About a Fridge

I bought a new fridge.  This is not at all valuable or exciting information except that, this fridge is so much more than a fridge.  This fridge is the beginning of letting myself live the life that I have now.  Dude, I know.

For the longest time, five years or so, my little bar fridge and I moved through life all care free and rootless.  Big fridges were for people with families and gardens and babies and parrots and tvs. I wasn’t ready for big appliances.  They were for those who knew what was what and who had settled into full lives of root growing and large quantities of fresh produce.

Then suddenly, a month or two ago, it was time.  I realised that although my life may not look like what I thought it would (boy, it’s time to break up with that sentence), it was okay to have roots and plans and large quantities of fresh produce, anyway.

So I bought a fridge.  It’s huge and silver and has a water dispenser in the door, a tray for eggs and a home for at least two bottles of wine.  This fridge is not messin’ around.  This fridge is going to hold the ingredients of many dinner parties and champagne bottles and left over pizza and the last slice of birthday cake and maybe one day a baby bottle or two.  A full life kinda appliance.  Welcome to the family, fridge.

(Turns out fridges aren’t so photogenic.  So here now instead, a picture mostly of my hair, well on its way to embracing the Grace Coddinton-ness it has secretly yearned for for years.)

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We sit around.  We laugh.  Someone makes coffee or pours wine.  The air is cold.  Enough.  To wear anything, everything.  Those things that belong in between layers of other things.  But the sun shines.  Determined.

We live in a twilight disguised as day.  Perhaps it has become day.  Our daylight.  The roots are long since gone.  Our bags packed and unpacked until we hardly need them at all.

We have each other.  And time.  Gone by.  And ahead.  We whisper, we share and we withhold.  With love.

We know with a knowing of a decade.  Or so.

These times.  These times that seem so easy, so light, so filled with contentment, fulfilled.  They may go.  They may change.  The storm may come and wash away these sacred moments that seem like normal.  Now.

But now.  Right now.  I see.  I hold, I cherish, I inhale.  Every bit.  Moment.  One.


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A love letter to the broken hearted

Dear You and You and You and once upon a time Me and You and You,

There’s something about a broken hearted heart, isn’t there?  It hurts a specific kind of pain.

Somewhere between a splinter under your nail and a chicken pox scab.  Somewhere between being stuck in traffic and getting to the fair just as it is closing.  Between smashing your favourite vase and forgetting your best friend’s birthday.

A disappointed, achy, dull, sharp kind of broken.

But I want You and You and once upon a time Me and You and You to know that broken can be fixed.  Does get fixed.  Just darn fixes itself sometimes.  If life was a cartoon I would have always believed that hearts were made of porcelain, glass, smashy kind of smashy stuff that smashes easily.  But I would be wrong.  If life were a cartoon, hearts would be made of elastic or chewing gum or some kind of kid’s movie green goo that oozes apart and slowly creeps back together.  Until quite unexpectedly – the plot line no one thought possible, it is whole again.

I’m sure there are far more eloquent ways to say that everything is going to be alright.  But I’m going with goo.  Dear You, whenever you are this You, know that it’s going to be okay.  Goo can’t be smashed.  Hearts can be unbroken.  Love is unending in places, people and moments you never thought to imagine.

Live like we love in a cartoon world of unending goo.


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Sixteen and Ninety

There are several things happening in this picture.  I’m sixteen.  Wearing my favourite black top and black jeans.  In a time where only the goths wore black, I thought I was really chic, although I had no idea what that meant at all.  Also, I look like a gleeful dog strangler, but I really did love that dog.  I’m barefoot, I think because I couldn’t find any shoes that I felt matched my fancy pants outfit.

And now for the best part, my hairstyle is compliments of a picture of Oprah that I took to the hairdresser as reference.  Oh how she must have laughed with her hairdresser friends afterwards. Laughed and laughed.

Returning to your family home is always such a strange daydream.  Mine is filled with photographs.  In frames, on the fridge, in albums.  Little rectangles of times before now.  Last year, twenty five years ago.  Sometimes I want to step into these pictures like a character from Harry Potter.  Mostly to give this Oprah haircut sporting girl a massive hug and tell her, well first, not to eat all the pies, because let me tell you she was about to, and then, that it’s okay to make mistakes, to be unsure.  That it’s okay to be unafraid.  Bad things don’t always happen because you are bold, Young Oprah Camilla, I promise. [Read more...]

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Smiling at Strangers, etc.

You know that thing that makes you happiest?  That thing that makes you feel like it is too good to be true, but for reals, it can’t be true?!

That thing that makes you feel like the most you. The best you. You.

For me that thing is writing. Words and words and words.  Sometimes I don’t really know what to say or how to say the things that I really want to say, but, that doesn’t seem like a good enough reason not to do the thing that feels too good to be true.  So here I am. Hi! [Read more...]

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Once the dust has settled, the air has cleared, the last rectangle of streamer has wafted to the ground.

Once night becomes day and day becomes night again.

And again.

Once everything is done.  And said.

Once the filter is selected.

The coffee is drunk.

The wine is tasted.

The whiskey’s block of ice has melted.

Once you run out of etcs and NBs.

Once you strip off the robe of phoenixes and new leaves and fish in the sea.

Once you don’t tell the check out lady.

Once nothing is a sign of something else.

Once once becomes once.



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This one goes out to Adi…

“So you’re going to go home now and write a post, yes?’ – Adi Koen, just now.

2013 has been one trixsy little pony so far, hasn’t she?  When the clock struck midnight on that first day, I had assumed she would be a middle child year.  Not really kicking up too much fuss, not getting into trouble or marrying a rock star, or woaw, a poet.  But holy panda’s toenails, was I wrong.  She has been an only child, the first child, the last child, the middle child of all middle children, one trixsy little pony.

High fives Autumn in Joburg.  Lightly dusting the city in crunchy, orangy brown leaf goodness.  Just as you should.  The wind blows, leaves shower to the ground.  One thousand cherubs sing.  I am sure of it.

I’ve started calling myself a woman.  I know, I know! But hear me out.  I’m not sure when it happened. The other day? Many days ago?  Somewhere in the last while I went from saying ‘girl’ to ‘woman’.  Maybe it’s the more than three grey hairs that have arrived on my head, or the at-peace-ness or the almost mid-thirty-ness (woaw woaw woaw), but somewhere it started happening and guess what? It sits right.  It makes me want to live up to the word, to fulfill it, to fill it. To be it.  Good things.

Game of Thrones.

Vine.  Are you on it? My vine name is ameezing.  It’s like Instagram. Only 6 seconds of motion. And a leetle bit more addictive.

Good socks, hugs, Milo (hot), daydreams of beach times, scarves cosy enough to be buried in (ewww), wearing stockings and re-enacting scenes from Chicago whilst getting dressed in the morning ‘he had it coming, cha cha’, soup, red wine, Downton Abbey, adopting fire places and snoozing under heavy blankets – things that make Winter okay.

And now, a fitting room picture of an unrequited purchase:

photo 4

When did these become okay? Maybe they haven’t.  Not to worry though, I have a whole Venter trailer load of shudders stored up for the moment that pictures of yourself, by yourself become really not okay.  They’re probably already not okay. But I’m talking, reeaallyy not okay.

Two loads of washing, plants watered, bedroom cleaned, dishes washed, random pictures rearranged and bath taken – things I did to procrastinate, instead of working on a writing deadline.  Clean House – 1 Words – 0.

I asked my friend Ryan what his favourite thing about Joburg is at the moment and he said, ‘All. The. Coffee.  The people on the streets. Post in Braamfontein.  I like that no one I don’t like lives here.’

Doing what you love always feels like such a privilege, doesn’t it?

Also, I’m a middle child.

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Three Things Thursday


I sometimes wonder if ‘Keep Calm and Carry On’ ruined all sayings for us all, forever.  And it’s such a shame because I love the sentence and the sentiment.

Every now and again a saying comes along (usually on Pinterest, but stilllll) and hits me, in the face, like a jealous girl with a bunch of flowers.

A saying that seems like it has been written for that moment, to come sauntering on its little letter legs, into your life.  The Ever Lovely Lindsay-Jane sent this to me a few weeks ago and I have found it to be such a source of inspiration and comfort ever since.



Anne Hathaway is a lot like life.  Sometimes wonderful, sometimes unexpected, sometimes a little not how you want it to be.  But this picture, with that hat and that make up and that perfectly messy perfect hair and that jacket that winks at the nineties whilst still being completely fresh, oh boy.

If the Anne Hathaway of this picture is like life, then we are all in paradise.  And this picture should be our flag.  And on postage stamps.  And wall paper.  And bumper stickers.  This picture is the Kate to our Leo, the Meg to our Tom, the Claire Danes to our Jared Leto.  This picture is the best.

Anne Hathaway Paradise picture found at Apartment 34. A beeeautiful design and style blog, which may also be, paradise.



We at Haus of Ameezing believe that good hair days should always be celebrated,  written about in Time Magazine and high fived about until your hands are just bloodied palms.  Not really.  But good hair days are ameezing.  And because it’s been at least three posts since you last saw my giant head, here it is! With mostly behaving locks in tow.

Okay bye now.

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Camping with Boys

Bottle of water, shopping packet of rubbish hanging in a tree, silver kettle, crazy layered outfit made up of half clothes and half pyjamas, broken sunglasses…what could this possibly be but weekend camping?!

So I went camping with boys.  Five boys.  One brotherfriend and four friends.  Some of the finest boys I know.  It wasn’t always going to be five boys and I, but my dear friend Lauren was too ill to come.  Lauren, the boys were super fun, but holy panda’s toenails, I missed you.

Camping companions:

Justin Grilles, James the Urban Cowboy, Stiaan DSTV Mobile Smith, Ryan the Great Traveller and Ty the Terrific.

Some things I learnt as an amateur (super amateur) camper: [Read more...]

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Sleeping Under The Stars

The last time I went camping was before I had kissed a boy.  I was going to say the last time I went camping was before I started wearing a bra, but for all you know, that could have been last Wednesday.  It was 1992.

I’m going camping!

Have a wonderful Easter weekend.

Camilla x

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