Hluleka photo-diary

I’m at it again! Here are some (VERY belated) photos from my trip to Hluleka this year. It is an absolutely beautiful part of South Africa and I loved the trip there – so calm, so quiet! Such incredible beauty. It made me remember how gorgeous our country is.


FYI, you can find a lot of the items featured in the photos on my craft blog:



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Long weekend reads: emojis at work, mansplaining in the boardroom and Beyonce’s Lemonade | Forbes Women Africa

If you’re looking for a good read, you should pick up this month’s issue of Forbes Women Africa!

I wrote two articles I’m rather proud of and – AND – I’m a featured contributor, which led to immense anxiety over photos of myself on Instagram.

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Emoji are sexist and here’s why

I woke up this morning with what can only be described as a crazy email in my inbox from a complete stranger. It’s quite something to blearily open your eyes, sleepily snuggle against your fiance and for the first words to enter your brain – through your phone – to be a long, rambling journey down the rabbit hole.

Anyway. Back to emojis.

Emojis are more than the little pictures on your phone – they’re actually a key facet of our increasingly digital communication. And with the laughing-crying emoji chosen as Oxford Dictionary’s Word of the Year last year, don’t doubt their cultural significance.

I dove into this topic in depth for the Daily Maverick:

Aside from the little yellow faces skewing male – they’re more likely to be perceived as men than women – all the “action” and career-specific emojis are male. The female emojis are dancing, getting married or grooming themselves: flipping their hair, painting their nails or getting a head massage. This represents the divide between the public “helping” sphere and the private “selfish” sphere: the men are providing services, while the women are forced once again into beauty-centric roles

You can read the whole article here


The curse of the accidentally trendy

The curse of the accidentally trendy

I spent my whole life woefully uncool, and eventually, from sheer practicality and self-preservation, decided to lean into it.

Aside from a brief but fervent, nay, ecstatic, passion for the Spice Girls (I used to photocopy magazine articles from the library for my Spice Girls book  – and if there’s a more 90s sentence than that in the world please do share in the comments) I’ve never been ‘on trend’.


What’s a Beyoncè? What’s up with all the soft slices of midriff I see everywhere, perched between high waisted pants and a short shirt? What do you mean coral is in (and not in like a diving way)?  Fleek? On fleek? FLEEK?!


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I’m a (big, fat) hypocrite

I’m a (big, fat) hypocrite

I’ve complained about banting many times. Many, many times. But here I am, 3pm on a Wednesday, drinking coffee with fat golden globules floating like drops of sunshine on its surface.

There’s no way around it. I have to admit it. Like the weak willed jellyfish I am, I’ve become a banting sheep. I’ve eaten so much coconut over the past two weeks I’m like a human pina colada.

And the worst thing of all? I’M ENJOYING IT.

I’m sure you feel caught off guard, on the back foot, BETRAYED.


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