brrrrr!
In one night, sluggish autumn turned into crisp winter. Cold winds belie a bright sun. I sit outside with a red shawl, shivering slightly as my oiled scalp feels the chill. Maybe it snowed somewhere in South*, she says. I mumble in agreement and go back to my ok ok masala mystery thriller type book. In a minute I'll have to start prinking for the lunch date.
Hmm. Friends unburdened their frustrations over cocktails and coffee. I reasoned and logicked - small towns breed small pettinesses. Forgive it, and look beyond, I said sagely. You are so cool, they thought. You are so lucky; you don't live here.
But I do. Gaborone has always welcomed me when I'm through with one chapter and need a breather before figuring out the next one. It has always soothed me when troubled in mind, pampered me if broken in spirit, lulled me if the world outside has seemed like a screaming panic. It hasn't judged me in my long periods of laziness; because I am, I really am lazy. Deeply lazy. In fact, it is Gabs and its stillness that makes me get up off my arse every time and start 'living'. Like quicksand, it threatens to suck me under, into the netherworld of quiet bitchiness, meaninglessly small social groups, with meaningless agendas, small personal biases magnified into crucifixions.
Gabs scares me and pushes me out, and hence I am lucky.
In some storybooks**, the east wind stirs the heroine into restlesness. I wonder dramatically if this wind is a beckoning finger from London. 'You sure this is what you want to come back to? I can be vast and grey, i can make you shiver, have you forgotten how dark winter was?' Then happily, the candlelit bare-ish brown interior of The (original) George on Borough High Street comes to mind.
The sun, still African, burns the back of my neck. I give up on dreamy outdoorness and go inside to dress for another lovely precious lazy day.
*In Botswana, South Africa is referred to as just 'South'.
**Chocolat leaps to mind, with Pontouf the lame kangaroo. I know I've got the french wrong, correct me if you can please.
Hmm. Friends unburdened their frustrations over cocktails and coffee. I reasoned and logicked - small towns breed small pettinesses. Forgive it, and look beyond, I said sagely. You are so cool, they thought. You are so lucky; you don't live here.
But I do. Gaborone has always welcomed me when I'm through with one chapter and need a breather before figuring out the next one. It has always soothed me when troubled in mind, pampered me if broken in spirit, lulled me if the world outside has seemed like a screaming panic. It hasn't judged me in my long periods of laziness; because I am, I really am lazy. Deeply lazy. In fact, it is Gabs and its stillness that makes me get up off my arse every time and start 'living'. Like quicksand, it threatens to suck me under, into the netherworld of quiet bitchiness, meaninglessly small social groups, with meaningless agendas, small personal biases magnified into crucifixions.
Gabs scares me and pushes me out, and hence I am lucky.
In some storybooks**, the east wind stirs the heroine into restlesness. I wonder dramatically if this wind is a beckoning finger from London. 'You sure this is what you want to come back to? I can be vast and grey, i can make you shiver, have you forgotten how dark winter was?' Then happily, the candlelit bare-ish brown interior of The (original) George on Borough High Street comes to mind.
The sun, still African, burns the back of my neck. I give up on dreamy outdoorness and go inside to dress for another lovely precious lazy day.
*In Botswana, South Africa is referred to as just 'South'.
**Chocolat leaps to mind, with Pontouf the lame kangaroo. I know I've got the french wrong, correct me if you can please.
Comments
how did you know it was mommy? i don't let her wear monkey caps.
please stop calling me dude :-) rather non-poetic.