Mr and Mrs Smith, and it’s such a shame he doesn’t even look like Brad…

or... The Dream Breakers


So, here’s how it goes. Ever since I returned to South Africa in 1995, I’ve wanted to leave. Hey, what can I say, I’m just contrary that way. I guess I felt safer in the UK, I felt more at home – my mongrel heritage is, after all, entirely European (north, east central and west). But I realised, having returned to South Africa, that I wasn’t going to get back to Europe that fast. I was, though, willing to work with a longer term plan.

When I discovered I wanted to write full time, I also realised that in order for me to have a more even chance of getting published, I really did need to be somewhere closer to the main centres of publishing - and for me that once more meant the UK. I started to set my plans in motion, including networking intensively with fellow children’s writers in the UK. I soon realised that pretty much all my friends lived there, not here – writers and others, including old uni pals and ex colleagues who’d made the Great Departure. Yep, I thought, I needed to move. I had to move. I was determined to move. I would make the dream a reality.

And then the global economic crisis hit and Lovely Husband ran scared. “Not a chance am I going anywhere in this economic climate,” he announced. Fair enough. I could get that. But as time elapsed and things settled a little, I also came to realise, and reluctantly accept, that the reality was that Lovely Husband didn’t want to leave South Africa at all. That was my dream, not his – but like women the world over, I’d figured I could change his mind. A word from the increasingly wise (yep, that’s me) – never try to change someone and never try to change their mind (oh would that I listened to my own good advice…). The universe gave us free will and it’s a hard nut to crack when it’s someone else’s.

I’ve had a tough time accepting that a long held dream is just not going to become a reality. That time has also been compounded by my mother’s recent illness, age and the acceptance that I’m going to have to sort something out for her – because she sure as nuts won’t do it herself (I can do without lurching from one matriarchal drama to the next). Looking at the two situations and given that I have a really hard time being a glass half empty person, I set my sights on the next thing. And what I figured I would do was find my mother a really nice cottage in a retirement complex, and a piece of land for myself where I could build my dream home. It was a good goal and dream to have, I figured. I actually became quite seriously excited. (Yes, there was a lot of bouncing about.)

But I swear, the gods must be playing a rough hand of poker up there or wherever the hell it is that they are. Or it might be that the buggers are all pissed out of their skulls on mead. I don’t know. Perhaps the ethernet connection between me and them is just faulty and my mail’s not going through. Whatever.

See, I found a plot, a really, really nice plot – one with sweeping 180 degree views across the mountains, the valley and the sea. It was in an elevated position on a mountainside and, I was convinced from the moment of seeing it, that it was mine. It just had that feeling about it. Of course, whether I could actually afford to fulfill this dream was another matter. Thank goodness for calculators, prudent financial planning and bean counters etc. Yes, I finally worked out it was indeed do-able and I was even up for the nightmare of building. Shucks, I’ve dealt with enough stuff in my life; builders hold little or no fear for me.

So, new dream in hand, I set out to make an offer to purchase. And what do you know. Enter Mr. and Mrs. Smith. No, I’m not kidding, they really are called Mr. and Mrs. Smith. But unlike the Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie version of the couple, these two don’t assassinate people, just their dreams. Mr. and Mrs. Smith, you see are estate agents – of the unethical and unscrupulous variety, sort of like the greater striped venomous viper (yes, I know, like so many others of their species). Mr. and Mrs. Smith believed I should have made an offer on the plot through them. When Mr. and Mrs. Smith learned that I had put in an offer with another agent, Mr. and Mrs. Smith turned nasty. I have, indeed, spent the entire weekend doing battle with Mr. and Mrs. Smith. I regret to say, that until or unless I can find a sneaky sort of solution, Mr. and Mrs. Smith have broken my deal and won. Exit the dream.

Frankly, I’m getting more than a little miffed with all this dream wreckage. I’m also wondering what the hell to do next. My motivation levels appear to have descended to the depths of hell where they’ve used up all the fuel in the fires so there’s none left to propel me back up and out again. The Black Dog is snuffling around, making growly noises and slavering in a most unattractive manner. I tried seeing the sod off with some choccie raisins, but he just came back for more; serves me right for trying to take a conciliatory approach with the beast. Now I’m just staring at the glass – you know, the one with the water in it (would it was champagne…), trying to figure out if it is half full or half empty. Just sitting here, staring and staring and staring…

I may be a while.