The original owners were obviously crazy about hibiscuses. There are 17 huge bushes, decades old, which flower so riotously it’s vulgar.  When I googled ‘hibiscus’ yesterday the first prompt was ‘hibiscus tea’ – the preferred drink of the ancient Pharos.

Not just a tipple for Nefertiti, hibiscus tea naturally lowers blood pressure. A study conducted at Tufts University in 2008 demonstrated that consuming 3 cups of Hibiscus sabdariffa L. tea each day reduced systolic blood pressure by 7-14mm Hg in people with mild hypertension.

The two hibiscus species commonly used medicinally are H. rosa sinensis and H. sabdariffa. I’m not sure what species I have in the garden, but it seems none are poisonous, so I picked a variety and made the tea. It’s very fragrant, almost like incense or bubblegum, and probably an easily acquired taste. My mix of flowers resulted in a dark purple brew which stains – perfect to write that missive in hieroglyphics.

We open the gates, open the garage, and people stop by – on foot, on bikes, in cars, you get the picture. It’s fun having a shop again, it’s been ten years since we closed our book store in Joburg, and I’d forgotten how much of a blast retail can be. Meeting people, the thrill of cold cash. . . and we can sit on the deck in the sun and have a glass of wine while waiting for customers.

Last week, suddenly, there was no more limping and the line was gone. So, too, was one of three toes which pitched up on the paving in the back garden.

The sign above says it all. Family Home. Not any more.

The upstairs gallery is so full we've had to squash stuff into the corners under the eaves - and Gavin is off to Vietnam on Monday to get more.

The growth has been a huge relief financially, but living and running a shop in the same space is probably better suited to a family much neater than ours.

I had an email from a Johannesburg couple in January saying they were coming down on holiday in March and would love to see what we had for sale. I gave them our address and phone number and promptly forgot about it.

Most people phone to say they are coming which gives me a chance to shove dirty dishes into a cupboard and make the beds. The Joburg pair had a GPS and the first I heard from them was their voices wafting up from the garden.

They were lovely, raved about the house and gallery, and bought enough to pay our mortgage for two months. My pleasure was marred by sheer terror that they might need the bathroom. It would have been Hobson’s choice. The downstairs bathroom which has not changed one iota since I did this post, or the upstairs bathroom where the boys had performed their morning ablutions (a lot more horrible than you can imagine).

This used to be our lounge - still is in the evenings.

Thomas

A letter arrived from the school’s Occupational Therapist last week – Thomas has concentration issues. He works diligently when the teacher watches him, but when her flinty gaze is averted he downs pencils and stares out of the window.

A question from his teacher on a completely blank page in his workbook asks, “Thomas, what were you doing between 10am and 12pm?” His reply to me – “It didn’t seem that long.”

Upshot is he has to go to the OT for 30 minutes once a week. She seems nice and her room is filled with huge balls and hoola hoops so he’ll probably enjoy it. He goes during class time too, which he sees as a bonus.

I can’t help but see it as the continued medicalisation of childhood. What Louisa May Alcott would have called boisterous and rowdy is now ADD or ADHD. What Lewis Carroll would have called day-dreaming is now concentration deficiency. Adjectives have turned into diagnosis and behavioural disorders, and it makes things a lot less fun.