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I KNOCK on the door and am greeted by the spitting image of Barbra Streisand.

"Yes, I know," says Jo, when I mention the striking resemblance. "I get it all the time."

The next thing I notice is the décor. The lounge is tastefully done, but not "decorated". Jo tells me the front door was found on a rubbish dump in Stellenbosch 14 years ago, when she built the house. The ceiling wood comes from an old school in Southfield that was demolished and rebuilt. The pillars are Feverwood, which I have never heard of.

Splashes of bright pink dot the living area and wedges of sunlight illuminate a stained-glass door, which was once a fixture in the Bank of Good Hope. Like the interviewee, the house has serious character.

We start at the beginning. Jo was born in Sea Point, but won't say when. "No lady admits to being over 50," she winks, "so don't bother asking."

She went to school at Ellerton and Ellersley schools in Sea Point, then lived in London for four years. "Cape Town was dead in those days so, as soon as I got back, I moved to Johannesburg. I lived in Sandton, but that was before it was the place to be."

Jo married Stuart Maxwell in 1968 and the couple had a son, Warrick, and a daughter Caryn. While raising her family, Jo also ran an interior design company and later a coffee shop.

But, after 16 years of marriage, tragedy struck Jo?s life for the first time. In 1985 Stuart was murdered. By then he was a fairly high-profile businessman and a protracted court case ensued.

Says Jo: "It took me four years to get my life going again. But I had two small kids, and I focused all my energy on them."

When the trial was over Jo decided to move back to Cape Town. She says she doesn't want to talk about Stuart?s death any more, and I don't ask.

In 1996, Jo opened a guesthouse in Rondebosch next door to the Diocesan College called Bishop's Field.

But in 2000 tragedy struck again. At the age of 28, Warrick died of a drug overdose.

A visibly emotional Jo tells me how she didn't see the signs until it was too late. "These days you read so many articles of what to lookout for, but then I didn't know anything about drugs. As so many parents do, I thought, my children? Never."

I ask her how she managed to cope with Warrick's death. "I had a strong connection with my boy. I still do," she says. "I think of him having a new life, a life where he's happy."

Jo says an incident on the first anniversary of Warrick's death was a sign from him. "A few of my friends and his friends met at Little Bay (near Milnerton) where his ashes had been scattered the year before. We had snacks and champagne and I'd written him a letter. I waded out behind the shore break and threw it out to sea. Then, as we were popping the champagne, a jogger ran by and shouted 'Happy birthday'. I knew then he wasn't really dead. It was just his first year in his new life."

Breast cancer was next to strike, but Jo dismisses this with a wave of her hand as "no big deal".

"I think it was the shock of Warrick?s death. I wasn't actually sick, although I did have to have a lumpectomy and radiotherapy. My friends were fabulous ? they looked after me for weeks."

Three years ago Jo started the Cape Town Red Hat Renegades, a group of women whose motto is "fun and friendship with a purpose". The organisation assists 10 creches in Philippi in feeding more than 700 disadvantaged children.

She becomes effusive, gesturing with her hands as she describes their plight: "Quite frankly, I don't worry about the adults, but the kids didn't ask to be born into this abject poverty."

In 2005, Jo won the Cape Times, V&A Waterfront Woman of Worth Award for her dedication to these children. But, although she is relentlessly generous with her time and money, Jo is adamant that people "need to help themselves".

"I will support anyone who makes an effort, but don't stand at the robots with a sign telling me you're unemployed with five kids and that I should help you. If you don't make an effort, neither will I."

Suddenly, Jo's domestic worker walks into the room and asks Jo if she is ready. Betty Moeketsane has worked for Jo for 32 years and has been through everything with Jo and her family. Jo tells me that it was Betty, not her, who sat at the main table at Caryn's wedding three years ago.

"Betty's the real mother here," she laughs.

Jo is late to meet her daughter and new grandson, two-month-old Ethan, whom she vows will never call her "Granny".

"My daughter hates it, but I reckon he can call me 'goddess' instead."

We look at the time and realise we have been talking for four hours.

One last question, I say. "How did you do it? How did you cope with the sadness?"

Jo thinks about it. "Positive thinking. Attitude is everything. I'm lucky ? I wake up in the morning and I'm always in a good mood. Friends help. I have a strong personality. I work at it."

"Actually Aly," she says pensively, "I don't know what the answer is. You just do it."

Jo walks me to my car and we agree to chat later in the week. As I drive away, she shouts: "Don't make me out to be a saint, because I'm not".

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