Back in sinewy Cape Town with its relentlessly blue skies, after another flight over great swathes of white sand where once were huge dams. It was glorious and a bit strange to visit somewhere where everything was soaked through and through, where 42 mm of rain fell in one night, where I had to dry my laundry in front of the fireplace because this wet stuff kept plummeting down from the skies.

River in spate, only steps from the parental front gate. It felt like a pilgrimage site, a place to stop in awe.

I've been thinking about the best water-wise ways to tackle the two biggest drains on water supply by the middle classes: gardens and pools. I was also fascinated to read that one of the most aggressively water-savvy and saving cities in the world is (wait for it): Las Vegas. Here, citizens were PAID to join the "war on grass" by digging up their lawns and replacing them with desert plants. Patrolling "water police" fine owners for letting water run off their properties and into drains (CoCT, TAKE NOTE.)

But what do we replace lawns with? Here I am no expert. But my folks definitely fall into that category, so I asked them.

I was mildly horrified by their first answer: Astroturf. Which I associate with miniature golf. They insisted: for those for whom gardens are a place for children to play, this is a great solution. I was a bit hesitant until I considered that bits of old, quietly disintegrating carpet are used by all the savvy recycling-conscious gardeners I know to suppress weeds and grass when preparing new beds. It lets water soak through, keeps the soil warm and damp, smothers the plants you don't want, and is also great for shaping gardens and creating new paths. My mama reminded me that in the UK, one of the biggest markets for carpets is for outdoor use: carpets made to resemble wood bark are especially popular.

The first rule for replacing lawns, however, is indisputable: whatever you choose, it MUST be permeable. We have to get as much water soaking back into the earth as possible; paving over the soil (aka water sponge) with stone, concrete, tarmac, bricks, decking and so on, sends billions of litres of run-off water charging down storm drains and out to sea.

The obvious choice to replace grass is indigenous groundcovers, but choosing the right plants is a long-term process and a specialist business I will leave to experts like Rupert Koopman and Erina Botha.

My mama is starting a garden afresh. So much of green and softness.

When I moved to a new home with waaaaay too much (mostly dead) lawn, I had my own experiments to conduct. Gravel is expensive and no one likes walking on it, but it's permeable. It also crunches in a way that I consider a good security measure. One swathe of grass became the new veg bed. This gobbles up all the compost, mulch and blackwater I can throw at it, and has somehow miraculously survived the drought.

I've also experimented with peach and apricot pips (very pretty, but ow ow to walk on with bare feet -- and the cats say the same); discarded thatch (very slippery for humans to walk on, but attractive, and the cats approve); bark chips and bark mulch. The latter look fine, they're good for the soil, pets and kids play on/in the stuff happily, but do not attempt to spread during southeaster season. They work best in smaller gardens, or those with lots of shade/shelter cast by trees and shrubs, where they have a chance to "knit" into the top layer of the soil. But I really am a beginner in this respect, and would welcome your ideas.

I know nothing about pools, but I'm seeing more and more people who've rejigged their chlorinated pools into ecopools, and are thrilled with the results. Here, for inspiration, are two photos taken by author Bridget Pitt of her family's converted pool.

I feel cooler just looking at this.

Frogs and spiders: often associated with witches in fairytales. You know what witches DON'T have a problem with? Flies and mozzies.

Big skies, big mountains, big veld, big rain. Photo credit: Rodney Moffett

Yesterday was World Water Day, which here in South Africa was marked by flooding in two (if not more) provinces, and relentlessly continuing drought in another three. For a sobering update on the Cape's dire situation, read this (the graphs are especially useful -- and scary, although there's cheering news about new water sources).

Here's the message we all need to pay attention to: "...although statements have been made that “Day Zero” will not happen in 2018 this is wholly dependent upon good rains falling in the dam catchments before end-June. While it is reasonable to expect that the SW Cape will receive rain in June, if good rains do not fall ... the authorities will have little option but to implement stage-2 collection/rationing (“Day Zero”) during July 2018."

A further caution: "Water consumption has been increasing during March. It may be that recent statements by political leadership that 'Day Zero' will not occur in 2018 have lulled folks into a false sense of security."

So we can't afford to blink. Meanwhile, I’m currently in the Eastern Free State on a family visit. On the flight from Cape Town to Bloemfontein, we flew over Theewaterskloof Dam. Or, to be more accurate, TheeNOwaterskloof Desert. We were literally shocked into silence. Mile upon mile of glaring white sand where there should be water gives the lie to the magical thinking that a month or two of good rain this winter, and we’ll all be sorted out. This dam supplies 54% of the greater Cape Town region’s water, and it’s painfully clear that a single season of “decent rain” is NOT going to refill it; it's going to take years or even decades.

We arrived in Bloem, the thunder clapped, the skies opened, and sheets of water poured down. There was something poignant and funny seeing the reactions of the Kapenaars, including ourselves. We were snapping pics of the thrilling sight, taking videos, shrieking “Puddles! There are PUDDLES!”, pointing and staring at the brollies being unfurled (I haven’t touched an umbrella in three years). Then came the squawking: “But where are their rainwater harvesting systems? While haven’t they converted all their planters into water storage units? OMG, that water is running down the tarmac and into a DRAIN, can’t we scoop it up somehow?”

It wasn’t just the rain that was a novelty, sadly. The Capeys trotted into the airport toilets and reeled out again in shock. I was one of those who felt obliged to flush, given the queue behind me, and the fact that I was now in A Foreign Country. HORRORS, no dual flush, and what sounded like Victoria Falls flooding into the cistern when I gingerly pushed the button. Then came the basins: no hand sanitiser, no pressure or aerator fittings, no cut-off mechanism; instead taps that gushed forth like geysers. The twittering from the Capetonians was quite something. “It felt all wrong flushing,” said one woman, “like I was littering.”

On the long drive that followed, we shrieked in chorus at standard rural sights: “The dams! The dams are FULL!” “Look, look, that river – it’s running so fast!” “Wow, see how lush the grass is – and look at the fantastic condition of the cows grazing on it!” “Hey, those sheep are drinking from a reservoir!”

It was the colours that undid me. I hadn’t realised how desiccated the Cape appears; not just the bone-dry rivers or sludgy lakes, the dead grass, the bare soil, the rattling trees and shrubs; this last summer literally bleached out the colours.

Now, everywhere we looked, the land and sky and mountains were saturated: not just with dozens of shades of green, but silver and grey and mauve and red and chocolate brown. We could see distant cloudbursts trailing indigo hair and sunlight breaking out and turning clouds salmon and gold. The valleys between the blue mountains marching away into Lesotho were frothing with mist. Confused sunflowers turned in all directions seeking the sporadic sun. And all this purple prose is because we had come from the Place of Dust to the Land of Colour: the colours that water brings. It was a mind-explosion of note.

Four days later, it hasn’t stopped raining here, there are floods in KZN, and flood warnings in much of the rest of the country. This while the Cape turns to biltong. So on World Water Day, perhaps we might consider what we have done to the planet to make the skies either drench us or deprive us of the essential liquid we need for life. The short version is that we have broken the weather; the question we now face is how to fix it. (By now, any climate change denialists are up there with those who disbelieve the theory of gravity and maintain that we cling to the earth because of tiny magnets on the soles of our feet.)

Part of the solution, as we know by now, is to retool our relationship with water. So today’s tips are for everyone in the world, but especially the rest of South Africa. Everywhere we’ve gone on this brief trip beyond the Western Cape, from malls to coffee-shops to guesthouse, water-sparing devices are glaring by their absence.

Every public facility or private hospitality provider needs to wake up to the scarcity of water (even if floods are pouring down your street right now), and retrofit their bathrooms to save as much as possible. Every new building should install at least the basics: even if no greywater recycling, there should be dual-flush toilets, smaller cisterns, taps fitted with water-throttling devices; and for the love of all that is dehydrated, install rain-harvesting systems.

Good news: water-sparing habits are hard to break. In four days, I’ve had one bath (water shared with family members) and one shower, and this has felt lavishly profligate. While having my "luxury" shower, I caught myself turning off the taps automatically as soon as rinsing was done.

I think this is the way of the future: if we combine canny water harvesting with sensible water use, our grandchildren are going to be able to eat, drink and live in a full-colour world in years to come. That's my Water Day hope.

Cover (and book) design by the super talented Marius Roux.

I feel a bit pushy putting this up on my blog, but thanks to you and you and you and you and YOU! and youandyouandyouandyou -- I have a book on water-wise ways coming out in less than two weeks' time. This was the brainstorm of Bookstorm (bad pun: tick), a nimble indie publishing company run by the indefatigable Louise Grantham, along with Russell Clarke, who shepherded me and the MS through production, and Nicola van Rooyen, who sold this book while it was still a gleam in Louise's eye.

It was all their idea, and while I often say it takes a village to write a book, in this case, it was far more. The content of this book was generated by every single person who's spoken to me about water, from scientists to activists, from gardeners to councillors, from guesthouse owners to waitrons -- and let's not forget all the people I've met in queues at springs, and in coffee-shops and at meetings. I haven't talked to this many strangers in years.

So this is to say a huge thank you to all those people who have chipped in (I nearly said "dripped in") with their ideas and tips for saving and harvesting water and generally being very clever and creative in their responses to the crisis. I hope you'll enjoy the book, and it's not all Serious and Austere -- there are some fun bits, and hopefully it will stimulate more ideas and discussion, especially as we come up against further water challenges in the months that lie ahead.

Spoiler alert: there are more than 101 tips in the book. In fact, we have a perfect nelson (111), which means a lot to this cricket fan.

Back to the week that was: it's been fascinating in terms of water meetings -- got to chat to some very interesting people about what's going on behind the scenes: in a nutshell, frantic prep by the City, in partnership with civil society, NPOs and private organisations, for Day Zero. Yup, the supposedly "cancelled" Day Zero. It's still very much a possibility, but what's comforting is discovering how hard people are working to "waterproof" the City, zone by zone, institution by institution. Right now the huge wild card is whether or not it will rain this winter, and how much: and we just don't know. However, I have grounds for cautious optimism: my cats are already growing in their winter coats (last year, they were sporting summer lightweight suits well into May).

This is what my cat Lily looks like when a cold, wet winter is on its way.

Nevertheless, it was encouraging to hear how much is actually being done, especially in and for vulnerable communities -- certainly down here in the Deep South. I hope similar efforts are being made elsewhere. I shall sleuth and let you know.

A relative asked me the other day if I wasn't sick of all the extra work engendered by being water-wise. Actually, I relish it -- still love the sense of thumbing my nose at the City when I climb into a bath of water that an hour ago was falling from the sky, even if it's meant racing around from downpipe to downpipe with buckets. But I confess to being a little bit tired of having to clean up grey water when I accidentally spill or splash it -- that stuff can be pretty dreary and stagnant-smelling. So here's a tiny but good tip: the tidiest, most efficient way to pour grey or non-drinkable water into a toilet tank is to use a garden watering-can. That's if you haven't rigged up a polystyrene or plastic top with a funnel, but if you're still lifting your ceramic lid off, this prevents splashing.

And here's a sweet recommendation from a friend who recently had a birthday party: eat more ice-cream cones. I can get behind this one.

Water everywhere. And wrecks.

I haven't written any water blogs this week, for two reasons. The first has been the final flurry to get my book on water (of which MUCH more news VERY SOON) off to the printers. Always a period of great excitement and manic stress. Second, I've been sitting with my hands over my mouth like the third monkey, trying very hard not to gibber with rage and dismay at Mmusi Mainane's pronouncement that we probably won't experience Day Zero this winter, and the subsequent reporting, which has ranged from sensible to spectacularly irresponsible ("Day Zero cancelled! It was all a hoax/plot/manipulation by the DA/ANC/Israelis/bottled water manufacturers/lizard people/[insert villain here] to sow panic/manipulate the electorate/install desalination plants/make loads of money/insert anal probes[insert conspiracy here]." This weekend's newspapers show more than one sensible and experienced journalist falling into these traps.

The purpose of this blog is to provide a platform for practical tips on living with less water, and after my initial roasting of the mayor for her stubborn refusal to acknowledge the enormity of the water crisis, and my general yelling at everyone I hold responsible, I've steered clear of of the toxic stew of politics. As I've said before, blame for the mishandling of the crisis (certainly from a PR point of view) is a terrible waste of energy. However, the worse-than-useless water-crisis PR we've been seeing sometimes entwines with irresponsible media reporting, social media pours on the gasoline, and the next thing, there's a misinformation wildfire galloping across our screens.

I looked carefully at what Maimane said, and in fact, it was unremarkable: no different from what every single sensible person and water pundit has been saying for the last month: IF we go on saving every drop of water left in our dams, and IF we get decent rains (let me remind everyone we have no control whatsoever over this huge great big IF): then (and only then), we might not have to face Day Zero this winter.

OK, then. Five minutes later, social media was awash with tales of the cancellation of Day Zero, cries of what ninnies we'd been to buy tanks and bottled water, how we'd been getting into a lather over nothing, loud cheers because we could all go back to hot baths and watering our lawns, how we'd been lied to from the beginning. (Here's a fair account of the blowback.)

How did we get here from Maimane's temperate and accurate statement? There was only one small problem: the fact that he said anything AT ALL.

Frankly, I do not want to hear one more word, from one single politician with an eye on the forthcoming elections, about the water crisis. Just shut up. All of you, successive administration after administration, let us down; you knew this was coming and you did pathetically little to avert it other than shutting your eyes, crossing your fingers and chanting rhetoric. IMO, you have forfeited the right to speak. You have absolutely no business pontificating about what might or might not happen, and if you don't live in this city, don't congratulate us on how we're doing -- go check on the status of your local reservoirs and the water-wasting habits of your own constituents. You'll be facing your own Day Zero soon enough.

And (this is for ALL politicians): stop using a national disaster to score points. It's not just opportunistic, it makes you look stupid. I'm not going to explain why claims that this is All A Plot are ridiculous. (Apart from anything else, HOW? Did the DA or whoever fiendishly conspire with aliens to suck the contents of the Cape dams up into vast spaceships, which are now loitering round the dark side of the moon until Nefarious Purposes Have Been Achieved? And then they'll kindly return our water and we can all leap into jacuzzis again?) John Maytham debunks this kind of thinking very well here, but this showcases the irresponsibility of the language about Day Zero.

This leads to the thorny topic of media irresponsibility: News24 provided a sober report: we MAY avoid Day Zero, IF and IF. But within minutes, subs across the country were racing to splash headlines about NO MORE DAY ZERO ("Water panic over for now"; "How Cape Town avoided Day Zero" [???], etc) all over the show. Plummeting national standards of reporting and subbing as the media is eaten from the inside out are a subject for another day, but I take exception to the irresponsibility of reporting inaccurately on a topic this sensitive and critical; also one where people veer from panic to complacency with few stops in between. We're all fed up with the smell of grey water, so don't give us the false impression that it's safe to go back to casting drinking water down our toilets.

Both the City's PR campaigners and the media have used the language of exceptionalism -- phrases like a "hundred-year drought" and "unprecedented" have been tossed about -- and there is this touching faith that the rains will come along and save us all, and everything will go back to normal.

People: WE BROKE THE WEATHER. It is going to take decades, if ever, to fix it. Climate change is real and it is here. Will it rain this winter? We. Don't. Know. Half an hour on Google confirms this: nobody knows, none of the meteorologists and weather forecasters and scientists. (This link, from the SA Weather Service and the Dept of Environmental Affairs, should get an award for sheer uselessness.) What we DO know is that rain needs to fall not just in huge quantities, but in the catchment areas for the dams, and it needs to be the right sort of rain: soft, soaking, continuous, so that it replenishes rivers and groundwater instead of dashing off the miles of concrete and tar and paving and decking we've slapped all over the sponge that is the earth, down stormwater drains, and out to sea.

Regardless of what the politricksters and the City's PR mavens may say (I don't think I'd believe a word out of their mouths by now, not even "hello"), the situation is Serious. Sure, we may dodge Day Zero this winter. But where are we going to be next January? Or the summer after that? And the next one? And more South African cities are going to face water scarcity, and soon (Jozi, having been saved by the calvary aka the Lesotho Highlands Water Scheme a little while back, is slurping through their extra water at a frightening rate).

But let's stress once again: there is no need to panic. If nothing else, we've learned first exactly how much water we need each day; and once over the shock of that, we've realised how little that amount actually is. Waterwise living is going to be part of our shared future; already experienced by millions reliant on standpipes, wells and rivers, it's going to be taught in schools, practiced by businesses, legislated properly (OK politicians, now THERE'S something useful you can do -- apparently Cape Town's water bylaws are indeed being as rapidly amended as is consistent with due process). What we won't be able to go back to is our previous helpless reliance on local government and our luxurious use of water. And a little independence and the ability to be water-thrifty are great things to carry into our future.

Simonstown: water, water everywhere, but...

I can't believe this is the sixth water round-up -- I had such good intentions of keeping all the tips numbered, but that went out the window (or out with the bathwater?) a while back. And still the tips and ideas and mind-shifts keep coming -- thanks to everyone who's gotten in touch, it really is appreciated.

It was a busy water week, and I was asked to speak to the Simonstown Business Association members -- a sparky bunch, and they're responsible for much of what follows. I felt a charlatan speaking to folk in the hospitality and retail industries, as I've never run a small business, unless you count being a freelancer for 21 years. But we're all sharing the same water learning curve, so it was good to bounce ideas off this group.

Businesses are perhaps more focused than the rest of us if we think about the progress of our responses to the crisis. We've clearly gotten over the panic and distress of late January and early February. Now we're either at the denial stage (we seem to believe that Day Zero will never come) or we've knuckled down and are doing our best, and after the initial wailing, we've found it's not hard to manage on less than 50 litres a day each, and soon the rains will come, and what was all that fuss about?

But small business owners -- especially those in the hospitality industry -- know that it will never quite be "business as usual" again. The threat of water scarcity is real, it is here, and it is not going away. We will encounter this scenario again and again in the near future, and any preparation we do now will stand us in good stead.

We all agree on one thing: we want visitors and tourists to keep coming to Cape Town. As said before, many times, it's critical that people keep their jobs, especially in the restaurant and guesthouse industries -- the crisis has already cost so many jobs. And to keep employing people, we need to keep our businesses afloat (indulge me), and that means keeping people flowing in (OK, I'll stop now).

This may be too Pollyanna for many, but maybe we can make water-saving fun, inventive and even a bit sexy, so that tourists can reminisce and even brag a little: "Remember when we went to Cape Town during the water shortage, and we all had buckets in the showers?" Our attitude in communicating with guests, clients and customers is also critical: if we are dour and finger-waggy about the Rules (like those British seaside B&Bs of the 1950s and 60s), we're going to alienate people. Try to serve up water restrictions with a dollop of humour: one of my favourite guesthouse tricks, practiced by my friend Penny, is to criss-cross the bath with crime-scene tape. This is very funny, a great Instagram opportunity, and no one feels preached at.

This is also an opportunity to rethink the way we train our staff: many of them have first-hand experience of water-saving ways, but may be weary at the thought of having to do things the long and difficult way round. I've written before that according to psychologists and social workers I've chatted to, rewards, praise and making certain behaviours "cool" are the best routes to take when changing habits and routines, so be a cheerleader for your staff: give rewards or small prizes for the most water-wise behaviours and strategies. Keep encouraging and praising, and if your guests or clients join in, thank them and make them feel that they're on your team -- part of the solution, not the problem.

Out this morning, I spotted this sign chalked up outside a local hairdressing salon, and liked the cheerful and can-do tone, and also the fact that it offers water-wise clients special prices. Everyone likes a bargain, and the current scenario does present opportunities as well as difficulties.

I've already suggested that guesthouses offer visitors who bring and take away their own linen (especially if they are business visitors only staying for one or two nights) a free bottle of wine or small discount or similar, and we've already seen Anita's excellent water-wise tips for restaurants and coffee-shops. Just as some guesthouses have those decanters of sherry standing in the hallway to welcome guests, perhaps early in the evening is a good time to set out a pretty old-fashioned ewer and jug full of warm scented water from a well or spring, with embroidered handtowels, to welcome guests back from a hot day eating sticky ice-creams at the beach, or clients to a restaurant. Water-wise does not have to equate grim. It can still be gracious.

To go back to planning for the future, some long-term ideas: almost every guesthouse or hotel bathroom in Southern Europe (which has the same Mediterranean climate as us) has only a shower, toilet, bidet and basin. This really does cover all bases (couldn't resist), and these are the bathrooms our hospitality industry needs as premises are expanded and converted, rather than spa baths and vast Victorian tubs. This is not Pudding Island and we do not live under a perpetual cloud of drizzle.

Something to consider -- you could even make it a selling point -- is converting your pool into a soothing and attractive eco-pool. I've been smitten by a friend's successful conversion: look at this beauty, once a regular chlorinated pool (I am not a fan of that unnatural blue).

Picture credit: Helen Laurenson

The idea is to keep a space amidst the reeds and rushes for taking dips, and the water is clean, soft on the skin (the source in this case is the overflow from the rain-tank, and the above shows its natural colour) and there's no need to shower afterwards to wash off that chlorine itch. Consult an expert if necessary and do the conversion over the winter, so that you have a beautiful green pool for your guests to lie beside next summer, where they can enjoy the dragonflies and frogs (who will keep the mozzies at bay).