Bone cold. Courage little sparrow.

‘The harshest of winters makes of all of us dreamers for something better …’

A bleak day.  I cannot get warm.  All thoughts of snow and silliness are dissipate with the howling gale outside.  It creeps through windows and underneath doors.  Under and up, inside my bones.  These are cold bones today, cold is all.  

Silence is deafening. Night close, the wine needs no ice.  I am no longer amused by the whiteness outside and dream of its ending now.  Strange that I was hoping winter would result in snow, in something other than the perpetual greyness that has seeped into my veins.  How do others endure this now I think?  I see them plodding to work outside my apartment, heads down, muffled thoughts beneath the black coats. I think happiness has been buried.

Seems the worst time ever to put my apartment on the market.  Would even the daffodils in the delft vase give for imagination of spring?  Lights on all day, heating frail against the elements, but I have.  I have to.  The winter has reduced me to the bones, to the poetry of restriction to place, the depletion of spirit in that place.  To action.

As I long for the changing of season, I long for the changing of me.

We should never begin in a place of haunting winter.  As I pray for the sparrows out there.  The homeless in corners, the dulling easiness of routine, I wishing away of cold days, it is not enough for this Silver Street woman. She basked in the Summer too long to give it up now that all has changed, and this bone cold winter, with the cold wind inside her heart, she is beginning to realise that the warmth of life will only begin in her own steps.  And so, the winter of this discontented soul will plan for the summer of something else.  I have no idea where I am going, where I will end up, but it only begins when the artist picks up the brush, when the first word is written, when I am sure all I love are safe enough for me to move on. Godot is not for me, waiting is no longer for me.

Have courage little sparrow. The winter may whip.  The cold may freeze your soul, but it will thaw and we need to be ready when it does.

Image Daily telegraph

Silver Snow – we met and chatted. And it was good.


Snow was an alien concept in my youth.  I lived with sunshine, thunderstorms and dust demons.  Snow was Christmas cards with silver glitter and houses with trails of smoke, and once, I remember, a present of a snow globe that flurried when turned upside down. Snow equalled other places with hearths and sleighs and elves. If I say I dreamed of snow, and when it happened one day, I think I was about eight, I was unprepared for it.

As I was when I found myself living in a country expecting snowfall in winter.  A white Christmas.  The first year it happened, deep, glistening stuff that came overnight, and that is what I think about snow – the silence of it.  Never that before – how quietly snow comes. How gently it lands on leaves and new shoots. I love the stillness of snowfall followed by the crunchiness of stepping on it.

The last two days was a bastard snow.  Flurries and fickle sprouts of white only to be burned by sunlight. Did it snow?  Is it sunny – February is the true mind f..k of living in the Northern Hemisphere.  The Macbeth month – shortest and bloodiest, promising spring, sending the snowdrops, culling the snowdrops with artic winds. Hag February and today was no different for now I am still the child for snow and curling with glee, only to spot the homeless shivering on the sidewalk.  The wet roads, the complaining, literally trains going ‘no’ to commuters and somehow the snow thing takes a dark side.

So what did I do?  Took some time to fire up the heating, run the freezing fingers under hot water and another ready meal – not the best vegan Shepard’s Pie lentil something – I decided to wrap up and go back outside.  Night time. Back outside to the snow and have a chat. 

Woman to woman snow chat.

‘Why have I become so immune and blasé about you snow?’ I asked.

‘Why have you come outside you silly woman, at this cold and late hour? she replied.

‘To find the magic of you.  Thought that was pretty obivious.’ I retorted.

‘And you have to find a reason for me now, do you? she sighed.

Smatterings of her were all around. I had not noticed on my way home, head down, angry, wanting to get out of it all.  Didn’t see the trails left by children heady with snowcitment. Tiniest of snowpeople built to melt.  Glistening spaces of white in the moonlight around the lake. On car roofs, postboxes, huddled in corners. A flurry they called it.  A flurry.  Such a lovely word.  A flurry of white confetti on my space. 

Suddenly I was not longer cold, or old, or angry.  I was that child with the pictures in my head. With the snow globe. It was the stillness of her, the quiet cloaking of her, the peace of her I felt. I want to stay outdoors all night in case you are gone in the morning. Magical you, I whispered.

So much older now.  Snow does not age. She reminds me instead of all those things that bring calm.  And I love her.

Image: Telegraph



Turning up the stones.

My good friend Georgie and I met up last night at Waterstone’s in Piccadilly.  We usually like to meet at the café in St. James’ park, but winter brings closure at 4pm so the alternative is to meet in book heaven.  I could spend hours there, starting from the top floor and slowly making my way down, each section of course, igniting a resolve to read more, take up drawing, travel to Borneo and speak Mandarin.  I want to learn to sew, make a coffee book of photographs along the Seine and brush up on Satre, Judaism and decorate wedding cakes.  I do little of this, ponder at the studious types absorbed in words and pictures and order my second cuppa chino (which the Italians say you should never order after breakfast.)

Georgie and I are newish London friends and kindred old souls. Our journeys are similar yet different, but heartache lines the fabric of our coats. Our love for London and South Africa and all the spills we took in between binds us. And we are survivors.

Doing away with the usual gripes, I tell her of my various ‘little jobs’ and still trying to find that happy place that continually seems to evade me.  She has found peace in her space. Rather than roll her eyes at my verbalising, she tells me, it’s ok to be doing what I am right now – I’m turning up stones. Some will be good finds and make their way into my pockets, and others will be tossed away. The analogy resonated with me.  Turning up stones.  Exactly.

It reminded me of a scene from ‘Something’s got to Give’ when Diane Keaton walks the beach and picks up stones, turning them over and those she likes, she puts in a jar, the rest go back to the sea. ‘I like the white ones’ she says.

I like the white one’s too.  It’s what we have to do.  Turn up the stones in our path, the feel good ones, be it memories, objects of beauty, material and spiritual icons, jobs tried, lovers met, people we love and add them to our lives.  Hold onto them, put them in the jar.  The dark ones (which some may love too and I am being symbolic here) may be important too – talisman or dark spirit – and they should be tossed to free up more space for the stones that add meaning to our lives.

The point is, the point is, there will be many stones along the way.  Trying new things, unfamiliar territory, light and dark wanderings – these are all stones we need to turn and observe. If by chance at some point in our lives, there are too many stones we feel uncomfortable with, they need to go.  And we try again – read a different book, try a different recipe, start a new career, move house, end a toxic relationship, join a tribe, fall in love, challenge ourselves.  Nothing should stay stagnant and if, like me, the path seems decidedly rocky and precipitous at times, go back to the white ones and take them out of the jar, your pocket to remind you that you have done good, not matter how small the good is, you did good. 

As darkness met me outside (oh dear this darkness thing is at times more like a boulder!) I walked down the road, past the Ritz to catch the tube home and thought, this will be a year of much turning up the stones, like the years before, but this year I am fixed on finding the white ones and holding on for dear life.  The story that is me is going to have a very decorative mantlepiece of pebbles.

Images hdwallpapers and pintrest

Apron strings become wings.

Guilty.  Guilty for holding on too dear.  Guilty for first thing in the morning and last thing at night thoughts of you..  For praying as hard as humanly possible for safety, for bravery, for love, endless love in your lives.  Guilty, guilty, guilty for hanging on long past the ‘perfect moment for letting go.’

The day my son told me he wanted to join the Armed forces, I cried.  My blue eyed, blond haired boy. The one I hated other little boys for bullying, or feeling second to at times. The one holding onto me as the new had him at cautious. No one hurts my boy, no matter his age. No-one makes my babies cry and gets away with it.  Harboured vengeful thoughts for those who did not invite my children to their birthday parties.  The joy of watching them run, play games, going to their first dance. Cried tears of joy at the sunbeams, the tutus, the prizes won. Held through the night.  Kept the letters to Santa and the tooth fairy.  Held their childhoods in my hand, in my heart, and forgot about the time they would grow up and leave.

Guilty for holding on too long. 

Truth is:  when the world got ugly I had you.  When relationships broke and others left, I had you.

Truth is: I need to stand on my own, knowing that I have done my best, loved the most, proud of everything you have become.  Son, daughters, children of my being.  I sort of did not know how I was going to go on without the control of being the centre of your lives, how I was going to become the centre of my own life again. Again, gosh, that’s awkward – I can’t remember ever being that. From daughter to wife to mother to now. I didn’t get the handbook on that one.  So perhaps I have held on more tightly than I should, for selfish reasons I know now, but in thinking this through … it’s ok.  It’s never going to mean I am not there for you, all the time, or stop praying and wishing and hoping for my reasons.

But those apron strings need to go.  Momma needs to fly on her own. Talk about giving you wings, I have to grow my own now, big white ones that take me from my comfort zone into a different place and it’s exciting, and scary and dare I say, about being all grown up. All of us being all grown up.

I know you have me in the your hands, in your hearts.  Your home is always in my soul. The thing is, the thing is, you getting wings and flying away from your childhoods, is me getting wings too. We are all going to take the plunge, dive and swoop, clip them and soar in our own directions. New at this letting go thing, but I am your wind beneath your wings as you are mine.

My son is the most interesting, ambitious and interesting man I have ever known and I could not be prouder.  He is a great achiever and I shall be the embarrassing mother with her fascinator on her head with the camera! My daughters are independent, gentle, strong and have the most golden cloud lives ahead – I did good. Better than good – being a mother is the best of me I have ever been. More than – I am beginning anew, just like my babies and we will have a different kind of adventure.

Still there for the calls.  The ‘Oh Mom’ times. Now I have to become the brilliant me, and home?  Home is never far away.  Home is me.

Images: lisa, lisa no cult and mom.


The Jean pant thing.

‘I wish I had invented blue jeans. They have expression, modesty, sex appeal, simplicity – all I hope for in my clothes.’

Yves Saint Laurent

Times I curse throwing out any of my jeans, dating all the way to the 70’s: should rather have had a treasure chest up in an attic somewhere, just for jeans past.  They all told a story; 

  • remember the sewing of butterflies, flowers and sunny sun’s with smiles and rays and everything? And at least one peace sign all “Hair’ and hippy like. Braids at the bottom.
  • Jeans flared at the bottom, like masts on a sailing ship.
  • My sister had tie dye jeans that looked like trees climbing up her legs.
  • Lying on the floor at Uni, trying to get the zip up.
  • Getting into wet jeans because we believed they would fit better if they dried on us. What were we thinking?
  • Salt washed, ripped, high waisted, button up and fifty shades of blue, my treasure chest of jeans would have brought back a million memories.

Hindsight, my old jeans would have been my children’s fashion item, because the truth is, I would never have been able to fit into them now.  Oh dear, there it is, I said it! Ugh, ugh, ugh!


But, but she says, not even close to the big ass Mum pant, up there under the diaphragm, Hindenburg covering stomach, enough blue denim to sort out a squadron – but I am looking more a new pair of jeans. So, any ideas as to what I should choose?

Been out of the jean dating scene for some time, wearing the old faithfuls with a keen inkling to add to the jean portfolio, but here in London, so many shops that … sell jeans.  So many different sizes that don’t say 34,36 or whatever but leg this and waist this and let’s face it, those little death boxes with the sadistic lighting will never convince me this is the pair … so I sort of need to do something I have never done before:

Jean research

This could be serious.  Could require detective skills of note.  Could even motivate water in favour of food to allow for the best conditions for the union. 

Jean pant out there somewhere, you have my name on you.  Admittedly there was a time when I though nah, am getting too old for the blue in tight, in favour of gym pant comfort and oh Lord, thank goodness I got over that one after two months of gym pant with dressing gown fashion.  I am back to sassy and the old jean pants will not be forsaken but treasure chest in attic pretend bound.

If you have any great tips for Silver Street Jeans shopping, let me know!

Images pintrest, vogue



It’s ok to live in the past. Don’t leave your heart there … blood rush exists.

If you’re looking for me, I the one reaching for the Vitamin D.  Days last sun came, and this winter is  rather trying.  It’s post Christmas and the shiny lights don’t do it for me anymore – the mere thought of grey skies until whenever, sans any tan lines, leads to introspective everything.  It’s ok.  Perhaps we need this hibernation of body and soul to reflect, but also to plan.

Tonight I find myself alone, waiting for the impending marriage this weekend of the father of my children, who are all on that shore for the celebration.  I am allowed the shadow on my soul.

A dear friend misses her husband, now gone 17 years ago and as she said, time only allows you to live a different kind of life, but the missing never goes away.

Watched the most depressing, and awful movie about two women who try to recapture their past but they are clearly as awful as the film for not adapting to the times.

My intuitive and gorgeous daughter kindly reminded me that all the stories I ever speak of are ones in the past.  I am effectively a ‘When we’ and I reluctantly, but admittedly find myself doing this – which is totally unfair to them, and to myself.

Is it this Silver Time though?  Have we reached the arc of experience only to find ourselves slipping life into the memories that were, plodding with life now rather than embracing and challenging her instead?  Have we effectively lived our lives and now find ourselves living through others, being reactive rather than proactive?  Why would this be?

Clearly, this generation have fumbled, been victorious, failed and achieved rather a lot in the our lifetimes – our book has chapters within, some great and some not so great, but do we continue to subject those we love, and ourselves to this memory trip and does that in turn become a defeatist forward failing? All around me I see Silver Streeters smiling only for grandchildren, wait for family to visit, get through the day and at every opportunity speak of the past as if it were our only point of reference – which is so sad.  So, so sad. I honestly cannot think of a conversation with my friends that did not refer only to where and what the children are doing.  Their days, and mine are governed by the expectation of others coming into theirs.  How wonderful if I heard a friend saying they are beginning a new business, going scuba diving or taking a lover.  Going to dye their hair blue, climb something (preferably the lover) and smash into 2018 without caution or regret.

Having said that, we are also warriors and captors of the past.  Our hearts have soared and broken so many times.  This may just be the time that we stop to really think about it.  And we are allowed to.  Sometimes we want to remind our children and friends that the good times did exist, that happiness was manifest, our egos took preference and love was physically and spiritually perfect. We are allowed to be ‘when we’s’ for our when we’s were amazing. Now our hearts break when children leave, relationships end and people die.  It happens at this time.  We downsize, miss our gardens, find exercise just a tad straining.  We don’t run anymore. We drink pills, and wine and our eyesight fails us. Clothes don’t fit, menopause is a bitch and we slump, in every way.  So we try to remind all, and ourselves that we were once the hectic, amazonian wonder women.  Or are we still?

We are.  Throw out all the ‘Get over it’ announcements.  Don’t get over it, all of it, but don’t let it define you, as it has me for far too long. Change is scarier at this Silver Street time, the odds are stacked just a little more, but I for one am a long way from knitting and accepting it – needed to wallow and nurse the broken threads that held my life together, but in all honesty, even I am getting tired of the story.  My friend is allowed to mourn forever, we all are, but only if it does not turn our hearts to ancient stone of memories and prevents us from finding new ones, our own ones.

Living in the past is beautiful, only if it spurs us on and doesn’t hold us trapped. Admitting to loss and pain is part of the healing.  We have nurtured and fought for and I think part of the when we thing is also a new found anxiety of having to face being just you – no parents, no partner, no children, and some no more friends. 

Tonight, in the midst of winter …

“In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer.’ Camus

My friend, mourn, talk about the one you miss as much as you want.

I will talk about the past incessantly.  

Don’t leave your heart in the past – she still gets a blood rush if you let her for the future.

Tomorrow we will kick some ass.


Images Peintres

In a day …


Times when living in a small apartment is too small and the getting out to remind myself that living in London is a privilege means hopping on a bus, any bus (as it turns out) to navigate into the city. 

Today it was the number 39 and 87 (the new major has bestowed on us locals a free second bus within an hour) and so to Clapham Junction and then onto Parliament Square.  Being on a bus is still and remains a novel experience and the best way to discover the city.  Being high up, I have the opportunity to gaze into windows of apartments, into the backyards of dwellers and peer into the lives of urban citizens in every shape or form.  Pristine, unkept, rented, owned. Some with neat squares of garden, some with weeds overgrown amongst bins and debris. People are living there is the story. It is the London few tourists see, hidden and sullied in urban resilience . And resilience is what it is all about. I am in awe of these great Londoners.

It reminds me of the shock of actually becoming other than the tourist.

Still, there is something fundamentally brotherhood in seeing the council houses, the chicken and kebab shops on the route. The bus fills with personalities of all race, ages and types.  Chocolate children and young mothers with no wedding rings, glued to phones in the standard track suit of daily being. Their lives are as small as a punnet of strawberries, tasted and forgotten. The route is of children with instant dinners and soda, of turbans and old ladies with shopping carts. I sit on this bus with the idea of a past life and a story no-one cares to hear.  Some are silent with music for comfort, other talk loudly in broken English.

‘Yeah, innit just the most random my man.’

‘I swear, the baby is gonna get that conjuncti … summin’ that glues up them eyes and makes them brutal sick an she got no man and no babysitter sort the shit out when she gotta go to work.’

‘Well he said, that she said, that he said that Shamiqua was throwin’ her booty around like last year’s Christmas puddin’ and so he said that she said that he said …’

Everyone’s listening to everyone else … everyone is clutching the grocery bag.

They get off closer to Westminster Abbey. Life for them is not the places tourists visit, nor do they know of these, many having lived here for years without tasting any of it. It’s expensive London.


I see what the tourist don’t see.  I see a city in it’s totality. The poverty, seediness, delight and creativity of city living. I pass the back alleys, the derelict churches, the rising mosques.  I see demolition and growth and try to remember what was there before.  I pass MI6 at Vauxhall and think of Bond. I think of Brexit. I think of the Co-po funeral plan. The London that swells and shifts and the river that runs through it.

One of millions of making it through the day.  And as I alight in the Parliament of power, those people are gone, tourists and corporates take their place.  The London of postcards, the winter of lights, the tree from Norway on Trafalgar Square. Looming in her ever present state, The National Gallery to which I am headed for the shaking of life and the falling into another.  The lives of painters, long gone, now revered on walls. Their poverty and struggles are in the colours.


Cravavaggio.  He is a favourite and I am sad he died alone on a foreign beach at such a young age. I can stand before him now, with Vermeer, Rembrandt, Monet and Van Gogh. Room to gallery room I am in the company of historical genius in Art. They too were the lowly ones, the hired guns of the paintbrush, the angry young men, the dreamers and students of others.  There are never enough hours to stand before greatness, created by the gifted from stories not unlike those I left on the bus a few moments ago.

In a day, on a bus, from a sector of London to another, the richness of life on the streets to the magnificence of Cezanne and Manet.  Lautrec to Lavender Hill.  This is London, in a day, a short day with so much more to discover. There are artists now, the city inspires, the stories of everyday life are waiting to take their place …

And on my way back, on the bus, now clouded in human vapour and rain pouring down the windows, I wonder of my own place, somewhere in the middle and what it means. The opportunity to witness the greatness and the ordinary man – and who knows what talents lies within the city still?  Blessed I am to see it all.  Food for thought for sure. I am privileged to be part of this moving life …


All change the Fat Controller says.

‘But what if I don’t want to?’  she asked him humbly.

‘You have no choice.’ was his tort reply.

‘Don’t want to.  Don’t like change.’ she said defiantly.

‘We all have to change.  Change is the only constant in the world.’ he sighed as he said it.

‘Hurummph!’ she hurummphed.

‘Don’t you hurummph me!  Change is good for you.’ He clicked his tongue and pushed out his chest.

It ain’t good for me.  Let me off this change train Mr. Fat Controller.’ 

She is standing on the empty platform.  It’s the change train or the no train.  The platform is chilly.

We all love change when it’s of our own making, and we have control, but times that change gets thrust in your way and it’s ominous, it’s nasty and unwelcome.  But, it happens. If only someone had told us to get ready for it, handed out the handbook or something and given us fair warning.  So what to do when change comes in the mantle of ‘it’s good for you’ , or ‘you will be fine’ when you know it is the last thing you ever imagined.

You stop the bus.  Halt the train, get off the airplane.  Just for a little while until you can take it all in. Rage against the unfairness of what ever change you never anticipated, and then, when you realise it is still coming, and going to happen, you take control of it and buy a new ticket. Maybe the destination has changed, the passengers are not the ones you thought were on your journey till the end, your luggage went missing, but in life, just like the platform, you can either stand there, morbidly still and freezing, frozen in time, or find another schedule and get on the fast train you name after yourself.

The Fat Controller in life is change.

The Fat Controller could be anyone, or anything. He is a bully or a friend. You decide.

So she asked the Fat Controller.

‘Can I have a minute to think about it?’  feeling a little lost and caught in the aftermath of the train she just missed.  The life train she was on left her behind.

‘Take all the time you need.’ Grinning just a little.  ‘There are plenty of trains coming along soon. You decide which one you want to get on.’

‘I don’t know.  What if I don’t like the one I get on?’ she whispered.

‘Then change at the next station.  Just travel light this time, no need for baggage where you are going.’

We Silver somethings have plenty of baggage and change is baggage enough.  The trick is to fitter through it, keep the best and pack the rest. Unclutter your life, uncluttered your mind if change is here – make space for the new journey.

Just make sure you have some pretty lingerie, a comfy sweater, a fresh notebook and an open heart.

Your story continues …

Image: thomastankengineandfriends





The Guilt and ‘grrr’ of beggars on the street in Paris.

No woman, man or child should ever have to beg for their lives, dignity or daily bread.  In an ideal world, which we all know is nothing like the stories we read as children.  

Watching people beg upsets me. Coming from Africa, I thought myself quite immune to this, right down to the many street children with cupped hands at the lights.  But no, children no older than four doing the job for mother who is breastfeeding by the side of the road tears me up.  Or the blind man being led to my window for change.  I am a wreck when this happens and like PMS, on an emotional day, it’s me handing over all my money and sobbing all the way home.  Why is life so unfair?

However, I have also been on the other side of hostility emanating from those I thought I was helping.  Those very same children would, at times, reject my offer of nourishment – it’s the money for glue they want.  I have been spat on, cursed and told, with laden sarcasm, to ‘have a nice day because you can.’  This is the ‘grrr’ part coming to the fore.  I must say that in London, most homeless/jobless people are selling ‘The Issue’ and always polite.

The reason for writing now is my trip to Paris was riddled with beggars on the street.  Why do I always forget this part? Perhaps it’s my eternal romance with the city that causes selective memory but when it’s cold like this in December, at Christmas, the beggars are on practically every corner.  Some wearing Christmas hats.  All ages, men and women, sitting on cardboard or mattresses, many with animals beside them.  I believe they are given more government funding if they have and maintain good care of their dogs and cats (I actually met a man with a white rabbit on the sidewalk yesterday – quite entrepreneurial as the children could seldom resist.)

I know this is a controversial subject.  Been going on for years.  I thought I was immune.  I am not.

Reading up on where these individuals come from, Google has endless articles, all with varying opinions regarding the beggars in Paris.  Be it the older women, kneeling on the sidewalk, the mute but persistent young girls who thrust clipboards under your nose (and once tried to whip my Starbucks from the table – you should have seen me move and tell her to f … off, much to the delight of my children – goes to show what instinct brings out in all of us.)  Then there are the ‘did you lose this gold ring’ scam and the unwashed babies who should be safe and warm.  The signs and plastic cups are now so far placed in the middle of the sidewalk, one poor American kicked it over by accident – you would have thought he had killed Bambi. Kicking the man when he’s down’s cup is kicking the man when he’s down.

There is help.  Charities work tirelessly to feed, cloth and home the homeless and the hungry.  It is not a permanent solution.

I cannot give money to everyone. I work hard for mine and if I want to buy my children Christmas presents, it is my right to do so without guilt.

I would rather buy a broom from a person who has risen and found a solution to poverty by selling their wares rather than simply holding out their hands.

Every year for Christmas, each child receives a present of charity in their names:  a meal for a homeless person, a school uniform for a child, a lifeline for a donkey, these are some charities we support.

A few months ago, when I was in South Africa, I watched a documentary of a man who climbs down into the sewers everyday, wading through the muck in hope of finding objects he can sell and raise money for his family.  You would be surprised what treasure lies within the merde – diamonds and rings, cutlery and mobile phones – and though he may be killing himself with the toxic fumes and ecoli exposure, the man is doing something positive in his life.  He is not begging. 

To those I walk by, I do feel so guilty that I cannot make all your lives better and warmer this winter.

I feel powerless to help you when there are so many.

I should never develop a disregard for human need and those less fortunate than myself.

But there are times, and forgive me, when I just feel the ‘grrr’ of demands expected from me when I am doing my best not to make demands upon others.

And I hope … that there are Samaritans out there for you.  Or Angels, angels would be better …


Images and Daily mail

To be at peace today

Today I found myself beside a pool, in the summertime, in another part of the world. 

With my best friend, all of fifty seven years ago.  We were spoiling ourselves with a little ‘extra’ pampering, post weddings, life, relationships and all that goes on in our beautiful, messy, glorious worlds.

Having longed for a pool for so very long, and ok, the body is not what it used to be, I wanted for three things:

  • To remember what it felt like as a young girl to swim.  Really swim, no holds barred. No worrying about the hair, open eyes under water kind of swim.
  • To lie in the sunshine, wet from swimming, heat on water. No stress about sun factors, technology, how I looked but just to lie and feel the beating African sun on my body.
  • To be utterly care free.

Being care free is something I have not felt for a very long time.  Life happens.  

Surrounded by Jasmine scent, white iceberg roses, deep water in a place of prettiness, I could submerge myself in it all for the lazy Saturday afternoon.  Thinking about afternoons of childhood when parents took their naps and we entertained ourselves with diving, mermaid moves and reliving the ideal of ‘chilling’ for the sake of it.

And it was glorious.  And it brought me back to the self sans FOMO, sans the next day, the next year, the next everything. 

A peaceful afternoon is a prolific experience.  A little burnt, cool, a little must get the body into shape, cool, the water experience, uber cool x

Bestie and moi got much planning achieved – like in the old days.