Peter Thomas is Mr Nice Guy in A Family Affair but two
beautiful women have plans different from his own for Peter's life.
Well, in some dark corner of Janet's mind an idea is rapidly
formulating... Santie has her doubts.
From the author; A Family Affair has been ten years in the making since first putting pen to paper, figuratively speaking. This is a first draft, available to whet your appetite. A Family Affair is now available on Kindle, smartphone or tablet for 99c US per book. It is not in paperback. It has been extensively edited since this early draft version.
You've enjoyed Book I, The Bostonians for free, but now you'll have to purchase Books II and III; at 99c each, that won't break the bank, will it?
The back cover:
Book I: The Bostonians.
A Family Affair is the heart-warming trilogy about a family with a distinct difference. It has two Moms, Janet Twycross and Santie Veenstra. But how do they conceive?
Book II: Peter’s Children
Enter Peter Thomas, science teacher and sports coach… is it possible for a man to be hoodwinked into siring four children and be none the wiser?
Janet has no enthusiasm for a sperm bank father for her children. On vacation she meets the perfect man to sire her family. But there are problems. Santie, her partner, is deeply disturbed that Janet wants to sleep with Peter. Peter in turn has no desire for a one-night stand; Janet would make the perfect soul mate. Janet, by intrigue and with a little help from a date rape drug, induces Peter into siring three children, and a fourth for Santie. But, with Peter’s sperm comes his heart…
Peter’s sons, “Carrots Twycross” and “Carlos Veenstra”, become problem lads. Santie has a divine moment: “Let’s send them to Astonhouse,” an exclusive school where their father is a teacher.
Book II ends with June arranging a tantalizing interview with her grandparents, who have accepted their only son will have no issue… astonishingly they have a quiverful of teenage grandchildren.
Book III: The Return
Abducted to Holland, Klein-Jan, now aged twenty, undertakes a journey to discover his roots.
Set in South Africa, A Family Affair is both a lighthearted and easy read, but also takes an inside look at serious issues. Women in love, rape, abortion, and the profound love of a blind grandmother, who prays daily for Klein-Jan. It was from her home that KJ was kidnapped by his father, obsessed with an heir for the family dynasty.
Peter Thomas woke up early. He lay in bed quietly thinking about the day ahead, feeling the stiffness in his lower back. It had been a tough game with his father, and he thought ruefully that he had been well beaten again. But he was getting closer, of that he was sure. The day would come, perhaps this year, when he would finally beat Dad for the first time. Of course he could thrash his father on the squash court but tennis was another matter. Twenty five years ago Scott Thomas played twice for South Africa in the Davis Cup, before bowing out after a hernia in the small of his back.
Both Peter and his father in fact suffered regularly and it had been quite a big day when Peter had finally managed to persuade his father to consult Peter’s chiropractor. You medical doctors must press every other button before they will consult an alternative practitioner, he had teased his father. Scott Thomas certainly hadn’t been ready to admit that chiropractors had progressed sufficiently in terms of their training and practice to where they could be considered complementary but, when the day finally arrived, that a neurosurgeon to whom he had referred patients for twenty years said to him,
‘I’m sorry Scott, but there is no other way. You can’t raise your heel off the ground because the nerve is so badly pinched. The MRI confirms it. We schedule surgery for three days time.’
That evening he asked Peter about the chiropractor his son had been consulting for over a year, despite his father’s protests. Scott was surprised: the History that the man took was very adequate, and the Orthopedic and Neurological examination almost exactly mirrored that of his medical colleague. Two months of hard work on the part of both the chiropractor and Scott himself had stayed the surgeon’s knife. Now both Scott and Peter did some simple exercises every morning before they got out of bed and went for occasional but regular corrective adjustments for their spines.
Peter enjoyed the simple exercises. They gave him space to think quietly of the day ahead. His work at the resort started early, just after dawn, with hour-long lessons on how to trap a wily trout. In the beginning he had enjoyed it but, after eight long weeks, he had tired of coaching every day, mostly men with too much money. The rich tycoons had begun to irritate him but, as a university student he needed the money and, he soon discovered that if he was conscientious, they tipped him rather well. Later, after a late breakfast in the hotel dining room he started teaching the other guests, mostly women and children, how to sail or row. There were a few of the more adventurous types who were ready to try his favourite pastime: windsurfing. Peter had started windsurfing when he was only six years old and he progressed rapidly until he was an expert. Then he was free for two hours in the afternoon, when he usually went for a long walk or took to exploring and swimming in the crystal-clear stream that gurgled its way through deep green pools down from the mountain, feeding the lake. This week was different – his mother and father were taking a week’s break at the resort. His father owned a small one-doctor orthopaedic practice in the university town of Westville. While Scott could certainly afford the luxury resort, it wasn't without difficulty. Sandra Scott had never gone back to work after Peter went to school.
So, as part of his package that summer, Peter had managed to chisel out a week at a much reduced rate for his family. A caring and hard-working medic, not interested in sausage-machine medicine, Scott made a reasonable income but, by the time he had paid the overheads at the practice, and Peter’s tuition and board at the local university, there wasn’t much left over for extravagant holidays. Fortunately for the Thomas’s it was payback time and Peter had been such a success over the two previous summers that hotel management had acceded to his demand for a family holiday for his parents to be thrown into his package.
It had been a busy morning with three men early on the lake for an hour each. There was never time for a leisurely breakfast so Peter swallowed quickly swallowed a double-thick apple pancake, and some garlic mushrooms on toast. The rest of the morning he was kept busy by a series of ladies who wanted to learn how to sail Dabchicks. Finally the hotel receptionist passed on a message that, before lunch, there were two young girls who wanted to learn to do proper turns on their windsurfers. They learnt quickly but, by the end of their lesson, his young body was again starving. Let’s get this lesson finished, he thought to himself.
‘Time up,’ he called, jerking his head in the direction of the shore and started paddling slowly back, thinking only one week more. Seven days that, little did he know, would totally change his life.
After two months Peter was thoroughly bored and resolutely decided next summer to do something different. A few puffy cumulus clouds swirled around the mountains, covering the sun periodically, and moving out towards the east where they would ultimately drop their loads. It wasn’t long before he was in bright sunshine again.
It had been a hot summer, so he always wore a hat when he was on the water. One thing was for certain, he sighed; he was maybe bored but, totally relaxed, he would be ready for the demands of his honours year. He splashed his paddle, watching the circles spread out, and wondering if he really wanted to do ripple tank experiments.
No, he quickly decided; electromagnetic radiation emanating from the stars made much more interesting waves, in a rather bigger ripple tank.
That morning the girls had been for an early morning walk, spying the eland coming down to drink at the lake, and then, just before noon, Janet announced that she would like to learn how to windsurf, looking derisively at Santie’s chickflick book.
‘Count me out but you go on down, Janet.’
Janet slipped on her costume and a casual pale blue jacket, with comfortable sandals that matched her sunhat and made her way across the lawns to reception. ‘Good morning. I notice in the brochure that you have people who can teach one to fish, and sail. Can I learn to windsurf?’
‘Yes, Peter is just finishing giving two girls a lesson. If you walk down there you can tell him that you are next. It will cost you R130 for each session. I’ll put it on your account, if you like. Please take a life jacket off that rack,’ said the receptionist, pointing.
Janet took a gay yellow and red jacket and made her way down to the lake. She could see a young man on a canoe out with the same two hooligans from their first day. She put her hand to her mouth as she recognized Mr Tall blonde and handsome tennis player. The girls were practising accurate turns in the stiff breeze under his beady eye. She saw him looking at his watch and indicated that their time was up, jerking his head in the direction of the shore.
The hooligans were already pulling their boats out of the water when Peter looked up, only fifty metres from the shore, seeing a young woman sitting on the bench where his pupils normally waited. His heart gave several jolts, the first in disappointment, thinking of his lunch and, then as he got closer, his heart moved into a quite different mode. Whew, pretty woman, wouldn’t mind having her walking beside me. The previous evening Peter had immediately left the tennis, knowing the tycoons would be waiting for their fishing lessons in the early evening, and he hadn’t watched the two young women playing on the next court. He didn’t recognize Janet.
‘Sorry, but have you got time for one more before lunch?’Peter appraised the young woman candidly, none too secretively Janet thought, from where he sat in his canoe, still a few metres from the shore. She was used to it, blushing slightly. As always she had in any event groomed herself carefully. The bright purple bikini with white polka dots, partly obscured by the life jacket, her platinum blonde hair tied up in a high pony tail with a purple ribbon and the loose but stylish sandals made, she knew, for one very attractive woman.
Whew, pretty woman, thought Peter again. What’s more, she obviously knows it. Janet was used to men eyeballing her, and had learnt to use it to her advantage.
‘Absolutely. What do you want to do?’
‘That windsurfing looked fun. How long does it take to learn?’
Peter pulled his canoe out of the water, took his cap off and walked up to where Janet was still sitting on the bench. ‘Peter’s the name.’
‘Jane,’ said Janet. ‘Jane Sanderson.’ She wasn’t quite sure why she lied about her name, but a plan was forming, and part of it included Peter not knowing her name.
‘The wind is quite strong for a beginner. It depends on how good your co-ords are. Some people pick it in a three or four sessions, some never do.’ He looked at her again, trying to decide if she was a dumb floozy, eventually concluding that she looked supple and sporty. And beautiful. ‘Tell you what: I’ll go up and get a kiddy-rig and you can give it a shot.’
‘A kiddy-rig? I want to sail one of those things!’ Janet said pointing to the two sophisticated boards with giant sails that the girls had left on the shore.
Arrogant too, thought Peter. ‘Walk, run, jump. Heard that before? Only with wind-surfing you need to start with crawling! This is a difficult sport in a strong wind like this. Better still, have you got time for a quick sandwich first? I’m famished, and the wind might drop a little.’
Janet wondered if he was deriding her or if she had simply been a little too smart-ass with her reply. She was used to learning sports quickly. In any case, this wasn’t really about wind-surfing. ‘I would love a sandwich first. Something to drink, too. Shall we go up for a lunch?’ Janet pointed up to the lodge, only two minutes walk, looking out over the lake. Already the terraces were covered with crowds of holidaymakers sitting under gaily coloured umbrellas, sipping their shandies and colas. Peter nodded, pulling on a Mandela shirt and white baggies, and an old pair of grubby looking slops. Janet slipped out of the life-jacket and back into her stylish jacket. It showed her up to good effect. Janet could see that Peter was impressed. I think he has taken the bait Janet considered but how deeply has he swallowed the hook? Her little brain-wave was beginning to take shape.
During the light lunch Peter described the basics of windsurfing. ‘I shouldn’t have used the term ‘kiddy-rig’ but that’s what it is actually. Let’s just call it a beginner’s rig because, in strong winds, you will just be pulled into the water by a big sail on a small board.’
They walked back down to the shore where he demonstrated how to do rope turns, walking around the mast, and then how to pull up the sail up out of the water with the free arm. Janet learned quickly, while Peter leaned on the end of the board stabilizing it. Even so she fell in several times, once managing to contrive to lose half a bikini top for a fleeting second, hoping it was just long enough for the point of the hook to break the surface of Peter’s flesh and perhaps even deep enough for the barb to bite.
After an hour Janet had had enough. Peter said: ‘You learn fast. Tomorrow, if the wind has dropped, we’ll put on a bigger sail. Do lots of stretching of your back tonight and tomorrow. That’s the dangerous time: the second and third days.’
‘Thank you, Peter, that was wonderful. You’re a good teacher.’ She gave him one of her smiles that had won over many a judge. Would Peter be a tougher nut to crack? she wondered. She didn’t think so.
‘Thanks. Till tomorrow then.’
‘Okay, but I might see you a bit later,’ Janet said mysteriously.
‘Oh?’ Peter raised an eyebrow before taking on his last pupil before tennis with his father.
At three o’clock sharp Janet and Santie were on the court knocking the ball back and forth getting their length and timing right. Both girls spent some time stretching. Scott Thomas stood watching them for a few minutes from a short distance, noticing the thorough way they went through their routine. Peter was late.‘Hello, may I join you?’ Scott opened the gate and walked onto the court. Mrs Thomas sat on a bench in the shade of a small Acacia tree.
‘Yes, please do. I’m Santie and that’s Janet over there.’
Scott Thomas shook Santie’s proffered hand and walked to the net to greet Janet. ‘It’s nice of you to agree to play with us. I’m not sure where my son is, but I expect he will be here shortly. I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.’
‘I’m Jane Sanderson. I’ve just had a lesson from Peter on the windsurfers. He had one more client so I don’t think he’ll be too long,’ said Janet. Santie looked at her in amazement but knew enough to hold her tongue.
‘Oh? He didn’t tell me he was giving you a lesson,’ said Scott.
‘No, I don’t think he knew we would be playing tennis afterwards.’
The three of them knocked up for a few minutes, until Peter came rushing up the hill. ‘Gosh, I’m sorry … hey, what are you doing here, Jane?’
‘Well … I was hoping to get a tennis lesson, too, actually so I brought my tennis racquet along, just in case.’ They all burst out laughing at Peter. He stood there wide-eyed. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I did, but you weren’t listening!’
‘Oh, that’s what you meant when you said you might see me later. Sorry, I’m a bit slow. Too much sun today!’ Peter picked up a ball and knocked it over the net. ‘Who is playing with who?’ They spun, and Peter and Janet ended up partners.
They played a light three sets with Thomas senior and Santie winning two of them. It was good tennis, but non-combative. They all enjoyed it and agreed to meet again the next day.Walking back to their chalet Santie asked: ‘So, why the masquerade? Who is Jane Sanderson?’
'I'll tell you when we've got some tea on the go,' said Janet. Reaching the chalet, they turned on the kettle and slipped into track suits. Santie poured herself a cup of Earl Grey. Janet liked a little sweet fruit in her tea, rather than the conventional lemon. She found a naartje , and cut a few slithers into her cup. They were sitting at the stained-oak dining room table across from each other, the warm late afternoon sun slanting through the cottage-pane windows, casting long shadows. A little later she said, ‘Santie, this is the hardest thing I’ve ever asked you.’
Santie waited, but nothing was forthcoming. Janet bit her lip. ‘I don’t know how to ask this.’
‘Try the straight forward, no deceit, nothing hidden method. It’s usually best.’
Janet cleared her throat: ‘I really liked the idea of another baby for us, but the idea of artificial insemination, as though I were a cow, and choosing semen from a Taurus bull out of a catalogue, leaves me stone cold. Frankly, I just can’t bear the thought.’ She stopped, cleared her throat again and went on, gulping: ‘I want Peter’s baby. I want him to be the father. Would you mind terribly?’
Santie was visibly shocked. She didn’t say anything for a few minutes. ‘And the Jane Sanderson bit?’
‘He mustn’t know, of course. He’s not allowed to follow me, or fall in love with me or anything. I just want his baby. His semen if you like. He has all the attributes that we are looking for, and he’s a real person. You and I will have a real baby, not some … test tube baby.’
‘How is this going to affect us?’ Santie wanted to know, wiping her forehead.
‘It’s not going to affect us at all, darling. Not at all.’ Janet reached across the table, taking Santie’s hand.
Santie pulled her hand away. ‘Can I think about it?’ she asked getting up from the table, and turning on the TV. Janet could see was upset. Somehow she had naively thought Santie would be quite excited about the prospect of them working out a plan to seduce Peter.
"You can preach a better sermon with your life than with your lips."
Dr Oliver Goldsmith MD (1730-1774)
Sandra Thomas was enjoying the luxury of the holiday. While she and Scott were reasonably well off, lavish holidays were not in their budget. The place was such a treat, and again she thanked the Good Lord for her son and what he had wangled for them. She was not resentful of Scott, knowing that most families could only afford luxuries if both partners worked, and her luxury was the privilege of a life of leisure. Scott was having something of a busman’s holiday, using his holiday to catch up on a couple orthopedic journals that remained unread so, each morning after coffee, Sandra donned her hiking boots. Those too were one of her little luxuries, and she was so glad that the soft leather of the all South African company meant that she could hike day after day, without having to complain to her surgeon about sore feet. Donning some butter-yellow slacks, and a long olive-green jersey that reached half way down her thighs, she was grateful to herself that she cared not a whit about other hikers might think. She did run a brush a few times though her wild head of red hair, though streaked with grey. Taking an old gnarled stick that someone had left behind the cottage door she stepped out for a round of the lake and hike up to a vantage point where she had seen a herd of buck. She wasn’t sure what they were, but she grabbed her binoculars and a cheery hat, not forgetting Scott’s reminder that cancerous skin went along with red hair.
‘See you later, Scott,’ she said. ‘I’ll be back for a late breakfast.’
‘Watch out for Puffadders,’ he called back, without looking up. Sandra Scott looked affectionately back at her husband of twenty-five years, engrossed in his journals, still dressed in his pajamas, wondering how many women of her vintage could still categorically and without hesitation say that they loved their husbands, and rested in the peace of knowing she was loved. She knew that Scott hadn’t had any affairs with any of the attractive women on the prowl with whom he met every day.Sandra’s early morning jaunt started with a stiff climb up the hill behind their cottage. Climbing carefully through a barbed-wire fence and then wending her way through the indigenous bush and undergrowth, she stopped occasionally to enjoy a small ‘berg flower and spent all of five minutes studying a minute spray of white flowers that she found parasiting on a branch of tree that she didn’t recognize. Long tubers reached around the branch, sinking their roots deep into the sap of the tree and, for just a moment, she was tempted to steal a shoot for her garden. Later, she reached the edge of the little wood and found a footpath making its way through the grasses and shrubs further up the hill. Taking a breather at a vantage point, Sandra turned, breathing heavily. She was not used to the altitude or the scramble. Over the indigenous copse of trees she had just crossed she had a wonderful view of the lake and the resort. Pulling out her binoculars she focused on their cottage, but there was not a sign of life. Scott was obviously still engrossed. Looking out onto the lake, happily she recognized her son giving lessons to a couple of schoolboys on their windsurfers. Even from that distance, with the powerful lenses she could clearly see the features of her son, sitting on an ordinary canoe, directing the two lads.
Idly, she scanned for the herd of deer, but none were to be found, and slowly she turned her gaze slowly back to the cottages. Stiffening, she recognized the two young tennis players obviously eating breakfast on their patio, not far from her own cottage. Irritated with herself, she found herself enjoying being a Peeping Tom. Intrigued, she watched what appeared, even from that distance, to be an angry scene developing. The blonde was reaching out to take hold of the other woman’s hand, but she snatched it away. Eventually Sandra turned away, feeling a not a little guilty at intruding on their privacy. Tired of the climb she started down the hill again, stick in hand, wondering at a discordant note that was sounding. Try as she might, she could not avoid analyzing her own feelings towards them. Why was she irritated by them? Jealously? They were certainly very attractive, and could play a beautiful game of tennis. Searching for the path down to the lake, now several hundred feet below her, Sandra determinedly turned her thoughts back to more important things at hand. Finding her way safely down without spraining an ankle, or worse took up all her concentration. The going was steep.
Later, after a light breakfast of fruit and toast and marmalade, Janet and Santie took a long hike up to some sandstone caves where they had heard there were some Bushman paintings. Peter’s name wasn’t mentioned again and gradually, with the hard going, the atmosphere cleared. There was not another soul in sight so, on reaching a small stream, they swam in the nude in a clear green pool. A small waterfall plunged down the sheer face and they enjoyed splashing about, occasionally looking about to make sure that no one was watching. A little further on, following the map, they found the fascinating painting of a huge python in one of the sandstone shelters. ‘Oh, look, those loops of its body follow the same contour as that line of hills,’ Santie said, pointing to the skyline. The painting was beautifully preserved.
‘I wonder how old it is?’ said Janet.
‘We’ll have to ask when we get back to the resort. A couple of hundred years, I suppose. Maybe older.’
They enjoyed a quiet lunch of hard-boiled eggs on bread and a bar of chocolate, next to the pool. The temperature dropped suddenly as the steep cliffs cast their pool into shadow. A cold breeze sprung up and so they made their way wearily back to the resort.
As they walked in the door, the phone rang. Janet took the call. ‘Hello,’ she said cautiously.
‘Is that you, Jane?’ asked Scott Thomas.
‘Yes, it’s me, Scott,’ she said recognizing his voice.
‘Would you two join us for a drink and supper tonight? Eight?’
‘I think so. Let me ask Santie.’ She covered the phone: ‘Santie, they want us to have supper with them. At eight. Is that okay?’
Santie scowled, her tone of voice changing instantly. ‘You go, Janet. I’m not in the mood.’
Janet hesitated, about to argue with Santie, but changed her mind. ‘Scott, are you there?’
‘Would you mind awfully if we took a rain cheque? We’re pretty bushed after a long hike today. Perhaps another night?’
‘Yes, that’s fine. If you change your minds, just come.’
‘Thanks Scott, but I think not. Please apologize to your wife and Peter. Bye.’
Janet hung up and went and sat down next to Santie, putting her arm around her shoulders. ‘This is not going to affect us in any way, Sant. If you’re really unhappy with the idea, then I’ll just forget it. We have the most special relationship, and I’m certainly not going to let this come between us. I can’t live without you, Santie.’ Janet gave her a hug, but there was no response from her partner. It was an awkward moment. She knew she was getting the cold shoulder, and wondered if the hot tongue would come later that night, but it didn’t. Just a stony, frozen silence.
Next morning, when Janet woke, Santie was already up and sitting on the patio with a pot of coffee. ‘Good morning, Santie,’ she said, giving her a light kiss. Santie didn’t respond. Janet sat down on the aluminium chair, looking out over the mountains and watching the early fishermen. She wondered if Peter was one of them, feeling a little guilty, knowing Santie would be hurt if she knew that Janet was scanning the lake for him.
‘If you want to go ahead with this, then you must do it, Janet. I’ll get over it, but I think …’ Santie said abruptly. She stopped. ‘I don’t know what I think.’
‘I’ve already decided to drop the whole idea. Please, can we just forget it. I’m sorry, I should have realized it would be a shock. I’ll just … be a cow!’
‘Had you stopped to think that you are just turning Peter into a stud bull. You’re assuming you can just have sex with him, a one night stand, and you would both just forget all about it. Never think of each other again.’
‘Well, why not? That’s the way it is for many people.’
‘Maybe so. You also haven’t stopped to think what effect sleeping with him with have on our relationship. You’re making out that sex is like two dogs on the street corner. Boom, boom, over and done. You go on with your life, he goes on with his and I have to go on with mine as though nothing has happened.’ It all came bursting out, the hurt and the anger.
‘I’m so sorry Santie. I’ve been very thoughtless. Shall we just pack up and go home?’
Santie just shook her head, not trusting herself to say anything, looking away from Janet, not focusing on, but staring at, the mountains. They were turning a hazy blue once the early morning pinks were over. Janet was the only person who had given her unconditional love since her mother had died, and now she felt that everything was being threatened. Everything. Real sex with Peter, not just the kind they enjoyed, might well be the wedge that prized them apart. She didn’t know that gay women declared that sex with another woman was often more satisfying than with a man. What if Janet enjoyed sex with Peter, even more than she did with her? Peter would be over the moon, she had no doubt of that. He would pursue her. There is no way that he would sleep her once, and let it end there. Santie could see her life falling apart like a pack of cards; everything they had worked so hard to build up was under threat. She got up and walked into the bedroom, slamming the door. Janet heard the click of the lock.
The next few days of their holiday were very tense. They didn’t play tennis again, either together or with the Thomas’s. Janet didn’t go back to wind-surfing, nor did they go back to the restaurant for dinner. They went for long walks, mostly on their own and, when they did walk together, there was a stubborn silence that neither of them could break. Santie noticed that Janet was back on the ‘an apple and a Provita a day’ diet and, if she woke in the night, she was aware that Janet was awake or had got up to watch some all-night TV. Before her eyes she watched her friend’s new-found ego collapsing once more. Was it her fault? Should she let Janet go in to Peter? Santie started feeling guilty, almost selfish, and confused. The Thomas’s phoned several times and Peter walked over once when Janet was out hiking, but nothing broke the ice.
When a man like Peter Thomas is raped by a woman, determined to have him father her child, the risk of infection is great, over and above being violated.
"I do not see AIDS as a punishment, at most a sort of inherent justice..."
Archbishop Andre-Joseph Leonard
Critical thinking is primarily concerned with judging the true value of statements and seeking errors. Lateral thinking is more concerned with the movement value of statements and ideas. A person would use lateral thinking when they want to move from one known idea to creating new ideas. Edward de Bono defines four types of thinking tools:
* Idea generating tools that are designed to break current thinking patterns—routine patterns, the status quo
* Focus tools that are designed to broaden where to search for new ideas
* Harvest tools that are designed to ensure more value is received from idea generating output
* Treatment tools that are designed to consider real-world constraints, resources, and support.
There can be few greater joys for the chiropractor than treating
"huilbabies". Infantile Colic. Do you know the Rule of Three, Mum? Peter Thomas never went through this difficulty in his life.
Baby J is only eight weeks old but both his and his parents lives are a misery. Since his first week he's been yelling blue murder for at least five hours a day. Every day, so that fulfills the criteria for Colic. I personally couldn't believe the research when it first came out, that Chiropractic could help Infantile Colic. But desperate mothers started to hear that Chiropractic could help their babies, and started to plague me. So hesitantly... instantly I became hooked! They responded SO QUICKLY.
Baby J was significantly better after only one treatment,
and after two a very relieved mum says the holering is down from five
to one hour a day. Technically, that means he's cured. He no longer has
colic if he's fussing inordinately for only one hour a day. That's
considered normal. Now researchers are calling into doubt the
quality of the research for technical reasons. Perhaps so, but I for
one remain utterly convinced about the power of Chiropractic for kids.
And with the activator, it's so gentle.
COLIC CHIROPRACTIC ...
In the Netherlands chickpeas (Garbanzo beans) are dirt cheap. Nobody
would bother growing them. (You do eat hummus don't you? you should!
They are the second best natural lowerer of LDL cholesterol, the bad
stuff, after oats.
AUTHENTIC HUMMUS RECIPE ...) Bachelor Peter Thomas loves to cook in his spare time.
But back in my native South Africa they are considered a "health food" and are damned expensive. Well, they are a health food, but that's no reason for them to become a luxury food. So growing chickpeas is next on the agenda for my semi-retirement. With my love of butter, mutton stew, cream on my Quaker Oats Recipes (porridge) I cannot possibly go without Hummus. Plus I love it, and the calories in hummus are not so high as some people think.
Update: Growing chickpeas was not a success; they don't like hot, wet summers. Rather a Mediterranean climate, and probably in California.