursed someone.
It was as if it was impossible to believe that ‘shit happens’. Someone had to be to blame. Sad. Sometimes sick. Shit wold happen, and then it would be compounded: a cesspool of tragedies and misfortunes.
So: are you feeling judgemental? ‘I’m not so superstitious’, you may be saying… and yet… and yet… I know I believe some things that are unprovable: is that not superstition?
Had I been born two hundred years ago (what’s two hundred years in the scheme of things?) I might have held even more dicey beliefs. Some of them may have been ‘antisocial’ by modern standards, but they’d still have been acceptable.
I have the advantage of education to make me skeptical. What if I’d grown up without one? I might have believed that the world was flat and that bad things happened because of curses.
Today's pic: Something wet and sexy.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
When first I moved to the lowveld, I was really broke. I mean REALLY broke. After doing some sums, I worked out that I’d survive the month if I ate nothing but rice.
The house that came with the job was a sprawling old farm house. It was huge. I only ever used two rooms of it, and each room was about as large as my entire cottage is now. It had three bedrooms and a massive lounge-dining room that I never used at all, and the whole thing had parquet flooring.
Anyone who has ever had parquet flooring will know how much work the upkeep is, and part of the deal was that I would take good care of the house - it was a daunting task. Within the first week I was approached by a man whose wife needed a job, even a part-time one, but I turned him away since I didn’t have the money to pay for help.
Eventually, he persuaded me to take her on for two days a week under the understanding that I’d only pay her at the end of the month. She worked her first day, and boy! Those floors gleamed.
The very next day, I was stopped on my rounds by an elderly lady who was employed on the farm. She wanted to give me a pumpkin. I was touched by her kindness, and privately thought that she had no idea how grateful I was to have that pumpkin to vary my diet with.
A bit further along my round, I was stopped by one of the section supervisors who gave me a shopping bag full of home-grown tomatoes. I became thoughtful.
I was presented in rapid succession with paw-paws, a bunch of spinach, an offer of credit from the farm store and some carp caught from the dam and nicely cleaned.
It didn’t take a genius to work it out: young Nomsa had seen the dismal state of my grocery cupboard and had mobilized the compound to come to my aid with food. That night, I feasted on fresh-caught fish and garden vegetables, and after two weeks of rice, it was the best meal I ever had.
I’ll always be thankful for the kindness of these country folk who gave of the little they had and with no particular expectation of return. Of course, it wasn't all roses... but that's for another day.
(Today's pic: more messing about in the dew)
Monday, August 16, 2010
I mentioned the 'Lowveld' in a previous post, and I think I shall tell you a bit more about it. Its a steamy, tropical area and its earlier nickname 'The white man's grave', and my personal nickname for it 'The Armpit of Africa', reflect the climate and tropical diseases one experiences there.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
She walked the farm in the afternoon heat, checking this, checking that. All well. The boss wasn’t due to visit for days either, so it was just her and the staff. Nice farm, couldn’t understand the boss not wanting to live on it. She stopped suddenly. Something out of place. A plant. Ah, but here was Moffat, the section supervisor.
‘Hello. How are you?’
‘I am well, Moffat, and you?’
‘I’m well too, thanks’
What is this?’
‘It’s a plant’
‘Yes I can see it’s a plant. Someone’s been looking after it too.’
‘Yes, I can see that someone’s trimmed it. Perhaps it is a nice flower?’
‘Moffat, I am not a fool.’
‘There will be trouble if the boss sees it. She is also not a fool. It must be gone when I pass here again.’
‘I’ll see to it.’
‘Stay well, Moffat’
The grower strolled on ignoring the giggles from the ladies on Moffat’s team. Nothing like maintaining discipline.
She passed by the compound: a collection of cottages for the live in workers. One of the families had a little shop too. What was this? Beside a rock, a flowerpot with the drainage holes plugged and filled with liquid. She picked it up and sniffed it. Sorghum beer. She strolled over to the shop and knocked on the window clients were served through.
‘How are you today, Nomsa?’
‘Oh, I’m well, and you?’
‘Very well. Tell me, Nomsa, honestly. How many of these has Zita had?’
‘Its his second one.’
‘He drives the tractor, Nomsa, he mustn’t have more, it could be dangerous. Besides, last time he fell asleep under a tree.’
‘Yes, I remember.’
‘So you won’t sell him any more, will you?’
‘No, I won’t.’
‘Tell him I said so. I’ll have a Coke. Ah, thanks. Stay well’
Sipping her Coke she turned her steps towards the largest of the greenhouses. She liked the mass of green palm trees, and she should stop by Ta’August while she was on her round.
‘Hello Ta’ August!’
‘Hello! How are you today?’
‘Oh, I’m well, and you?’
‘Those are jolly nice palm trees you’re taking out’ she stepped back to admire them and jumped, skittering away a few steps. Something large and nasty underfoot: a dead iguana and a large one too.
‘Good Lord! It’s huge! Was it in the greenhouse?’
‘Yes, and there’s good eating on one of those.’
‘Stewed or on the grille?’
‘Stew. It tastes like chicken.’
‘Oh. You’ll need a big pot!’
‘I have a big pot.’
‘Oh well… stay well’
Just for safety's sake, she made sure her round included a chat with Zita. He didn’t seem any the worse for the sorghum beer, so it was onwards to the office, with a stop past Jacob.
‘Hello Jacob, how are you?’
‘Hello. I’m well, and you?’
‘Who is minding the plants this weekend, Jacob?’
‘Grace and Goodness will do it’
‘Goodness gracious, that sounds like a good plan! Stay well, then’
And it went well.
*Today's pic: a flower of course!
Friday, August 13, 2010
These darned water colour thingies are fun! Best of all, you have to ‘work’ quickly, so it suits my level of patience with the finicky (a level somewhere close to zero).
I had a beastly week – conflicts at work with attendant drama and on top of it all, I’ve got bronchitis again. Suffice to say that I felt miserable, so I settled down and daubed my ‘Picture of Misery’ which I quite like (to my surprise). I even like the accidental splash of red that landed where it shouldn’t.
It might just be a fluke that I’ve produced something I’m quite pleased with, but I’m wondering if I mightn’t carry on with the new hobby and get a decent paintbrush or two and the correct paper. I might even study up on correct technique. Well… I might.
Thanks to all the artist bloggers. Really, thanks. Watching you all having fun with your creations is inspiring, and that’s the bottom line, isn’t it? Fun. Enjoyment. Expression. Even if I throw my pictures away afterwards (which I won’t) it’s the fun of painting them that counts – watching the colours spread onto the paper, taking shape. I like this!
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Ho there you Northern Hemispherical people! Here’s a gloat from the South: Its spring! Yup! All you jammy folks who’ve been speaking of lovely warm summer’s days while I shiver (oh alright, it doesn’t get all that cold here, but we think its cold) will soon be subjected to the same treatment from the Maunderer.
What’s that? Too early for spring yet? Pish! You are speaking to the observer of vegetation here, and if the Jasmine’s in flower and the trees are in bud, its spring alright.
Yes, and I can feel my sap (which is green, except when I cut myself) rising, and soon I’ll be in full and glorious bloom, radiating vitality and other disgustingly cheerful and healthful attributes.
A brief digression here: I was reading yet another advert for a 'health and wellness' program. Why does the word 'wellness' make my skin crawl? And what, please enlighten me, is the difference between 'health' and 'wellness' other than a few extra letters? Silly word.
Anyway, spring: ‘Cuckoo jug jug’ as Shakespeare said, although why on earth he should want to say it is beyond me. I think it had something to do with birds, although I’ve never heard one say ‘jug’ yet. I hope its not obscene in bird-ese. If so, apologies to those of you who are of an avian persuasion.
This summer, I intend to practice my photosynthesis. I haven’t got it right just yet, but when I do, I shan’t have a worry left in the world, believe me.
Of course, I was born in summer, and with one or two exceptions, most people I’ve come across seem to like the season they were born in best of all. How about you?
Today's pic: proof positive: a sunbird (related to humming birds) in full breeding plumage.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Schooldays are, for me, not something I remember with any great pleasure. What I do remember with glee though, is the number of schools my mother was asked to remove me from. Now that is something I am rather proud of!
It started in pre-school (aged five) when I latched onto the security gate on entering the place, grabbing onto the bars with something like a death-grip and yelled blue murder.
The teacher, talking over my head as if I wasn’t there and couldn’t understand (adults often do this) assured my mother that I’d get tired of it and let go, so I didn’t. I stayed there and howled at anyone who tried to detach me.
After a few days of this, my mother was so traumatized by my routine, that she was quite relieved when the teacher suggested that I ‘wasn’t ready’ for pre-school.
The following year I entered grade one, ready-equipped with a reading ability that extended to taking in the newspaper and doing basic maths (my mother had taught me from the cradle). I was promoted to second grade as a result, but it was awfully boring.
It was then that I discovered that I needn’t have a single schoolbook. I was kept in after class, lectured and remonstrated with, but it made no difference at all. Besides, it was fun baffling the grown-ups. I never argued with them, just did (or didn’t do) as I pleased. So mum was asked to remove me from that school by the time I reached grade 4.
I was in such trouble about that, that I toed the line for a while, but Grade eight saw me at a school that required me to wear a beret, name-badge and house badge.
It wasn’t deliberate, but I succeeded in being without at least one of the three at any given time and my mother was informed that I ‘refused to obey the school rules’. This, together with my academic habits (which rapidly re-surfaced), saw my mother once again being asked to take me out of the school. She did, which brings me to grade 9.
At that school, I was taken to a school psychologist for reasons similar to those mentioned above. I was declared depressingly ‘normal’ by a bored looking psychologist. Thus I was not only recalcitrant but uninteresting. My mother was once again required to move me.
It was then that she lit on the idea of placing me in a school that would offer maximum freedom. There were no uniforms, or silly rules, or compulsory activities and passing or failing were entirely up to you. I thrived. I did really, really well for the first time in my entire school career and was allowed to do grades 11 and 12 in one year.
It was private school which accepted children no other school would touch: children with multiple expulsions behind their backs, pregnant school girls, children with police-records. I couldn’t possibly be as ‘bad’ as the other children there, so I marked my individuality by being the very best student.
Its fun being contrary, don’t you think?
Todays pic: a cat - the model of contrariness!
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
No, really, they do – and I’m not even talking fancy stuff like ‘Grand theft Auto’.
I recently downloaded a free game called ‘Chicken Invaders’ – much like the old ‘Space Invaders’, except that the aliens are cartoon chickens. When you shoot them, they squawk very satisfyingly, and when you ‘kill’ them, they drop drumsticks. If you pick those up, your space ship makes a lovely, disgusting burping noise and you get extra points.
It’s amazing how addictive it can be, and I caught myself thinking how cute they are when they die – an extra loud squawk – some feathers and a drumstick. I am overwhelmed by a hitherto unprecedented urge to kill chickens – me! One of those people that goes out of their way to rescue moths and whose first thought on finding a field mouse sharing my bed is that it shouldn’t be hurt.
Suddenly nothing will do for me but to spend a large chunk of my weekend (which was mostly cold and wet) committing mass chicken murder – crowing when I get better guns and relishing each death-squawk with indecent glee. I wasn’t like this before – promise!
Today’s pic: a rather bad watercolour of the view from my house – my first attempt since a bit of daubing over a year ago and done with a cheap box of water colours and a shedding paint brush on the wrong sort of paper. It was fun, though.
Friday, August 6, 2010
Linnaeus was an eighteenth century academic and adventurer who is often regarded as the ‘Father of Botany’ as we know it today.
There are times when I hate botanists. Example: the Cocos Palm Tree. First, it was called Cocos plumosa. Simple. Easy to remember, but Botanists don’t do ‘simple’ and they certainly don’t do ‘easy to remember’ either so it became:
Arecastrum romansoffianum. Right, so I remembered that, but then it became…
Syagrus romansoffiana. Sigh. So I remembered that too. I suppose botanists need to earn a living, even though everyone else is still calling the blessed thing Cocos plumosa . I gave up on that one and I’m not sure what its latest name might be.
But of course, there is more than one botanist on this planet, so while that lot was going on, some of them got hold of the genus Cassine and divided it into no less than five new Genera: Lauridia, Mystroxylon, Elaeadendron , Maytenus and I-forget-what, with the result that I never can remember which of the saffronwoods are which these days. I could go on, but I’m sure you get the idea.
The plants remain unchanged, but the names keep changing. Why? There already were perfectly acceptable, internationally recognized names. Of course, botanists can tell you why the old names aren’t perfectly acceptable and why new ones are absolutely necessary (their lives depend on it), but you’ll go to sleep just as you’re doing now. Bloody Linnaeus.
Be that as it may, I’m quite fond of Linnaeus, even though there is evidence that he was a pretentious git (he even gave himself a Latin name). He invented the concept of botanical gardens (nice places that they are) and popularized the ‘power nap’ - probably as a result of thinking up Latin names for plants and then changing them until he was exhausted.
Yawn. I’m off to have a nap under an Afrocarpus falcatus (which used to be Podocarpus falcatus, but still remains a Yellow wood tree) in the garden. Fifteen minutes will do.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Names are proving to be a fruitful topic, so today I’m off at another tangent and thinking about people’s names. The Xhosa people here have some interesting naming traditions, and unlike us, who have to look up Latin and other origins, the meaning is very clear.
I understand calling your daughter ‘Thandiswa’ or ‘Noluthando’ (meaning ‘loved one’), but it’s a great shame to call some poor little girl ‘Daniswa’. It’s a pretty name, but it means ‘disappointment’ and is generally given to a girl whose parents had actually wanted a boy.
Mind you, some English names shriek ‘We wanted a boy’ too, although I’ll absolve my mother of that even though she called me ‘Andrea’ which means ‘manly’ and ‘Patricia’ which means ‘noble’. (forget this rapidly, please: my name is MM!)
When a Xhosa woman marries, her new family gives her a new first name which, though it doesn’t appear on her official identity document, she uses from then onward. This will usually be representative of some domestic virtue such as ‘Nokaya’ (lady of the house) or ‘Nomathemba’ (peaceful one). In a way, it’s a pretty tradition, and the ladies I’ve worked with seem to like it very well.
The men don’t escape the naming game. One unfortunate old gent in my employ was called ‘Malayiko’ (no money) – and unlike the ladies, he had no hope of changing it at marriage! I never had the heart to call him that, I just called him ‘Uncle’ which is perfectly polite to do in this country.
‘Siyabonga’ (we are grateful) is a charming name, and quite common in this part of the world. ‘Ncinikaya’ (protector of the house – the ‘c’ represents a click that sounds like ‘tch’) was a particularly interesting name to come across, especially since its bearer chose the profession of security guard!
By the way, did you know that there are a disproportionate amount of people with the surname ‘Fish’ who choose Marine Biology as a field of study?
It makes me remember a few other appropriate surnames such as Major Tricky who used to run the police anti-fraud unit, and Vincent Bath who used to manage Rand Water Board (they supply Johannesberg’s water). We also used to have a chief justice Paijola (payola?) – I don’t want to think too hard about that one! One of the most highly regarded dentists in town is ‘Dr Payne’ and so it goes…
So I challenge you: add to my collection of interesting names or surnames! Bet you know a couple…. Gimme!
Today's pic: a woman named 'Beauty'.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
With liberation in South Africa, as is often the case when liberation happens, people decided to change some place names. That’s all very well, but it does mean that one can get terribly lost.
Some years ago, I was heading for the town that most people still call ‘Bloemfontein’ and nearly missed the turning, because I’d forgotten that it was now called ‘Manguang’. This incident motivated me to learn all the new place names and to remember that maybe the old ones are offensive.
About two years ago, I went to Sweden on a training course. There was another course running at the same time, and at one point the organizers decided that the delegates should meet. Of course, I made a beeline for the South Africans and we did the ‘Well I never! Fancy meeting you here!’ routines that countrymen do when they encounter each other abroad.
One of the ladies (a black one, as most South Africans are) told me that she came from a research institute that I knew was in Pretoria. No… not Pretoria… new name… so I said:
‘Oh! You’re from the town I grew up in, Tshwane!’ and she said
‘Yes, I’m from Pretoria’
So much for being politically aware and sensitive to people’s feelings! I must say that Microsoft has a bit of a problem there since spell check recognizes ‘Pretoria’, but not ‘Tshwane’.
I bet Bill Gates gets lost on the way to Manguang!
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
My friend spent some time visiting friends on a ‘Guest Farm’, so I’ve learned something new: this is where guests come from, is it? I wonder if she went to help with the harvesting, and how that’s done. Hope its not too messy.
My thoughts drift from there to the rows and rows of B&B’s, guest houses, guest lodges and the like (not sure what the distinction is, but I suppose there must be one) that stand, almost cheek-by-jowl in all the prettiest spots around here.
A house built in the seventies will sport a name like ‘Wilderness Manor’ – it just doesn’t seem right. It certainly isn’t a ‘manor house’ in any sense that I understand the word. What manner of manor could it be?
Then there’s ‘Tuscany Guest House’ a fake-Tuscan monstrosity situated on Wilderness beach. Nuts. If you want Tuscany, go to Tuscany. This is Wilderness with miles of unspoiled coast – haven’t they heard of ‘sense of place’?
There is a ‘Long Island – style’ development on an island in Knysna Lagoon – you couldn’t think of a location more perfect – at least until they piled row on row of little boxes on it, tight as sardines, painted them blue-grey and sold them for millions each.
Was the ‘Long Island Style’ supposed to encourage one to swallow the size, proximity to neighbors and the price? I don’t get it. Why bring Long Island to Knysna? Not having been to Long Island, I can’t say if they got the effect right. To me, it just looks like one of those huge townhouse complexes.
Oh, and thinking about complexes connects immediately to the word ‘exclusive’ often used in the marketing of such places. It’s a beastly word. It stinks of snobbery and it surely adds a few hundred thousand to the price of what is quite likely a jerry-built, characterless unit among many others just like it. What’s ‘exclusive’ about that?
Heavens! That reminds me! There’s one of those things in George itself – ever so expensive, a fantasy (nightmare?) of clipped lawns and face-brick, walled in against the real world and called… wait for it… ‘Earl’s Court’! How’s that for pretentious? Definitely a complex for people with a complex
I suppose names aren’t really important and I should be more tolerant of people building fantasies with words: being ‘Earls’ and living in ‘Manors’ in ‘Long Island’ or ‘Tuscany’ and suchlike. It seems odd that people should need such fantasies in this beautiful place, but then again its human nature not to be satisfied.
I feel rather proud of the fact that I am.
Today's picture: sometimes reality is difficult to improve upon!
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Although most of my pictures are of plants and landscapes, I’ve got masses of people pictures. They’re not really my strong point, but I love it when personality shines through.
There are happy-go-lucky people and pensive people