What is a blogger? 

Dear friends and other interesting creatures,

I have found it more and more difficult to align myself with the Blogging community as a whole. It has been a struggle between wanting to fit in, run with the cool kids, or my more inherent need to be recognised for who I am and my belief of what a Blogger is. Maybe I will just declare myself the cool kid. 

I have never fitted into a genre and there is no niche to my writing, except that I write my truth. My personal, human experience. Joyful or destroying. 

What was an online journal to many has turned into a Digital Marketing space. In my mind Blogging is personal. Marketing is selling. Makes sense?

I have endorsed products, places and people on this blog. I have never endorsed anything that is not truthful to me, but marketing on my blog is not #wenchytude. Authenticity is #wenchytude. Forgive me as wrap my mind around being both.
Is it authentic to tell you about a show I loved (#WestSideStorySA at Joburg Theatre is a must see. It excites my soul to *feel* the music.) or the truth about a restaurant I visited or movie I saw? What products I enjoy using or which book I think you should all read?

Off course it is. I was doing this by nature long before Twitter or Facebook came to be. Before stats,  sponsored content and rate cards.

Having an online presence and being called a “Social Media Influencer” certainly has exposed me to greater experiences, people and places. I am extremely grateful and humbled.  A tad in awe when being partnered with a brand, invited to Social Media events, meeting people I admire and visit destinations I may never have enjoyed otherwise. I’ve been incredibly blessed and I am very thankful. 

@SirNoid constantly reminds me that at times my wonder at it all, has left me vulnerable to my online space being exploited, that my time, effort and personal brand has worth in the digital arena. 

I acknowledge that I’ve worked hard at my personal brand. Perhaps because I enjoy being the Diva,  I do not always recognise what I do, as “work”?  

I will go forth believing I am one of the lucky few who get to do what they love, and love what they do. What an exciting time to be alive! 

I shall grow with the changing times, while keeping it real. I still identify Blogging as being a writer at the core. For me the tipping point remains authentic content, not forced to a schedule and truthful reflection. 

Not having published a book, I feel I cannot claim a stake at that exclusive word. Writer. 

Perhaps, it is time?

I wish you enough,


Watch “In the Heart of the Sea” on @mnetmovies NOW! 

Dear friends and other interesting creatures, 

I have a hamper of goodies for the M-net Sunday night movie tonight, “ In the Heart of the Sea ” to give away! 

In 1820, crewmen (Chris Hemsworth, Benjamin Walker, Cillian Murphy) aboard the New England vessel Essex face a harrowing battle for survival when a whale of mammoth size and strength attacks with force, crippling their ship and leaving them adrift in the ocean. Pushed to their limits and facing storms, starvation, panic and despair, the survivors must resort to the unthinkable to stay alive. Their incredible tale ultimately inspires author Herman Melville to write “Moby-Dick.”
Answer the follow question:  Which book did Herman Melville write,  inspired by the tale depicted in the movie?

Please enter the competition in the comment section below with a proper  e-mail address and the correct answer to the above. 🐳 Entries close on Wednesday evening! 

I wish you enough, 

Darkness my peculiar friend.

Dear friends and other interesting creatures,

Being afraid of the dark did not come with Pappie’s death in 1984. I’d never been comfortable in the dark. I feared what I could not see.

Growing up with my Ouma Chrissie and my Oupa Mike I slept next to my Ouma on a mattress on the floor. She would hold my hand until she fell asleep. It had nothing to do with poverty or lack of space. My Ouma had grown up in an orphanage and without meaning any harm, projected her need for comfort onto me. A co-dependant, very loving and caring relationship followed. She said the day I was born was the happiest day of her life. Imagine being loved so deeply.

The passage light was always left on at night. Oupa Mike got up at 3am daily to leave to work on the mine. His former racing pigeon clock stood in the passage on the floor so he could see it from the bed. There was no alarm, but Oupa always left on time.

With pride I am the keeper of the much loved clock in my family.

On windy nights I could hear the door going into the garage workspace banging. It scared me. I asked Oupa why he doesn’t fix the banging door. Oupa winked and said the door isn’t worrying anyone, so why am I worrying about the door? It was the wind that was my problem, not the door. 🙄

After Pappie died and I came to live with my Mammie and my sister in the city, the darkness held new fears. I was eleven years old. I desperately wanted to dream about Pappie, I didnt want to forget him, but was petrified he would appear to me at night. Like a ghost. I was scared my Mammie may die and I did not know how to reach my Grandparents. Life as I knew it, had changed forever.

A lot of therapy and money later I now know that the feelings I experienced was quite normal for a child of my age.

It was the first time in my life I had to sleep in my own room. My anxiety intensified. Every day held new experiences in the big city of gold. All I wanted was to go home! There was no return, so I had to cope and thrive …. and quickly.

I didn’t tell anyone about my feelings. I didn’t want to be a problem. My Mammie was heartbroken over my Pappie’s death. It is only now as an adult that I realised she was only 30 years old at the time! They were so young.

My sleeping habits didn’t improve. Instead of the banging door and counting the hours on Oupa’s clock, I now listened to the muffled sound of my Mammie crying. It was not a good time for anyone.

I’m 43 years old now. My anxiety remains my most faithful companion, but I’m no longer afraid of the dark. The darkness is now a place to hide tears, a space I can think my thoughts without an audience. Somehow the dark holds a sacred silence… weird because the inner city life is alive at all hours.

I don’t know why it changed exactly. I think it was when my Oupa Mike died, very peacefully of old age, almost a decade ago.

Standing next to.his open grave, I clearly remember thinking, this was my worst day. If I can make it through that day, I can face any day, or night that followed.

It is only now, when a lie awake in the dark of night while my mind wonders and visit the triumphs in my life, the dissapointments and often the self loathing for things I cannot forgive myself for, that I know the sun will rise again.

The night is only so long.

I wish you enough


I am richer for having you. 

Dear friends and other interesting creatures,

I stalked my 20 year old son @liamjamescadger on Instagram tonight. I just really miss him.

Many of you walked the road of raising our Liam with me. It literally did take a village. It was a difficult road for many reasons. Out of all the challenges a faithful son was awarded me.  Liam James “gets” me on a a multitude of levels. His wisdom and insight far outweigh his age. He is relentless to seeing that I am “okay” and I appreciate and love him for it.

He is funny,  charming,  unbelievably caring and compassionate…. also a dreamer,  aware of the harsness of life,  a realist with very tinted glasses some days. He loves people as they are,  and ask for nothing more… and nothing less. He gets hurt but never gives up on the world.  Instead he wants to fix it.

I love you.

This entire empty nest nonsense…  nobody ever even whispered about.  Everyone was full on how to solve a problem like Maria and a spoon full of sugar helping the medicine go down,  but nobody warned me that my children not needing me, would feel so incredibly lonely, replaceable and hearsore. That life would go on and I would search for each of them daily in details.

I laughed and cried looking at Liam James’s posts. I remembered some,  and I saw him in places with people I don’t know. It hit me again. I am but a vessel. Safe passage for a baby into the world to grow and to provide a space from which they could jump, hoping I have equipped them successfully with strong wings and a good heart.

Lee,  I hear you in the “insincere sounding city birds” every day. I see you in the grocery shop when I pass the jelly and hear you in the soul who passes my window singing out loud.

When you smile

I can see

You were born

Born for me.

-Roberta Flack

I wish you enough Liam James,


 @AdnanSamiLive in concert this March.

​Dear friends and other interesting creatures, 

My daughter Victoria ( @Pixievixie19 ) loves a bit of Bollywood, so I decided this is fitting to share with you,  as you may share her interest. 

Concerts to be held in Durban ICC on 25th of March and Emperors Palace, Johannesburg on 26th of March, 2017. Tickets for the show can be booked at Computicket from R280 per person. 

He will be performing Bollywood blockbusters including Kabhi To Nazar Milao, Bhardo Jholi Meri and Lift Karaa De. I admit to not knowing any of them. The things we do for our children!  #smile 

What DID impress me is that this man lost 160kg. (!!!!) and can play over 35 musical instruments – including the guitar, accordian, saxophone, sitar and violin.

Follow Adnan Sami on Twitter:  @AdnanSamiLive.

#TheBluBloodWay  #ShowtimePromotions #AdnanLiveSA #GlowTV #HelloGroup

I wish you enough, 


PS.  This is not a paid assignment and I purely posted it because my daughter is very cultured in all things Bollywood … and the world needs more people who support the arts. 

​Into The Woods Again

Dear friends and other interesting creatures,

Thrilled to check in with my friend Wentzel,  with a guest post! Although we have never met in person,  this young man share a knowing of life at 3am. I’ve grown to love this boy. #wenchyskids

I hope Wentzel will become a monthly guest,  at very least?  💜

I wish you enough,



It’s a new year. But I suppose you know that.

What can I say? Generally this is seen as a good time. A happy time. New beginnings and all that. But I would like to think that we as people have grown enough to know that this notion is not necessarily true. It can also be quite scary. Let us be honest. We are entering the dawn of the Trump presidency. That’s enough to make me want to build an underground shelter for when all hell breaks loose. The idea that a new calendar is going to make things better is a little dumb. I made that mistake last year. I didn’t think that it could possibly be any worse than 2015, but 2016 ended up being one of the worst years of my life. As long as you’re alive things can get worse. They really can.

Continue reading

The chicken that crossed the road. 

Dear friends and other interesting creatures ,

17 and a bit years ago we had the pleasure of welcoming our baby daughter into our world. As she was born, her Dad said, “There’s my little chicken!” and her nickname would stay.

When she started school 12 years ago she had a shor bob haircut, a totally oversized dress with a bag she could probably fit in.

When we fetched her that day,  the teacher called us aside as she needed some clarity on what Victoria prefers to be called.

As it happened the teacher made name tags for the children. Victoria gave her tag back and said that is not her name. The teacher had written “Vicky” on the tag.

Victoria explained to her teacher that “Vicky” is her “Aunty Vicky’s name”and that her name is Victoria which has many more letters. Well that set the stage for Queen Victoria to reign.

This year is to be known as #vixmatric2017 – Victoria’s final year of High School.

After the whirlwind we shall call Liam James… Victoria has been an easy girl to parent. Joyful with excellent projection as my dear friend, Godfrey Johnson would say. Strongly opinionated and not to be walked over. She enjoys painting,  reading, movies on the big screen, baking and spending time with her boyfriend whom she calls #Deadpool.

As this final year starts, I would like to wish our little chicken patience, believe in who she is at the core which is kinda #kickass…. to enjoy the wild, up and down journey Matric is. I hope she knows she is DEEPLY loved by many. I trusts she never questions that she can trust herself to make decisions. She is well equipped.

You’ve got this Chix. All of it. Just click ’em high heels Dorothy’s child. 

I love you more than purple, drag queens soetkoekies and the smell of cinnamon.


PS.  Keep growing the hair mermaid,  you are not from this world.  You swim far too deep.


The Kindness Of Strangers


2016 was a tough year

Hi. My name is Wentzel Lombard, I’m a 25-year-old freelance actor and (kind of) writer.

No, you don’t know who I am. I haven’t been in any big movies and I don’t do musicals. It’s not that I don’t like musicals, it’s just that I can’t sing or dance for shit. I’d like to make a film or two, but I don’t have a pretty face and I’m not masculine enough for the patriarchal Afrikaner audience. I do much better in theatre where I get to be anything I want to be.

As for writing, well that’s another case. I write on and off, and occasionally I get paid for it. The rest of the time I just scream into the abyss that is my blog. This is where her royal Wenchness (fuck you, autocorrect, that is a word). She asked me to write a guest blog post, but caught me at just the wrong time. I don’t consider myself to be the world’s greatest writer, and shortly before she asked me to do this, a major publisher rejected a manuscript that I sent to them. This hit my confidence quite a bit harder than I expected and caused me to hit a complete creative block. Also, when people ask me to write something for them I have a tendency of freaking the fuck out. When I write for myself, I feel like I can get away with not being so good, but when other people ask me to write for them, I feel like I need to pull a huge rabbit out of the hat. In fact, this is my fourth attempt to write something for Wenchy (fuck off, autocorrect, you’re beige). I didn’t finish the other three because I thought that they were shit.

Now you’re just going to have to deal with my shit.

Being a “creative” person is hard. I once read in a book about acting that you never see a plumber break down in tears because someone criticised his work. But when it comes to being creative we are so fucking desperate to be validated and successful. People can give me so many positive comments about something, but that one negative response will be the thing that swims around in my thoughts. This is necessary to a degree, of course. We need to better ourselves as artists and people. When someone points out a flaw and we deem it to be a valid point, we need to fix it if we can. The most boring artists are the ones who become stagnant and believe that they “have arrived” or know everything.

This is why I recently attended an advanced film acting course. Being a theatrical actor, I often find it difficult to make the shift to camera. Last year I did the beginner’s course and learned a lot. This year I learned even more. But I was frustrated with myself. I felt very depressed going into the course, making it very difficult for me to focus when we filmed our scenes. This was very apparent when we did playback.

After I had a huge (and embarrassing) meltdown at a rehearsal, I returned to therapy and my anti-depressant dosage got increased. This had a good and bad effect – On the upside I was no longer depressed. My feelings of gloom and doom dried up. I am again able to shower every day and not sit in my car crying for no reason. The downside was that all my feelings seem to have dried up. When people ask me how I am, I don’t really have an answer. I find myself in situations where I know that I would usually be really sad, angry, or even happy – but I feel nothing. I just shrug my shoulders through this fuck up that is life.

This mostly poses a problem with my work. Being an actor and (sort of) writer, I need to be in touch with my emotions. I don’t know how to be creative without linking it to emotions. Stories relate to people and the human condition, and if we remove the ability to feel then we become robots. Fuck, I think I just realized that I’m a robot.

Where was I going with this? Oh yes.

So, after realizing that I have been stripped of all creative ability, I started thinking that I would never finish writing something for Mother Wench. Instead, I went to the theatre with a friend. Since I’m not acting, I might as well go and watch other people act.

After the show, my friend introduced me to a few people. This kind of thing is an absolute nightmare for me. I have terrible social anxiety, but being a masochist, I also decided to choose a line of work that requires me to constantly meet new people – much to my dismay.

But then the strangest thing happened.

The one girl I got introduced to told me that I looked cool. I reacted the way that I react to most compliments: (What? Me? Oh… uhm… uh… uhm… Thanks. Haha). I’ve been called many things in my life, but “cool” definitely isn’t a regular. Next, we spoke to one of the cast members. Someone said something funny and I laughed (or maybe I was just anxious). Suddenly, the actor remarked that I had a beautiful smile. I almost died. This very attractive man (straight, unfortunately) liked my smile?

And then it clicked. I knew what to write about. Kind of.

I have always had a hard time dealing with myself, if that makes sense. Whenever I go to auditions, or even when I’m just walking down the street, I feel so ugly. Thus, when someone compliments a person like me, they have no idea of the impact it makes. We all have a certain degree of narcissism inside us, and this needs to be fed. We aren’t bad people for wanting others to validate us. We are just… people.

The other night I sat up until 4h30am talking to a friend of mine, and we discussed the topic of ghosts. I said that I don’t understand why they feel the need to manifest themselves. We then both agreed that it’s probably because they wanted to be remembered. We all want to be remembered, don’t we? Not necessarily in the way that James Dean or Marilyn Monroe are remembered, but it would be nice to think that for some time after I’m gone, people will think of me and remember that once upon a time there was a person called Wentzel and he did something.

And I realized that in asking me to write this post, I was also being validated by Madame Wench. This is something very special. Our family and friends have to be nice to us. Those who have never met us or barely know us aren’t obliged to do anything. This is why their kindness matters the most.

Thank you.

Wentzel on Twitter

Wentzel’s Blog 


Paint your picture blue and grey.

Dear friends and other interesting creatures,

I posted this exactly a year ago, and wanted to share it with you again as it reminds me how important writing is to me. Not stats, not the correct hashtag, but real and raw – me.

I wish you enough,

The Nocturnal Wenchy

Dear friends and other interesting creatures,


It’s 3am.

While desperately trying to slow dance with the moon,  it is not meeting my gaze long enough for me to choose the song. There is no dancing me to the end of love.

Elusive urban skies. The same urban jungle that bring me a strange comfort, has the ability to swallow me whole … but alas I shall not go quietly into this dark night.

My body is betraying me as I rise and fall with the raw,  prolonged pain running from the soles of my feet to my neck. 

Lingering like a lovers touch in the small of my back,  slowly drawing me in. I close my eyes for we have played this game before. I know how this plays out.

Meeting in the middle of my shoulder blades a sharp, stabbing pain reminds me love is not always patient, nor…

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