You may recall that in Zambia I spent a long time scouring local markets to purchase a wooden giraffe – a replacement for my original giraffe, bought in 2000 and subsequently broken by my clumsy dad (I know, I know the earthquakes were really to blame dad!). Dave and I spent an even larger part of our day sourcing packaging materials and making a cardboard box to protect Twiga on his way home to the UK. As I posted the parcel I begged the universe to let it arrive safely. Last time customs decided to cut open the package AND the giraffe to check for illegal wares.

The Zambian post office worker promised me that the parcel would arrive at my parents house in one piece, and within 14 days. I knew I’d have to wait longer than this for confirmation of its delivery, as mum and dad were swanning around France in their new motorhome (good on you for doing it in style!). The night they arrived back in Burbage, I hounded them with a phone call: “Any sign of the giraffe parcel, or a note to say it’s waiting at the post office for collection?”. Sadly, no. Maybe it was still on its way, but it had been nearly 3 weeks now. I promptly insisted that Dave call his mum to see if the parcel he’d sent on the same day had arrived. It had. Uh-oh. The giraffe was lost I concluded.

Slightly sad, I remained optimistic. I would just have to buy another one whilst I still had the opportunity and send it home with my sister when she comes out to Cape Town. Fortunately, on the way back from the game reserve to Windhoek we passed a large carving market. We had to endure the hassle of bartering once again, but when rumour got round about exactly what I was looking for, giraffes appeared left, right and centre, and I didn’t have to do too much searching. “Too big, too small, wrong colour”, I announced until I found one I liked. Technically, it’s proportions aren’t accurate but it had a fat neck and legs which should be dad/earthquake-proof. As an insight into the bartering process here, the guy intially wanted N$750 (over £50) and I eventually paid N$100 (£7), still more than I should have really.

Pleased with my purchase, I texted my sister to see if it was ok for her to carry it home. She replied, “Fine, but are you sure your last one didn’t get home? Jane (our neighbour) said something about a parcel being left with her whilst mum and dad were away?”. Whoops.

It seems I now have a collection, officially known as a tower of giraffes. Dad has quite successfully repaired the first one, Twiga made it home from Zambia, and Sylvia is now bubble-wrapped and ready to take a plane from Cape Town. Giraffe anyone?