I love birthdays, mine in specific but everyone else’s as well. There is something fundamentally sentimental about celebrating the day of someone’s birth that gets me every time. Plus, I love buying presents. I have a whole chest beneath my bed that is dedicated to gift paraphernalia – gift bags, ribbons, pretty little cards, etc.

Whenever I see something that would be particularly suitable to a friend or relative of mine, I buy it on the spot and keep it in the gift chest until the big day rolls around. My friend Rouve, for example would enjoy a good bottle of Franschhoek wine, while my mother is a sucker for any type of off-beat jewelry. Knowing this makes it easy to buy them something special. There is nothing quite like watching someone opening a gift that was bought with them in mind (as opposed to generic things like gift vouchers, toiletries, socks, etc.)

Today is my little brother’s birthday. He is turning 17 and we are taking him out for pizza at a little eatery in Stellenbosch where he goes to school. What an awesome little guy. He was born a relative ‘laatlammetjie’ and his arrival heralded a shift in the general estrogen-drenched vibe that had permeated our household up until that point. All of a sudden there were regular trips to the emergency room for stitches, outings to rugby matches and a wide variety of boyhood accoutrements that always seemed to be underfoot.

I am seven years his senior, which means that by the time he went to grade school I was already making headway with senior calculus. Up until he turned twelve I saw him as a quaint distraction, which is not to say I didn’t love him with all of my pubescent heart – I just didn’t perceive him as an autonomous being. And then, quite predictably, thirteen rolled around and out came the proverbial wolves, or (in the case of my brother) the proverbial lumbering bear cub.

Today he is a star cricket player who is showing so much promise that my dad is tentatively harboring hopes of a Bester family representative in the Protea ranks. He is also academically dedicated and a prefect in his hostel. (Can you tell that I am a little proud?) Add to all of these accolades a pithy personality, a sharp dose of humor and a gentlemanly nature and you can see why I already fear the onslaught of teenage girls that are bound to storm the Bester stronghold at any moment. Plus the little bugger is attractive to boot!

So, suffice it to say that birthdays bring out the sentimental, syrupy-sweet side of my personality that is prone to trumpeting my love for all the people in my life from the mountain tops. This blog is dedicated to my little brother Hermanus Lambertus Bester (affectionately known as Manie). I wish you a lovely birthday and a spectacular life full of love and adventure. And may anyone who ever even thinks of messing with you realise that they will have to deal with a very protective, well-connected elder sister who has your back in all that you undertake. I love you to bits.

I had the most amazing wine the other night. A friend of mine came around and knowing my penchant for pretty wines, kindly brought around a bottle of Diemersfontein Pinotage 2008. What a wine! I classify myself as a wine appreciator (as opposed to a wine aficionado) and consequently I normally take a dim view on people who claim to smell all manner of trendy nuances on a wine’s nose. So, when Andries said that the wine has the most amazing chocolate nose, I was quite prepared for just another glass of red.

I am very happy to report that I was proven thoroughly wrong. It did indeed have a chocolate nose with cigar box and ground coffee undertones (at the risk of sounding like the old farts that I normally pull my nose up at). Suffice it to say, we proceeded to drink that bottle of wine in precisely the manner that you are not supposed to drink a good bottle of wine – fast.

Hangover aside, I nevertheless felt it necessary to sing the wine’s praises to my mother the next day as we sat on the stoep in Riebeek Kasteel, idly chatting about the week gone by. My mother then proceeded to chortle and explain that the distinct chocolate flavor is the result of a combination of chemically-treated woods the winemakers at Diemersfontein use in the initial preparation phases. This little trick is used by every cellar you can think of, even Franschhoek wine is not what it seems. She knows this because she works as a representative for a large chemical corporation that supplies (amongst others) the wine industry.

Jeez, what a downer. I am a big fan of the ‘ignorance is bliss’ school of thought and I don’t like being disillusioned when it comes to certain things. For instance, I choose not to realise that the amazing Quidditch stunts in the Harry Potter movies are the result of clever computer graphics and those wire things they have the actors do in front of a green screen. I also did not need to know that Vin Diesel’s voice is the result of steroids he took when he was younger (in my head he still remains all that is man). Other things I would like to un-know include:

• There really are ghosts, despite what my mother told me when I was four.
• Not all people are created equal, especially not if there is money or status involved.
• Milk is made for little calves and is really bad for humans (consequently pulling the rug beneath the whole ‘Got Milk’ campaign and taking the pleasure out of the consumption of cheese, ice cream and yogurt).
• The very air we breathe is the reason we age (Google ‘oxygen and free radicals’ and see for yourself).
• The feeling we experience when we are in love can be attributed to a number of really interesting chemical reactions in the brain that were designed to get us to procreate.
• Blond hair and blue eyes are the result of recessive genes (despite what Nazi propaganda would have us believe), effectively rendering my whole family genetically inferior.
• The prettier the Labrador, the weaker the hips and the more painful the aging process.
• Parents are actually real people who are prone to selfishness and mistakes, just like the rest of us.

I think life is tough enough without reducing the beautiful things we encounter to a mere sum of their parts. Does this make me immature or naïve? I hope not. I choose to think it makes me hopeful.