Let’s get into it.

The December African summer was in full swing, and a cool breeze was always welcome in the night air. I quickly got the hang of hanging clothes out on the lines to dry under the strong sunshine.

There were worries of another drought, the rain had been scarce, and the nearby lakes seemed to shrink a little more each day. But John had a large water tank up on the hills as a reserve, feeding into a swim tank raised high above the ground, close to the farmhouse.

I’d take a dip there sometimes, paddling gently through a few exercises in the natural flow before stretching out into a short sunbathing session.

It did get hot in the afternoons.

It was only five days into my arrival when John drove us to Barrydale, a quirky little town with colourful charm, full of art and a wonderfully open LGBTQ vibe. At the creatively decorated Karoo Art Hotel, we sat on the balcony overlooking a main street, in name more than in traffic.

John was meeting his eccentric artist friend Beezy, originally from Jo’burg. From a distance, a figure appeared; small in stature, but large in presence. He wore a dark brown, African-inspired caftan, large pearls resting against his neck, and worn, Hermès-esque sandals clinging to his feet. His eyes, rimmed in black, seemed to tell stories before he even spoke.

Every gesture carried flair, each movement distinctly theatrical in manner.

After an introduction and a glimpse into Beezy’s adventures, I was told a band was playing in the main hall behind the hotel. Drawn by the sound, I followed the music and stepped into a white, chapel-like room with a high ceiling. On stage, a local band played with heart, while the crowd; some seated in rows, others dancing at the back swayed and smiled, wrapped in the joy of it all.

John and I then followed Beezy to an artist’s house, where a light show was about to begin. A crowd of locals mingled on the garden lawn with their dogs, beneath the trees, their voices buzzing in the fading light.

I was momentarily lost in the blaze of the sunset melting behind the mountains. The host appeared in a sarong to describe the installation; delicately crafted from scrap and then lit it up, bringing it flickering to life.

Once more, I looked up at the ebony sky, scattered with stars like an art show of its own.

The following day, under a sky of promised clouds and cooler air, we were meeting Beezy and his writer friend at the much-acclaimed Ronnie’s Sex Shop. To be honest, “sex shop” felt like a wild exaggeration.

The main bar room had a ceiling festooned with hanging bras in every shape and size, and colour, while another room had its walls plastered with scribbled-on banknotes from all corners of the world. It was our first and last visit to the spot.

After a quick look around and a few laughs, we made our way to the long-awaited hot springs—the weather couldn’t have been more agreeable for it.

We soon said our goodbyes to our friends, and I made the most of the time ahead, slipping into the warm water and soaking for a while, letting everything slow down for a bit.

One week into my arrival, post shower, I spotted a suspicious round bruise just under my right breast. Coincidentally—and lucky for me—John had a doctor’s appointment that morning, and after one quick look, the diagnosis: a spider bite! Ouch. I didn’t for one second want to think about how the spider got its way there. And so, antibiotics in hand, we headed back home.

That evening, a burger feast awaited with a group of ten, the best burgers being served on the balcony of a house with sweeping views of the golden sun sinking behind the mountains and a field of towering cacti stretching out before us.

And with that many new faces around the table, there were suddenly more names to remember than burgers to finish.

It was during the afternoons, while John got on with his daily farming chores or took a nap, that I began working on the interview podcasts I had recorded with friends—talking freely about life. Little did I know that in just a few days, trouble would erupt in the motherland, and the podcasts would have to come to a halt.

The evenings mainly ended with yet another braai or barbecue, with neighbouring farmer friends, each in their individual fields. One such evening was at Simon’s, a one-storey home planted right in the middle of a game reserve. The usual gang of eight turned up and lined themselves neatly along a narrow wooden balcony, overlooking the open field ahead.

Kudus and elands lingered further out, semi-circling the fence beyond the sheep, each minding its own business with the calm indifference of wild things. The sheep milled about, except for one, lifeless and unattended. The hadedas, with their piercing screeches audible even from afar, pecked at the carcass in the background, fiercely guarding their grim prize while keeping a wary eye on lurking mongooses.

The sunset behind the mountains was partially veiled by a stretch of cloud, intermittently lit by flashes of lightning, zigzagging like a giant “Z” or flickering deep within the cloud mass. Not a single drop of the much-awaited rain reached us.

Music flowed, conversation buzzed, with Jaco; a tall, thin character with a dry sense of humour, tossing out sharp one-liners that sparked bursts of laughter.

The braai was a success, Henry helping of course, and as night fell, it ended under yet another magical, starry sky.

Simon, I later learned, had once been part of the music industry. He kept the atmosphere alive long after the sun had set, curating the soundtrack of the evening with an ease that felt second nature. At some point, he offered to drive me into Cape Town the following January for a one-night event hosted by Fabric, set inside an old castle. In return, I’d get him and his friend VIP entries. A tempting trade… and one that added yet another unexpected thread to this unfolding journey.

Christmas Day came too soon. On the way to Christmas lunch at Elsie’s restaurant, where we met up with the neighbours—whose names I was still getting used to learning—John made a pit stop since we were early. It was at a small cluster of short-let houses designed by a well-known Cape Town architect.

The hosts weren’t present, but the locals working on site seemed pleased to greet John. The smiley lady in charge, however, looked highly stressed. She explained their fear as a group of five stood outside the laundry room, one of them holding a stick, insisting a cobra; yes, a snake was hiding under the cupboards. They needed access—but no one dared go in.

I stood at a distance, watching the scene with concern. Then the man with the stick went inside. Even with John’s plea not to kill the animal and to let it move on, we heard a few heavy thuds.

Moments later, the man came out with a victorious smile, holding a dead yellow cobra that stretched from his head to his toes.

“Oh my Lord,” I thought. Quick—this needed a photo.

An early rise one morning, and we headed off on another 350km drive across shifting landscapes, the road unfolding through ever-changing scenery. In the back of the vehicle was a truckload of carefully wrapped, camouflaged farm goods.

John left me at the guesthouse we had booked and went on to his business, while I checked in and headed straight to the recommended beach by the concierge.

I wandered under the heat of the sun and eventually settled on a bench, hat on, watching locals enjoying the shore. It felt like a public holiday—happy families playing music, dancing, tossing balls across the sand—while I sat back with my book, quietly taking it all in.

As the sun grew too strong, I wandered further along the beach. My first stop was a charming Bikini Beach bookshop, where You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin’ by The Righteous Brothers was playing softly in the background.

The first book that caught my attention was The Celestine Prophecy; a book exploring spiritual awakening and synchronicity, following a man’s journey through a series of ancient insights in Peru. It was one of the first books I had read when my own spiritual path began to take shape, some 30 years earlier.

I did manage a spot of shopping—a fabric bag with an African print of geometric shapes, adorned with long brown suede-like tassels swinging from each side; naughty but nice.

I eventually ended up on a small rocky stretch of beach further along, where mostly white locals gathered in the sun. I had a brief chat with a South African couple, holidaying to escape the grip of the Canadian winter.

I couldn’t help but notice the contrast between the beaches, each with its own rhythm, its own familiar faces. It made me quietly wonder how much had truly shifted since my last visit, some fifty years ago, when even the simplest public spaces were clearly divided. On the surface, things had changed… and yet, as a visitor, I still sensed faint traces of separation lingering in the background.

Just before I mustered the courage to brave the cold ocean, John arrived to pick me up.

I thought I was getting into the rhythm of the South African way of life. I do take my gardening seriously at home, but farming was a whole different way of getting one’s hands muddy.

I did take pleasure in cutting back the dead flowers, making aromatic fresh mint tea a daily ritual, and occasionally arranging simple bouquets from whatever flowers and foliage were at hand.

As for the dogs, somewhat unruly, I was developing a particular liking for the attention I was getting from Blaze, who followed me around and looked up at me with a gaze that could have said many loving words.

And yet I couldn’t show him too much favouritism, as Rusky, his equally enthusiastic but slightly more… unrefined companion, was never far behind—bringing a level of chaotic charm that was, in truth, easier to ignore than to engage with. Well, I’m being honest here.

Considering we were tucked away in a far-flung corner of the world, John kept a surprisingly vibrant social circle. What followed was an extraordinary exploration into medicines that quietly opened doors within me, revealing a sense of what lay ahead. Mushrooms had never felt so profoundly enlightening as they did on those journeys.

So, until the next chapter unfolds…

Ta ta

PS

Pictures posted on Haldita’s Instagram

So, where did I leave off?

Oh! Yes. I had traded the cold London winter for mornings that began in sunshine, and it felt like pure bliss. Goodbye thermals, hello glow; the kind of warmth that seeps into your bones.

And just like that, I was fully immersed in a very different rhythm of life. The cupboards were filled, creams neatly lined across the dressing table; small rituals that made the space begin to feel like my own.

My bedroom door opened onto an outdoor corridor overlooking the back garden. Tall trees stretched skyward, forming a natural wall along a quiet dirt road where only the occasional car would pass. We were, quite literally, in the middle of nowhere. And strangely, I loved it.

Scattered across the garden were striking agave plants, interspersed with sculptural installations created by a friend of John’s, unexpected and captivating. And along one side of the lawn, bursts of vibrant fuchsia bougainvillea spilled into view, breathing life and colour into the landscape.

Steps to the right led down into the garden, while directly opposite stood the entrance to the farmhouse. Beyond the door, the first room revealed itself with a distinctly gentlemanly air; an elegant blend of antiquity, where each piece of furniture and every painting spoke of John’s travels and discerning eye. A touch of museum, though it was a room we hardly ever used.

Beyond that lay the entrance to the kitchen, which opened seamlessly into the dining area, where, in truth, we spent most of our time.

By the time I would appear each morning, John was already seated at the head of the table, coffee in hand, quietly scrolling through his phone. He would look up to greet me, always with a perfectly enunciated “good morning”, before outlining the plan for the day.

I, meanwhile, was still negotiating with my first sip of caffeine.

Neither of us were particularly drawn to breakfast, so more often than not, we would set off for the nearby town. It was the kind of place that seemed suspended in time, centred around a single road, as many small South African towns are, serving the surrounding countryside with only the essentials. (Wikipedia)

There was an old church turned into a museum, and then, a newer one, and a derelict synagogue standing as a quiet echo of another era. Our routine soon formed around familiar stops, the only supermarket along that stretch, the newly opened pharmacy, a Chinese shop, a liquor store, and a couple of so-called boutiques displaying clothes that looked as though they hadn’t changed in decades. Vintage… but not in the trendy sense.

Shopping, clearly, was not going to be part of this chapter. Which, in its own way, felt rather refreshing.

There were always errands to attend to; small tasks that somehow filled the day with purpose. And along that single stretch of road, John seemed to know a familiar few; a greeting here, a passing remark there. Small-town currency: eye contact and a good “hello.”

Most evenings, dinner took the form of a braai; never simply a barbecue, as I quickly learned, but something far more ingrained in South African life. And taken very seriously.

The first guests I was introduced to were John’s closest friends and, as it turned out, neighbours; Ayanda and Henry.

Ayanda was petite in stature but unmistakably spirited, with a sharp mind and an impressive knowledge of natural plants. With her striking features and blue eyes, she carried a kind of wild, earthy beauty, reminiscent of Pocahontas in both presence and essence.

Henry, her partner, was introduced as a farmer, quietly assured and deeply knowledgeable, particularly when it came to plants and, in particular, bees. Together, they embodied a grounded, intuitive connection to the land.

She spoke of the six months she had spent in London a couple of years earlier, but the city had never quite settled with her. It felt confined, missing the vast openness of nature she instinctively longed for.

And the weather… well, we all know London wears its moods in shades of grey, rain-soaked, cloud-laden, and cold. Character-building, they call it.

So she returned to South Africa, retreating almost immediately into the mountains to undertake her Vision Quest. But it wasn’t just a return, it felt more like a calling.

Naturally, I was intrigued.

As the fire crackled on the bbq beside us and the evening began to settle, she gently unfolded the rituals, each detail more unexpected than the last.

It started with a group gathering, spending the night together around a fire in an igloo-shaped dwelling, immersed in shamanic singing and preparation for what was to come. The following day, each person would venture out alone into the surrounding fields, carrying only the essentials; a sheepskin cape, a cloth to sit or lie upon, a wooden stick, and a few personal items.

Once they found their chosen spot, they would mark it with a circle of stones. That circle became their boundary; their world for the duration of the quest. They were not to leave it.

The first Vision Quest lasted four nights. But Ayanda spoke of her most recent one, where she had remained alone for thirteen nights; within that circle, beneath a tree. For five of those days, she had taken no water at all.

“Oh Lord…” I remember exclaiming, my eyes widening in disbelief; somewhere between awe and sheer horror. I couldn’t fathom it. Not even remotely.

Part of me recoiled at the very thought - no chance, absolutely none - and yet, beneath that, there was a quiet thread of admiration.

“Weren’t you frightened?” I asked. “At night… all night? And without water for five days? That sounds less like a quest and more like torture.”

Dinner was served soon after; steaks from the braai, cooked to perfection. Ayanda laid out three salads, each made from the produce of their garden; my favourite was the beetroot with feta, simple, fresh, and full of flavour.

And then there was the corn; sweet, braaied over the fire, picked fresh from the ground. So incredibly good.

After dinner, the conversation drifted to bees and honey, though not quite the birds and the bees. Curious, I began asking about the differences in Manuka honey, how it’s made, and the much-talked-about royal jelly, so often hailed as the answer to eternal youth.

With Henry’s thoughtful input, it became clear how much of its reputation, particularly in the West, is shaped by clever marketing, often justifying the higher price rather than any extraordinary distinction. So, I guess, no miracle in a jar then.

John spoke in detail about our first little adventure; a long drive in the bakkie; a pickup truck with an open back used for carrying goods, tools, and supplies, and seemingly the standard vehicle for most farmers out here. Functional, unfussy and built for real life.

We were heading towards Nature’s Valley in the Western Cape, some five hours away. Once again, I found myself quietly immersed in the scenery unfolding around us. The landscapes shifted with every stretch of road; vast, open, and impossibly alive, air so fresh it felt almost excessive after city life, where clean oxygen can feel like a luxury rather than a given. Deep breaths became a hobby.

As we drove deeper into the journey, everything became greener, denser, more enveloping. And with each change in the landscape, the temperature gently dropped, until my cashmere cape made its familiar reappearance, wrapping me back into warmth as the world outside continued to unfold. Fashion meets survival.

After the long drive, we settled into a cabin perched at the top of an endless stretch of mountains; utterly picturesque. John, still recovering from his ongoing virus, went off for a nap.

I, on the other hand, found myself on a balcony chair, lighting up a fully legal joint (or as it is more fondly known, Santa Maria) and sinking into the stillness and peace of Nature’s Valley.

Before sunset, we drove to a nearby restaurant where I was introduced to Sebastian, a man of privileged upbringing, hailing from a once-prominent family whose wealth had long since been squandered by his father. He was accompanied by his third wife, Arabella, an enterprising woman who had launched a tea company bearing Nelson Mandela’s image. The venture, to her credit, was thriving, with the blessing of the Mandela family no less. Dinner with a side of legacy and reinvention.

I had my first taste of the Mandela honeybush and rooibos tea; exactly what I needed to warm myself at the chilly outdoor table.

Back at the chalet, I returned to the balcony once more, this time to gaze up at the black velvet sky, scattered with a quiet brilliance of stars. I had half expected a meteor, but even a glimpse of a shooting star felt like more than enough.

And so, with the night settling in around me and a long day ahead, I eventually retired.

The next morning, the cold air gave way to a bright, sunlit start. After a refreshing shower overlooking the mountains, we left the lodge for a breakfast invitation at our dinner companions’ home.

Their spotless cottage opened out onto sweeping mountain views, and Arabella’s hospitality was as warm as it was effortless. After some light conversation, we parted with thoughtful gifts of Mandela tea and set off towards our next destination, a visit to the plantation.

At the farm, I was introduced to a South African couple, and then to Graham, originally from Manchester, whose presence carried both the air of a boss and an unmistakable sense of control.

Before we settled by the pool, Graham was keen to show us around what he called home; a single-storey house, rich with warm woodwork, opening out onto a bush garden gently shaded by trees.

After some easy conversation over a shandy, we were led through the nursery to pick fresh crops to take back with us, an experience that felt both simple and somehow satisfying.

And on the drive home, there was almost always a stop at some charming bakery along the way, just enough to pick up something indulgent and filling for the journey back.

With over 750 kilometres covered in just two days, we arrived home utterly knackered and retreated to my room or my little headquarters, as I had come to call it.

As I share these moments, I’m gently leading you along the path of the life I experienced in the Western Cape, there is so much more still to come.

In telling this story, I find myself stepping away, if only briefly, from the world as it is now. This journey has become my quiet escape… and perhaps, in some small way, it might become yours too.

And on that note, for now, I bid you farewell.

Ta-ta

The past few years have been a constant reminder that I can’t really plan life too far ahead. Which, honestly, suits me fine… I’ve always been a bit of a last minute dot com kind o’ girl and I’ve never had a particularly committed relationship.

So, I’m going to take you with me through what the past four months have really been like.

I just spent ten adventurous weeks in South Africa.

The plan was simple. Before leaving London, I had recorded a dozen or so interviews with friends; open conversations about every day general life stories and sex, drugs, rock and roll and all between. My intention was to edit them while I was away and release one episode at a time during my stay.

But while I was there, spending hours editing and preparing them for the new year, deep in rural Africa, with patchy internet, the situation in Iran began to unfold.

I found myself drawn into the news on social media, pulled into the gravity of what was happening, and the podcasts had to be put on hold.

Instead, my time in South Africa became a journey I kept to myself, to be told only once the experience was complete.

It became a journey of pushing boundaries and stepping far beyond my comfort zones… and I feel incredibly grateful for every part of it.

But to truly understand it, I have to take you back to the beginning.

It all began last Christmas, with a promise to myself, that by the following year, I would be somewhere far, far away. Somewhere hot, drenched in sunlight. An escape… or maybe something deeper; a renewal.

The past couple of years had taken more out of me than I’d like to admit. But somehow, found my way through with meditation, and a daily ritual of writing down ten things that I was grateful for.

And then, in February last year, came the moment that really shook me. I got scammed. Oh yes.

I managed to recover most of the money through the bank, but the emotional impact lingered. The feeling of shame and foolishness, of being caught off guard, stayed with me far longer than I expected. It took me nearly two months to truly move past it.

By April, I knew I needed grounding. So after a three-year break, I spent April and May reconnecting with family and close friends in the motherland. And something felt different this time.

Iran had changed since my last visit.

For the first time since the revolution of 1979, I spent seven weeks there without once wearing what used to be the mandatory hijab.

I could let my hair loose under the sun, feeling the warmth on my skin in a way I hadn’t for decades. Not completely at ease, but everything went smoothly during my stay.

Visiting Iran is always a marvel for me. Every time I go, I feel my soul nourished by the warmth and love of the friends I’ve made over the years.

Most of my childhood friends left the country after the revolution, scattering across the world. But the friends I’ve met on my visits since then, hold a very special, dear place in my heart. Spending time with them is pure bliss.

Then there are the everyday people I met and my first impression was always the same: humour and humility in abundance.

Walking through the colourful lanes of Tajrish Bazaar; fresh fruit of every sort in vibrant displays piled high, shopkeepers calling out with friendly banter, and spices filling the air with their rich aromas. Once more, I felt the rhythm of life there. It was joyful, vibrant, alive, even amidst the uncertainty around us.

Elsewhere, the city had its own pulse. The restaurants were buzzing, DJ sets were playing, and the streets were lively, yet there was a hint of underlying tension all around.

Whether wandering the streets or exploring the bazaars, I was met with humour, warm greetings, and that effortless sense of welcome that is always heartwarming.

Normally, I try to visit at least a couple of other cities in Iran, but that trip, I wanted to spend most of my time with close friends in the capital.

The only exception I couldn’t miss was a visit to Qeshm Island with a close friend. It wasn’t just the sun in the endless blue skies, the soft sandy beaches, or the turquoise waters that warmed my soul, it was the company of the people around me that keeps this memory alive, long after I’ve returned.

Yet beneath it all, there was a cloud of war hanging in the air, an unspoken uncertainty about what might come next.

Iran, for me, is not just a place. It is a feeling that keeps calling me back.

I was in Greece just two weeks after returning, in June 2025, when news of Iran being hit reached me.

The stress caught up with me, and I ended up in A&E on the island of Kefalonia.

By the time I returned to London, the twelve-day bombing had ended, leaving me exhausted, shaken, and reflective on everything that had happened.

It was at the end of that summer when an old friend of eighteen years, who had moved to South Africa, got in touch while visiting London.

We managed to meet up on his last night in the city. It had been six years since his previous visit, so there was a lot to catch up on.

He had shed some weight, looked tanned, and fit for his years, just a few years older than me, though he carried the kind of energy that made you forget numbers entirely.

In sharing our stories and the parallel struggles we had been through, John suggested that I consider visiting him in South Africa.

It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t analysed. It was one of those moments where life quietly opens a door and waits to see if you will walk through it.

Somewhere deep inside me, I felt the pull of that distance, sunlit place I had once manifested.

After he returned to South Africa, we stayed in close contact. He suggested I book my stay for the maximum allowed time of three months.

My heart was racing with a mix of emotions: excitement, the thrill of a huge leap into the unknown, and anxiety at the thought of staying with someone I had barely spent twenty-four hours with.

But amidst it all, I knew this was it. I had to go.

So, before I could overthink it, I booked a return ticket to Cape Town for ten weeks, with an option to pay a little extra later if I needed to change the dates. I also gave the keys to my flat for a rental for that period and signed a contract. No chance of coming back. I would be staying on a farm about five hours outside the city.

Despite friends warning me about the dangers they associated with South Africa, what was done was done.

I was determined to go ahead.

I packed my two large suitcases, and in pursuit of adventure, prepared to disappear into the wilderness that awaited me.

The warm December air felt different the moment I stepped off that plane.

It was only while waiting for my luggage at Cape Town International Airport that it truly hit me — what had I done?

This was one of the most adventurous trips of my life. And I must admit, I’ve had many adventures, but this one felt different.

Outside, I was greeted by John’s towering smile; yes, he really is that tall, and a warm, friendly hug.

He launched into one of those classic British greetings, full of charm and cheek, though I could tell he wasn’t quite himself. He was still recovering from a long virus, and there was a faint distance in his energy that made me briefly wonder if I was making the right decision coming on this trip.

Still, too late now! Here I was, all ready for my adventure.

I had been well fed on the plane and was more than ready to begin the five-hour journey to his farm, some 380 kilometres from the city.

The first, and last time I had been to Cape Town was almost fifty years ago, with my parents. A lot changes in half a century.

Apart from our stay at the President Hotel, I remember very little from that trip.

And now, I was returning, not as a teenager, but as a woman stepping into the unknown.

The journey began with the magnificent views of Table Mountain as we set off, followed by hours of bewildering, mostly mountainous scenery - the kind only nature can present when it is really showing off.

Thank goodness John turned out to be an excellent driver: fast and furious, yet cautious… which, as you can imagine, is a very comforting combination when you are being driven through winding mountain roads.

The number of times I said “wow” or “beautiful” during that long drive was beginning to drive even me slightly mad. But I simply couldn’t stop myself. Every turn revealed something more breathtaking; valleys that seemed endless, trees that glowed in the afternoon sun, and tiny villages tucked into cliffs that looked like they belonged in a painting.

Fortunately, my host seemed genuinely pleased with my enthusiastic appreciation of his chosen home.

We arrived at the farmhouse and were greeted by John’s loyal companions; his two dogs, barking excitedly and, in their enthusiasm, jumping on me with their heavy paws.

I must admit, although I love animals - well, perhaps not all - definitely not the cobras. John, in preparation for my visit, had even sent me pictures: one lounging under the wooden house in his garden, and another being caught on the road by his neighbour.

As for pets… I’ve never actually kept any.

My host eventually managed to calm his four-legged welcoming committee and showed me to my room at the end of the house, ensuite included, and, to my great relief, plenty of cupboard space.

He had already warned me that this was, in fact, a farmhouse… and I’m pleased to say, my expectations were somewhat met; satisfactorily, and with a quiet sense of… this is going to be interesting.

I freshened up, unpacked a little, while John prepared supper, and after a long day for us both, we turned in early.

Before turning in, I took a moment to absorb my first impressions of my new domain. There I was, standing in the warmth of the evening air, beneath a dark, velvety sky scattered with stars. The sound of crickets filled the night, and a gentle breeze swayed the leaves of the pepper trees, creating a quiet kind of magic all around me.

And so, I slipped into my familiar gratitude mode, knowing I was exactly where I needed to be.

And what unfolded in the weeks that followed was beyond my wildest imagination.

In the next episode, I’ll take you deeper into the journey; from sacred ceremonies of mushrooms to ayahuasca, the moments of solitude in Cape Town that revealed more than I expected.

On that note, with prayers and wishes for love, peace and harmony in our universe, I bid you farewell, for now…

Ta ta

Hello again, it’s haldita - and today, we’re trading childhood sparkles for teenage years, with all the blushes, crushes, and growing pains in between.

As I entered the tender, uncertain years of early adolescence; those gloriously awkward teenage years, I found myself boarding a plane to the Uk - off to a new chapter at boarding school.

First came the summer school in Margate, where afternoons were often spent at a little café where the cool crowd would gather. Among them were three boys from the former Yugoslavia — and the one I secretly fancied was called Tito, as I later discovered. Tall, dark, and handsome... the classic heart-throb. Every time our eyes met, I’d flutter away, shy and tongue-tied in my barely-there English. And just like that, my summer romance lived and died in a flurry of stolen glances.

At boarding school, I was usually quiet in class and never the one to speak up. So when I raised my hand during Mr. Smith’s science lesson on heavenly bodies, he blinked in surprise and said, “Oh! Haldita has a question. Go ahead.”

So in an unsure, half-serious tone I asked, “Mr Smith… is my body heavenly?”

The class erupted — and even Mr. Smith, whose eyes usually scanned the girls with quiet amusement, looked genuinely stunned as his eyes nearly popped out.

Seems my English was improving… just not quite in the way anyone expected!

For the Christmas holidays of our final school year, my sister Hala and I were sent to a mixed ski college tucked away in the Swiss Alps.

After surviving the grey gloom of our all-girls’ boarding school in Sussex, Crans-Montana was basically paradise — and with a boy-to-girl ratio of 80/20, let’s just say Mum earned major cool points with that move!

We made some great friendships there, but from day one, my sister and I knew skiing just wasn’t our vibe — way too cold, and lugging those clunky skis around? Not exactly our idea of fun.

So, we ditched breakfast and let our days begin with the lively lunchtime buzz, laughing and chatting with the crowd we’d effortlessly melted into. By afternoon, we’d hitchhike into Crans, land at a café, and treat ourselves to rich hot chocolate and decadent pastries. Who needs slopes when you’ve mastered the art of après-ski indulgence?

Truth be told, we only braved the slopes when we spotted a couple of irresistibly cute instructors. As for my Alpine charmer - he was blonde, blue-eyed, with a snow-melting smile. I expertly positioned my skis into his, clung on for dear life — strictly for safety, of course — and let him glide us down like a scene from a rom-com. Skiing? Please. I was there for the views — and I don’t mean the mountains.

During camp, I happened to meet the older brother of one of the Lebanese boys. I was sweet sixteen and Youssef, a worldly 23—blue eyes, perfectly tousled light brown hair, beard perfectly groomed, and dressed so sharp he looked like he’d just stepped out of a Hollywood set. I can still picture his tweed suit and the raincoat casually draped over his arm like some kind of stylish secret agent. He took me out for coffee and, on a few nights we went dancing. I was hoping for a kiss - desperately - but nope. We just slow danced close enough to share the moves, but not quite close enough for a French kiss. Apparently, Youssef was on a strict no-kissing diet! Quel dommage.

Oh well, I had loads of fun, but it was time to head back to boarding school - mission unaccomplished! While the girls swapped their cheeky stories about boys, there I was, still waiting for my first kiss!

Summer arrived, and it was time to return home to Tehran. It was the mid-seventies, and Iran was buzzing with energy and change.

My parents’ lively parties were in full swing, and weekends meant trips to our villa by the Caspian Sea - always with a crowd of friends in tow. We journeyed to Mashhad for the warmth of grandma’s hugs, Bababozorg’s gentle presence, musical evenings filled with poetry and song, and enjoyed the colourful parade of family and guests… and of course, the customary single visit to the mosque.

Summer came to an end far too quickly, slipping through our fingers like warm sand. But I still had a mission to accomplish. On our last night before flying back to London, my parents threw a farewell party in our honour, inviting all their friends.

Across the street lived our neighbours, whose two sons were the same age as Hala and me. Over time, in that innocent, mischievous way of teenagers, we’d built a playful rapport — full of glances, teasing remarks, and bursts of laughter whenever we were near each other. That night, with the scent of jasmine in the air and music drifting from the garden, it felt like something might just happen…

When their parents came to our party, Hala, our friend, and I took the chance to pop over and say goodbye to the boys. But I had a slightly different plan. While the girls chatted with one brother, I slipped away to find the other — lounging on his bed, TV humming in the background.

I stood there, slightly nervous, and said with faux innocence, ‘I’ve come to say goodbye.’ He looked up with a mischievous grin and replied, ‘Well then, come a little closer.’ One flirty tug, a bit of resistance — and then I caved. One thing led to another… et voilà! Mission accomplished. First French kiss — officially ticked.

Leaving for London was always tough, but this time felt different. Mum had agreed—no more boarding school. We were finally free, starting a new chapter: living at home and going to college locally. It felt like a new kind of independence, with a touch more freedom and a lot more excitement.

To look back is to marvel at the distance travelled, all that has shifted along the way - and oh, how we change!

And just like that, we’ve reached the end of these cheeky little tales. But hold on — before I vanish, here’s a poem I wrote a decade ago…

This one is called…

My Imaginary Lover

The man with no name... He

Here I am,

Glued into the velvety warmth of a sofa,

Drenched in the reverie of a man made of dreams...

Gazing outside onto the autumn air,

The colourful leaves resembling my inner being;

An ensemble of a fire’s glow and a river’s flow,

Painted vividly in a vision in my mind.

Grey clouds dim the mood yet whisper the thoughts,

Of a man with no name.

Only the heavens could have placed him on earth,

With a heart full of yearning,

He enters my soul.

From the moment our eyes meet,

He grabs me —

His hungry look opening the door to desire.

He eyes me, head to toe,

Every glance igniting sparks across my skin,

Each touch reaching deep into the barest part of my soul.

A passionate embrace, and the earth beneath my feet

Drifts away, swaying like a feather into boundless infinity.

He devours me like a lion on prey —

With the same wild devotion,

Over a decade on,

Yet each time as new,

Fresh as morning air.

Words fail the splendour of it all.

I crave the passion,

The sensual seconds suspended in time,

Where bodies entwine and souls unite

In utopia.

He is the song I cannot sing.

He appears, sweeps me off my feet,

And disappears again,

Like a phantom

In an opera filled with ecstasy.

The hours pass in a state of delirium,

A declaration of lust,

The sensation of each caress,

Turning the world upside down;

Encounters enriched with passion.

Our lives, oceans apart,

Yet destiny brought us together -

and it will take its course, doing as it pleases.

He returns to his life,

And I to mine —

One full of joy and blessings.

There are no guarantees in life,

So I live without expectation,

Only the thrill of the journey ahead.

He is gone again.

I don’t miss him.

But I smile at the memory,

And at the unknown future that awaits.

I am life.

Now, from those naughty yet innocent glances,

To daydreams of a mysterious lover,

Life certainly has its way of keeping us on our toes.

Until next time, keep dreaming.

Ta ta

Today, I’m slipping into those tender, half-forgotten corners of childhood - where shy glances and sweet little chances hinted at something new.

Those early flutters of affection, tucked between trays of Persian sweets, endless tea, fruit mountains, and the polite hum of grown-ups chatting away.

Looking back, those early feelings were laced with proper childhood innocence - and just a hint of mischief.

They were always boys around - mainly sons of my parents’ friends - neatly dressed, well-mannered, and bashful enough to match my own quiet nature. The glances were fleeting, the smiles awkward but somewhere between the cautious hellos and polite goodbyes, a sweet little spark would quietly slip in.

There were always children’s birthday parties and weekend get-togethers where we kids tagged along, dressed-up and on our best behaviour - at least to start with.

Sometimes in the city, other times in countryside retreats like Karaj. I remember vast gardens, echoing with music, laugher and chatter. The swimming pools were mysterious - shaded by tall trees, their waters looked murky until Babouli, my dad, the champion sportsman, urged us in. And bouffe! The moment we plunged in - iced, crystal-clear water shocked every cell awake, all the way to the mind.

Swimming came just before lunch, when our hair still dripped and towels clung like capes. After drying off under the sun, we’d gather around a long table groaning with summer’s best - saffron rice studded with barberries, slow cooked lamb stews, aubergines in all their glorious forms. You see, Persian cuisine never met an aubergine it didn’t love.

Then came desert: sholeh zard - a golden, saffron-scented rice pudding dusted with cinnamon, and there were of course, biscuits stacked high, and always, always black tea poured into delicate glasses.

The grown ups would drift into two camps - those who vanished for a siesta and those who played behind tables, games of cards, the click of tiles and gentle gossip filling the afternoon air.

We kids? We just ran wild through the garden - boys, girls, laughter echoing between fig trees and rose bushes. Probably, playing hide and seek.

Romance? Please. That was for the adults, or the movies. At least, that’s what I remember… more or less.

And if those Persian garden days were all sun and saffron, Swiss camp was another flavour entirely.

High up in the Swiss hills at La Belle Maison, in Caux-sur-Montreux, I had my first sip of independence - along with the rude awakening that boys weren’t always charming. In fact, they could be very annoying.

One Italian boy, cheeky as ever, would chase me relentlessly around garden benches and classroom tables in pursuit of a kiss. I’d scream, run, hide - while the adults remained blissfully unfazed.

Let’s just say, he didn’t exactly make the shortlist for my future Prince Charming - but he clearly left a mark - the cheeky little menace!

That summer in Caux was my first time away from my parents. Naturally, the first few nights were tear-soaked - I was only seven! But once the other students trickled in, the mountain chalet tucked among the trees became a nest of fond memories.

That said, I did write a dramatic letter to my grandpa, complete with a drawing of a giant mountain and a weeping little girl on top, with an arrow: ‘This is me!’

Bababozorg later confessed it broke his heart and promptly begged my parents to bring me home. They, of course, didn’t flinch.

Honestly, it wasn’t that bad after all, but I clearly had a flair for the theatrical.

After the morning’s French class came horse-riding. My tiny frame was swallowed by the saddle. They were big and muscular. Not only they were big, not your friendly village pony for sure! I pleaded with my light-brown steed, “Arrête!” “Arrête!” Stop - and bless him, he actually listened - standing frozen in the middle of the ring. like a loyal accomplice. But the instructor, Cruella in riding boots, was less sympatique, or less sympathetic.

Later, we’d swap hooves for rackets, playing tennis beneath endless blue skies, the crispest Alpine air humming with cowbells echoing in the slopes - nature’s own soundtrack.

Sundays meant morning church - hymns sung with solemn faces, the vicar placing white ‘pills’ on our tongues, all under the gaze of those stained-glass windows - holy figures dancing in colour as sunlight pierced through, scattering across the church hall.

I was mesmerised. Or was it the mysterious white pill? Haha

There was a boy called Taymour, with a mop of curly hair. How his name resurfaced after all these years? Heaven knows.

One Sunday after church, with full parental approval, his father, in a classic tweed jacket, with the kind warmth usually reserved for family, picked us up for a trip to Montreux.

He bought Taymour a toy car and for me… my first Francine doll - a stylish new buddy for my Barbie back home. After all, Barbie and I were technically born the same year.

Quelle dommage! What a shame that the charm and simplicity - in words as in gestures - have all given way to dating apps, awkward texts and ghosting!

Those shy glances of yesterday feel like pure poetry compared to today’s swipe-left chaos.

Being a child was carefree… and love, far less complicated.

So, there you have it - from shy glances to rebellious horses, Barbie’s rival to fading crushes, Haldita gallops through the wild charm of girlhood memories.

For now

Ta ta

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corridors of my childhood in Iran - a place steeped in stories, traditions, and

the sweet taste of nostalgia.

It was in the mid-sixties, when we moved into a corner house, with a

swimming pool, where the garage doors opened onto a wisteria-covered

roof. Its cascading blue flowers filled the air with a sweet scent. It was

located off Elizabeth Boulevard. Of course, many street names changed after

the revolution, but some names simply stick - etched in memory, no matter

what the signs now say.

The house was modern for its time: cool tiled floors softened by Persian

rugs, and a garden entrance that led straight into the TV room. The living

room or salon, as we called it - was separated by a long accordion-style

sliding door.

Just to the right of the entrance, a tiled staircase led up to the bedrooms and

bathrooms. First came the room Hala and I shared. My most vivid memories

of that room were at bedtime - on the nights my parents weren’t out at some

party - when Mum would sit at our bedside and lull us to sleep with her

soothing voice, spinning tales of Cinderella and Snow White and her seven

tiny housemates.

No wonder I ended up so disillusioned with Prince Charming. Hah!

Anyway… By day, I often tagged along with Mum on her routine expeditions

- errands that, to her, were effortless rituals of charm and precision.

On one of those visits to her couturier, as the tailor fussed an bossed her

around a little too confidently, I tugged on the lead of my wooden barking

dog and said, with the seriousness a six year old could muster:

“Go bite her!”

Mum, of course, laughed out aloud but I was quite sure I was defending her

honour.

After the visit, we wandered through the alleyways hand in hand, hopping

over narrow streams that trickled along the quiet roads lined with parked

cars.

A flash of movement caught my eye - a stray cat darting under a car. I was

so enchanted by its beauty, I let go of Mum’s hand and crouched down into

the dust to coax it out.Mum didn’t mind the dirt, and with her gentle encouragement,

I managed to scoop the cat into my arms - a few scratches, but mission accomplished.

Back home, Madar jun, our nanny, gave her a bath and some food, and then

had to turn her attention to me and my top-to-toe dirty laundry.

We had a new family member - and I was over the moon. Mind you, it wasn’t

the first cat I’d rescued with Mum’s approval.

Summer days were spent by the pool, practicing our dives under the

watchful eye of Dayee Jan - Mum’s older brother. In the midst of becoming a

scholar, his visits back and forth from abroad always included time with us.

Between lessons, we’d be served watermelons and other deliciously sweet

summer fruits - the kind that dripped down your chin.

If it wasn’t diving, Mum would dress us up and we’d turn up at his atelier for

a photo session - always with my inseparable favourite doll, Bella, in tow.

My younger uncle Doyee, on the other hand, had a mischievous streak a mile

wide. One summer, when my parents hired a Swiss au pair to live with us, he

decided to charm her with a dinner out. But instead of romance, the night

ended in sirens. A call from the hospital informed us they’d had an accident.

Turns out, the evening ended not with desert, but with a crash! The car was

towed to a scrapyard. Our poor au pair stitched up and soon after, vanished

back to Switzerland. Probably thinking Iranians were utterly mad or

something.

At the end of that summer, mum’s growing belly was impossible to miss, and

the joyous news of a new baby soon blossomed in our lives.

With Iranians, the wish for a son is never exactly a secret, it’s felt even when

left unspoken. the hope runs deep - they even call their sons ‘Doodool Tala’

or ‘Golden Willy’. Yes, with capital letters.

Now, imagine if they gave girls that nickname - chaos would surely follow!

So, in preparation, I accompanied Mum on several trips to the florist while

she arranged for the newcomer’s cot to be handmade.

A tailor was tasked with crafting a custom white cover to surround it - complete with wheels.

The room was ready, and proud Babouli arrived, smiling from ear to ear,

making way for Mum as she walked in cradling their boy - Soltan. A joyous

moment for us all.

Our cat Pishi didn’t take kindly to all the attention Soltan was getting.

One night, when Mum went to check on the baby, she found Pishi by the cot,

hissing in protest. The next morning, our driver quietly took her away - and

just like that, pets were no longer part of the household plan.

A gentle way of learning that life, love and attention can shift without warning - even

when it doesn’t feel fair.

As Rumi wrote: “Don’t grieve. Anything you lose comes round in another form.”

And so, with Pishi’s purrs replaced by the wails of Soltan, my arms cradling a

newborn instead of a cat, diving lessons from one uncle and ER trips thanks

to the other, I learned a thing or two about growing up. Mostly that it’s never

dull in our house.

Once more, it’s Haldita saying arrivederci.

For now.

Ta ta.

When I was barely three, my parents jetted off on a whirlwind tour around the world. Clearly not one for toddlers. I was left in the capable hands of my aunt and her lively household, while my younger sister Hala was off basking in grandparental glory in Mashhad.

By the time they returned, my grandparents had grown so attached, they insisted on keeping her a little longer - while my father focused on building his business.

So, until I started school, I grew up as an only child, with Hala a distant but ever-present part of my world.

Then came our adventurous - travelling back and forth to see my grandparents, either on those overnight, fun-filled train rides or on small planes, sitting face-to-face with a table between us - quite the contrast to today’s cramped legroom!

My nanny Madar jun, who had moved in with mum after she married, would always accompany us on those journeys.

In Mashhad, grandma would be busy preparing for her religious gatherings, known as Sofreh. The guest room would be transformed - furniture cleared out, replaced with delicate white lace sheets spread over the carpets, and cushions scattered for seating. At the centre, a striking display of floral arrangements, colourful dishes, and traditional deserts like ‘sholeh zard’, alongside bowls of Persian nuts, would take shape.

One by one, the ladies - draped in the latest, most stylish chadors, worn loosely - would arrive, filling the room with laughter, chatter and the unmistakable hum of good gossip. That is, until the mullah entered, seating himself on a raised platform.

At once, the room fell into reverent silence, as he launched into his melodious, dramatic recitation of the holy book.

After the tears shed during the mullah’s dramatic recitals, the moment he left, silence gave way to ladies’ chatter. Chadors were lifted to reveal elegant two-piece skirt suits, and the room filled once more with the buzz of chatter and gossip.

The star comic in my granparents’ home, however, was Hamideh. Legend has it she’d once left her baby at the doorstep of a prominent family in the Caucasus, then wandered straight into our lives, in Mashhad.

She had an uncanny knack for mimicking grandma’s posh friends - bum stuck out, swinging a handbag à la Her Majesty, and parading around the room with playful exaggeration. The room would erupt with laughter at her every move. She sure upstaged the mullah.

Bababozorg (or grandpa) on the other hand, held court every Friday morning in his library; a cosy maze of bookshelves stacked to the ceiling. Doors wide open to celebrated poets like Rahi Moayeri to esteemed writers and thinkers such as Ali Dashti, welcoming anyone with a passion for Farsi prose and poetry. It wasn’t quite today’s open mic night - less snapping fingers, more clinking tea glasses - but the love of literature flowed just as freely.

One bright morning, Bababozorg appeared like a magician - his driver trailing behind him, arms full of birdcages - not one or two - but dozens! A full-on feathery parade.

We all rushed to the garden, buzzing. My favourite? Tiny birds with brown feathers, red polka dots, and the sassiest red beaks. At the end of the garden, in a room where sunrays slipped through high windows, we fed the tiny birds with tender hands and soaked bread. The room was shared with the family parrot, who thanks to Hamideh’s colourful tutoring, had a vocabulary that would make sailors blush. He recited its naughty repertoire to everyone’s delight.

Once the birds had eaten and the grown ups rested, Bababozorg gathered us again and with a twinkle in his eyes and a warm smile, he said:

“Now, open the cages and let them be free.”

And just like that, the sky filled with flapping joy. Honestly, I’m not sure who felt freer - the birds or us.

Those were my thoughts when I wrote the verse:

On a sunny day, birds are singing on a tree,

It must be such a blessing, to be so free.

And from sacred verses to cheeky parrots, and rose-scented sofrehs to grandpa’s poetic gatherings - Mashhad wasn’t always so saintly.

Until next time, keep your stories spicy and your memories just a little scandalous.

Ta ta

My first recollection?

Mum, styling my hair While getting herself ready for a visit from the khalehs - that’s her girlfriends, all of whom we addressed as aunties, naturally.

They’d arrive coiffed and fabulous - A-line skirts, round neck tops, low heels clicking on the entrance tiled floor, eyeliners flirtatious enough to write sonnets. Think: American sixties, but Persian flair.

The house brimmed with laughter, music, endless cups of tea and delicacies served in silver or crystal, and yes, pistachios always and without fail. Mashti, our devoted cook, would unveil a feast of Persian dishes.

Mum would play the piano - elegantly, effortlessly - and one of the khalehs would sing. Angelic. Meanwhile, little me, always ready to dance. Mais bien sure.

Then there were the parties, oh! The parties.

Our living room often transformed into a salon of song and celebration.

Musicians dropped by as casual as neighbours and my absolute favourite guest - Pouran - a famous singer gifted with beauty and the kindest smile. I’d settle myself beside her, like her most devoted admirer. She held my hand while she sang and I would drift into reverie.

There was always one song - ‘Ma ra Beboos’, the Persian echo of Besame Mucho. Sung only by Amoo Hassan, or as the rest of the country knew him; Hassan Golnaraghi. He was closer than kin, and though it was the only song he ever sang, it became our unofficial anthem - sang at parties, remembered like a kiss, and still hummed to this day.

There was even a song, played by my dear amoo, or uncle as we called dad’s friends; just for my dance. Oh, what pride!

Dinner? Oh! Divine.

A dazzling display of Persian delicacies, followed by the star of my childhood sweet tooth: home made creme caramel. There were waiters in white gloves gliding around with hors d’oeuvres and drinks. Long distant memories, yet fresh in my mind.

When it came to party preparations, I’d accompany Mum to the renowned hairdresser of the time, André - a haven of hairspray, chignon and glamorous bouffants. I’d sit admiringly, watching ladies transformed, one elegant curl at a time.

And then… there were the tailor’s visits.

Mother, as elegant as ever, would bring magazine clippings of French couture to her trusted society dressmaker. I’d sit quietly - but eyes wide - watching magic happen.

One unforgettable moment: my uncle’s wedding at the Hilton Hotel ballroom. Mum wore a turquoise velvet dress, sleeveless, pearls cascading from her décolletage. Hair, a perfect André chignon.

My sister and I wore matching velvet dresses, holding the bride’s trailing gown, as flower girls.

Father walked beside her in a grey silk suit and matching tie, looking as if he’d been styled by Armani for a GQ shoot.

Sadly, the revolution swept many things away - including all our photo albums. Confiscated. Gone.

But the material things fade. What lingers? The memories. The music, Golhaye rang a rang. The scent of jasmine. The laugher that lightens the heart and the way life flowed; carelessly.

Our holidays were pure magic.

After a five hour drive, we’d arrive in Babolsar, by the Caspian Sea, a row of rooms packed with family, friends and laugher that lingered deep into the night.

We’d spend our days sun-kissed and barefoot, chasing waves.

Just down the road stood the legendary Motel Ghoo or The Swan, as it was known. I remember my mum in straight-leg trousers and a sleeveless roll-neck, a band tied around her head like one of the girls in an Elvis film. The grown-ups vanished into the music, while we kids ran wild under the stars.

So yes, that was Tehran in the sixties.

Now, that’s a wrap on this little stroll down velvet-lined memory lane.

From the Caspian’s sandy shores to candlelit parties in Tehran, these memories still shimmer.

Until next time, this is Haldita signing off with a wink and a whisper.

Ta ta

Hello and welcome. You’re listening to Haldita.

Let me take you back in time, to where my stories began.

I was born in 1959, in a Tehran that sparkled not just with lights but with hope. My parents were both from Mashhad, in the North east of Iran. They moved to the capital Tehran, to build a new life and build it, they did. Our home was filled with music, laughter and in later years, caviar. Naturally.

My father, whom I called Babouli, was a self-made businessman with big dreams. He played the strict one at home - but underneath it all, he was a softie with a sharp, very Babouli sense of humour.

Mum on the other hand, was pure flair. A gifted pianist, a beauty with a taste for style, great humour and years ahead of her time. An avant-garde woman. She divorced my dad twice! Yes, twice. She married him, divorced him and did it all over again.

With two brothers on either side, my mother was the beloved only daughter - and yes, thoroughly spoiled by grandpa. She wore her father’s affection like a scarf, a silk scarf, with grace and charm and just enough mischief to get away with it.

My grandfather on my mother’s side, was a poet and a philosopher. A man who could say a lot with very few words. Grandpa carried a warm smile. Gracious in manner, generous in spirit and hospitality.

He was and remains my role model.

Grandma was the kindest soul - when she wasn’t entertaining guests, she was baking something exotic she’d picked up abroad or knitting cardigans straight out of French and Italian magazines.

One sweet memory of her: grandma scented the sugar bowl with jasmine petals, and just as mysteriously, her bra too. Some secrets she kept beautifully.

And then, there was Aneh jun - my great grandmother. All I know, she was from the Caucasus & fully in charge of the household. Everyone looked up to her. In her younger days, she left a betraying husband, who was also her cousin, and with her two year old daughter, travelled to Mashhad , to her parents’. Courageous for sure.

Now, on the paternal side, things were far more dramatic. My grandmother, Khanom Jan, had buried two husbands and birthed over a dozen children - some of whom had passed before I was born. Tiny in size but towering in presence, she had a wicked Babouli-style humour. She wore her chador like a queen’s robe and ruled her home with the help of her devoted butler; Esmail Agha.

Back in Tehran, our first home was on Soraya Street, named after the Shah’s second wife; a renowned beauty from a prominent family.

At the time, the second language in Iran was French and my younger sister and I went to Ecole Jeanne D’Arc, run by nuns. Yes, there were no rulers - but there were rosaries and discipline was never in short supply.

In summer, we were packed off to holiday schools in Switzerland, mingling with International students, learning etiquette, French verbs and how to serve a tennis ball - all rewarded with a piece of freshly baked bread and a Swiss chocolate bar. I can still taste it. Call me gourmande if you will.

Then came the big move; my mother decided we should be brought up like ‘proper ladies’. So, off we went to boarding school in Sussex.

At Battle Abbey we sang hymns we barely knew, sat through meals where fidgeting was a crime, and a language we didn’t quite grasp. And as for mornings - forget peace and quiet: the matron’s giant bronze bell rang like we were under siege!

One minute I was surrounded by Persian poetry, musical soirées, and saffron rice, the next, I was being served gravy over fatty sausages, tea with milk and playing hockey in a mini-skirt - in hail and storm.

There is no denying I had a privileged upbringing - but what stayed with me the most was: ‘You treat everyone with the same respect, good manners and kindness. No matter.’

Here and now, under the gaze of the moon, I’m carried back to those golden summers at our villa by the Caspian Sea - where music drifted through the open windows, laugher spilled from every corner, and my mother’s joy lit up the room like candlelight.

Some memories don’t fade; they simply wait for a moonlit night to return.

Now, if it’s cheeky tales or in other words, saucy stories you’re after - Oh! They’re coming.

Patience, my darlings.

Rome took time and even Shehrzad didn’t spill all her secrets in one night.

Thank you for stepping into my world - where the music sways, the stories smoulder and the next chapter… well, nobody knows quite what that will bring.

Until next time

Ta ta

You shall get to know me here as Haldita.

I began writing a blog, in August 2010, that was 15 years ago. It was about the life of a free-spirited woman. A woman who turned a new leaf after twenty years of marriage, who went from being under control to uncontrollable. Or in other words, from Stepford Wife into a MadGoddess. It was about one person, surpassing the boundaries of country, religion, sexuality and basically anything that separates us in humanity. We have to accept that we are each one unique, each in our own way. A unicorn living in one world. After a few years of writing, I went through a writer’s block. It happens. And it wasn’t until couple of years ago, on an Ayurvedic retreat, that the thought of writing a poem enlightened my thoughts.

Now, before I read the poem, let me tell you a little more about this podcast. The aim here is eventually, having a selection of mostly worldly people, one at a time, on my couch, drinking specially brewed herb tea that I make and chatting openly. Without inhibitions, about life experiences.

Now, what subjects does haldita here have in mind, you may ask. Well, how about sex, drugs and rock and roll, for three, or anything else in between. There are so many subjects in life to discuss. Just enough secrecy and hiding behind masks. Enough of that. Let’s just be open to life. So, to start off with this brief beginning, I’d like to read you the poem that I wrote on that retreat in India.

It’s very true to today’s world. It’s called: ‘A Life Without Judgement’.

Hey you, mysterious little thing we call life,

You come one day gentle, another sharp as a knife.

On a sunny day, birds are singing on a tree,

It must be such a blessing, to be so free.

Yet, there are rainy days as stormy as my mind,

I turn to the Universe, please will you be kind?

What I see in you, is only a reflection of me,

What you see in me, is perhaps whom you’d like to be.

When you look at someone’s life and all you see is good,

Think twice honey, you ain’t got a clue dude.

What you see on the outside, is not what lies within,

You should know that by now, when you’re sad but raise your chin.

Let us put judgement aside, turn on a new leaf,

We are human after all, let’s be done with mischief.

I’m all for reform, change is a must,

Nothing can settle in and lay over like dust.

The past is history, tomorrow a mystery,

What will happen today, would it be blistery?

Now, close your eyes and let the opulent scent of jasmine,

Take you to places, you have never been.

And on that note, with excitement and always gratitude, that is my attitude. I have finally done what is my first podcast. Will keep you posted on this and this one is gonna be short and sweet.

Till next time,

Ta, ta.