Howard Feldman

One would think that considering all the praying we are about to do over Rosh Hashanah and then Shabbat, someone might remember to ask G-d for a very slight amendment to the whole three days in a row thing.

Our “call-up papers” didn't arrive by mail. They didn't reach us in a phone call, or by way of a community announcement. Nor did we receive them at the same time.

We had big dreams back then. We were filled with hope, glitter, love, and rainbows. It was the 1990s. The transition from the apartheid regime to a Mandela's African National Congress (ANC) proved that we were more similar than we were different, and that despite our painful past, the Freedom Charter, the sparkling Constitution, and more than a few good men (and women) would lead us to prosperity.

It started with glace cherries. Or more accurately, when our hosts thanked us for the cake that we didn't send them. It was an old-fashioned chocolate number, neatly iced and punctuated by four red nipples. Confusion followed when it was determined that the gift might have been received in error on Friday afternoon at the chaotic time when the doorbell is known to ring, when there's little opportunity to chat, and when gifts are delivered.

Clever Hans was never on Twitter (or X). He didn't have Instagram or Facebook accounts, and amassed no followers on TikTok. The likely reason is that Hans lived in the early 1900s, which meant that he was unable to leverage off the opportunities presented by social media. He was also a horse. But given the range of four legged account holders on these platforms, that would have been unlikely to have been a limitation.

True or not, it's a great story. And it goes like this. Atatürk, in his efforts to modernise Turkey, sought to reduce the influence of traditional Ottoman customs including the widespread use of the veil by women.

It was yellow. And it cost R11 000. It came after the Valiant Regal, with a missing “g” on the left, which meant it read “Re-al”. My parents claimed that the reason that it was never repaired was because it would provide a foolproof way to identify the car if it were to be stolen. Which it was. It was also never recovered, which taught me at a young age that smart planning doesn't always ensure outcome.

It took me a good part of the last year to realize that I was playing the game a “Juden Raus!” and that I was losing.

You know about my knee. It's a painfully short story made long. I tripped during the warmup at a Krav Maga session, fell embarrassingly badly, and have struggled for three months since. The good news is that it's slowly improving, the swelling is starting to reduce, it's less painful to the touch, and I have (finally) managed to go back to gym.

Thanks to the insistence of my wife, my feet are ready for a holiday. They are shiny and smooth and prepared for whatever my Birkenstocks throw at them. The alternative to having them attended to was that the coastal hamlet of Plett would be denied a sighting of my toes as I would have been forbidden from unleashing them on the world.