I came, I saw, I needed a wheelchair. Israel needed a government

Three countries, one disastrous back, a questionable eyeball, a return to carnivorous behaviour, and three cats contemplating my dismissal. My October has been anything but dull.

I arrived in South Africa with a television script, considerable ambition, and a spine that had apparently decided to pursue other interests. Wheelchairs were required in Addis Ababa and Johannesburg, much to my brother and sister-in-law’s horror. They and I had envisaged a rather glamorous homecoming. Instead, I emerged from international arrivals looking like a medical evacuation with hand luggage.

At 57, I refuse to accept that my body has become an unreliable business partner. Unfortunately, my vertebrae have adopted a more conservative approach to international travel. A physiotherapy visit with Mum brought glorious relief, though I suspect the therapist would have preferred a patient who didn’t immediately celebrate improved mobility by flying to Cape Town.

Cape Town, Where My Mouth Betrayed Me

Cape Town remains hauntingly, majestically, intimidatingly magnificent. Two nights and three days were sufficient to remind me why I adore the place and why contemplating a 53rd house move might not be entirely insane. Table Mountain, the Atlantic, the architecture, the contradictions. It is breathtakingly beautiful, occasionally infuriating, and impossible to ignore.

I had an important meeting with an outstanding television producer to discuss my Cape Town legal drama. A project I have researched, written, dismantled, and reconstructed with the dedication of someone who really ought to develop healthier hobbies.

The meeting was excellent. My performance was less convincing.

Despite inventing the characters, their histories, conflicts, and questionable moral choices, I managed to choke on my own bloody script. The articulate woman who ordinarily has an opinion on everything inexplicably vanished, leaving a nervous idiot attempting to explain her life’s work. I rolled my eyes so violently I suspect the producer heard them.

Fortunately, he was gracious, insightful, and encouraging. He also explained that further obsessive script revisions were less urgent than producing an exceptional pitch deck. Five or six pages, ideally.

Current pitch deck sits at 21 pages… At least.

Apparently, I had submitted the television equivalent of the Encyclopaedia Britannica when what was required was an irresistible invitation to dinner. I am now performing literary liposuction on a document I had previously considered rather slender.

Cape Town also delivered an unexpected reunion with my dear friend Emma and lunch with my fabulous cousin and her father. The latter involved a spectacular sirloin, outstanding sides, and further confirmation that my 14-year relationship with vegetarianism was well and truly over.

The relationship had actually ended in Australia in July, where I resumed eating meat after 14 years of abstinence. Since then, my appetite has behaved like a lion recently released from a vegan retreat. The Cape Town sirloin merely confirmed that reconciliation with my former dietary principles was looking increasingly unlikely.

I still adore animals, which presents certain ethical complications, but apparently my conscience and my taste buds have agreed to disagree.

The Cats Are Not Amused

Meanwhile, Purrcy, Petunia, and Sammi remain in Israel, where I suspect discussions concerning my suitability as their employee have reached an advanced stage.

I miss them dreadfully. Their peculiar personalities, their affection, and even their outrageous demands. Purrcy’s seniority, Petunia’s extraordinary resilience, and Sammi’s creative interpretation of appropriate toilet facilities. Nothing quite prepares you for missing creatures whose principal contribution to domestic harmony involves shedding fur and issuing instructions.

I can admire extraordinary landscapes, enjoy wonderful company, and pursue professional possibilities, but nothing replaces coming home to three furry little dictators who consider me indispensable, provided dinner arrives promptly.

The Eyes Have It. Unfortunately.

Back in Johannesburg, an optometrist confirmed that my eyesight is dreadful. Worse, my right eye has a worrying problem that requires an ophthalmologist’s assessment this morning.

This one genuinely frightens me. Writing, reading, and observing the endless absurdities of human behaviour are central to who I am. I am attempting not to catastrophise before receiving a diagnosis, although my imagination has already submitted several highly disturbing proposals.

At least I’ve managed precious time with cousins and my aunt between appointments. Family has a remarkable ability to restore perspective, even when one’s body seems determined to provide increasingly alarming distractions.

Israel Votes. The Arithmetic Refuses to Cooperate.

While I have been gallivanting around South Africa, Israel held its general election on 27 October. Naturally, I couldn’t vote because I was thousands of kilometres away. Having endured years of Israeli politics, security anxieties and national upheaval, missing my opportunity to participate was particularly galling.

The reported results leave Netanyahu’s bloc with 53 seats, the opposing bloc with 48 and the Arab parties with 19. No one commands the 61 seats needed for a parliamentary majority.

The electorate has spoken. The politicians must now decide whether they can bear to listen.

I want an Israel that is secure, democratic and accountable, where military responsibility is shared fairly and political survival isn’t mistaken for effective governance. Watching developments from Johannesburg has reinforced how deeply invested I remain in the future of the country I chose.

The coalition negotiations promise enough intrigue, compromise and betrayal to sustain several seasons of television. I could offer to write the dialogue, but apparently I have a pitch deck to finish.

52 Moves and Still Wondering Where Home Is

My international adventures this year have taken me to Australia, South Africa and Israel. The travel has been wonderful, generously sponsored and occasionally medically inadvisable. Unfortunately, it has also revived the question I have spent much of my life avoiding.

Where do I belong?

South Africa holds my history, family and a humour I understand instinctively. Australia holds people I love. Israel holds my community, my chosen identity and three increasingly impatient cats.

Having moved 52 times, I should probably have mastered the art of belonging somewhere. Instead, at 57, I’m contemplating professional reinvention, geographical uncertainty and whether my most meaningful work might still lie ahead.

I don’t know where I’ll be living in five years. I don’t know whether my television series will find an audience or what the ophthalmologist’s discoveries will mean for my eyesight. For someone who likes to interrogate every possibility, that is an infuriating amount of unfinished business.

But I have stories to tell, people to love, places to revisit and ambitions that refuse to recognise a retirement age. My future might be uncertain, but it certainly isn’t cancelled.

For now, Israel can concentrate on forming a government. I’ll concentrate on restoring my eyesight, rescuing my pitch deck and returning to my cats.

Frankly, I suspect the cats will be the least accommodating of the three.