Of course, it's not ALL bad

I stayed in a good hotel which has a gym that opens at 5am. It was a beautiful morning

Although the cleaning staff looked at me a little strangely. All became clear when I got back to my room and discovered I had my top on inside-out.

Not ideal weather

So given my love of business travel I have come to expect the worst. The heat wave in London last July, the effects of the humidity on my body in the tube, the monsoon in Mumbai and so on.
But this was Cape Town - how bad could it be?

I gathered up my clothes from the conveyor belt, stuffed them back into the broken suitcase and headed out the door. And stopped dead. Oh yay, a heatwave combined with multiple meetings and a premenstrual GPS.
Business travel is definitely over-rated.

The joys of business travel

Business travel is vastly over-rated in my opinion, and should be avoided at all costs.
Having travelled extensively in my youth as SAA cabin crew (all five star hotels and meal allowances) my brain is wired for work on the plane and relaxation/frantic sight-seeing on the other side.
This means I can't sleep on planes and, like Pavlov's dog, I leap up at the sound of the bell used to summon a crew member. The latter tends to upset the sumo wrestler seated next to me (why am I always seated next to the sumo wrestler?)
Having started a new job requiring a fair amount of travel I realised that the old suitcase (held together with various bits of string, covered in cat fur and bearing stickers from countries that no longer exist) wouldn't cut it. I headed off to the store to buy a cabin-sized suitcase - surely sufficient for a master-packer such as myself. I wanted a hard one (too easy for the slimy sods at the airport to slit open the soft ones and help themselves to my belongings)
It was perfect. The nylon zips were the only possible downside but there is a guarantee, after all.
Filled with confidence I decided to book it into the hold - there was more than enough time on the other side to pick up the luggage AND the rental and get to the first appointment.
So much for planning. My suitcase came out speedily enough, just not closed. Collecting assorted bits of clothing from the conveyor belt AND trying to stuff them back into the broken-zipped suitcase may not be the best way to start the trip.

Us and them (from Scientist no 1)

A jokemail from my daughter this morning

Let's say a guy named Roger is attracted to a woman named Elaine. He asks her out to a movie; she accepts; they have a pretty good time. A few nights later he asks her out to dinner, and again they enjoy themselves. They continue to see each other regularly, and after a while neither one of them is seeing anybody else.

And then, one evening when they're driving home, a thought occurs to Elaine, and, without really thinking, she says it aloud: "Do you realise that, as of tonight, we've been seeing each other for exactly six months?"

And then there is silence in the car.

To Elaine, it seems like a very loud silence. She thinks to herself: Geez, I wonder if it bothers him that I said that. Maybe he's been feeling confined by our relationship... maybe he thinks I'm trying to push him into some kind of obligation that he doesn't want, or isn't sure of.

And Roger is thinking: Wow. Six months.

And Elaine is thinking: But, hey, I'm not so sure I want this kind of relationship, either. Sometimes I wish I had a little more space, so I'd have time to think about whether I really want us to keep going the way we are, moving steadily toward... I mean, where are we going? Are we just going to keep seeing each other at this level of intimacy? Are we heading toward marriage? Toward children? Toward a lifetime together? Am I ready for that level of commitment? Do I really even know this person?

And Roger is thinking: So, that means it was... let's see... February when we started going out, which was right after I had the car at the dealer's, which means... let me check the odometer... Whoa! I am way overdue for an oil change here.

And Elaine is thinking: He's upset. I can see it on his face. Maybe I'm reading this completely wrong. Maybe he wants more from our relationship, more intimacy, more commitment... maybe he has sensed, even before I sensed it, that I was feeling some reservations. Yes, I bet that's it. That's why he's so reluctant to say anything about his own feelings. He's afraid of being rejected.

And Roger is thinking: And I'm going to have them look at the transmission again. I don't care what those morons say, it's still not shifting right. And they better not try to blame it on the cold weather this time. What cold weather? It's 87 degrees and this thing is shifting like a garbage truck, and I paid those incompetent thieves $600.

And Elaine is thinking: He's angry. And I don't blame him. I'd be angry, too. I feel so guilty, putting him through this, but I can't help the way I feel. I'm just not sure.

And Roger is thinking: They'll probably say it's only a 90-day warranty... scum balls.

And Elaine is thinking: Maybe I'm just too idealistic, waiting for a knight to come riding up on his white horse, when I'm sitting right next to a perfectly good person, a person I enjoy being with, a person I truly do care about, a person who seems to truly care about me. A person who is in pain because of my self-centered, schoolgirl romantic fantasy.

And Roger is thinking: Warranty? They want a warranty? I'll give them a warranty. I'll take their warranty and stick it right up their...

"Roger," Elaine says aloud. "What?" says Roger, startled. "Please don't torture yourself like this," she says, her eyes beginning to brim with tears. "Maybe I should never have... Oh God, I feel so... (She breaks down, sobbing.)" "What?" says Roger. "I'm such a fool," Elaine sobs. "I mean, I know there's no knight. I really know that. It's silly. There's no knight, and there's no horse." "There's no horse?" says Roger.

"You think I'm a fool, don't you?" Elaine says. "No!" says Roger, glad to finally know the correct answer. "It's just that... it's that I... I need some time," Elaine says. There is a 15-second pause while Roger, thinking as fast as he can, tries to come up with a safe response. Finally he comes up with one that he thinks might work. "Yes," he says. Elaine, deeply moved, touches his hand. "Oh, Roger, do you really feel that way?" she says.

"What way?" says Roger. "That way about time," says Elaine. "Oh," says Roger. "Yes." Elaine turns to face him and gazes deeply into his eyes, causing him to become very nervous about what she might say next, especially if it involves a horse. At last she speaks. "Thank you, Roger," she says. "Thank you," says Roger.

Then he takes her home, and she lies on her bed, a conflicted, tortured soul, and weeps until dawn.

When Roger gets back to his place, he opens a bag of Doritos, turns on the TV, and immediately becomes deeply involved in a rerun of a tennis match between two Czechoslovakians he never heard of. A tiny voice in the far recesses of his mind tells him that something major was going on back there in the car, but he is pretty sure there is no way he would ever understand what, and so he figures it's better if he doesn't think about it.

The next day Elaine will call her closest friend, or perhaps two of them, and they will talk about this situation for six straight hours. In painstaking detail, they will analyse everything she said and everything he said, going over it time and time again, exploring every word, expression, and gesture for nuances of meaning, considering every possible ramification. They will continue to discuss this subject, off and on, for weeks, maybe months, never reaching any definite conclusions, but never getting bored with it, either.

Meanwhile, Roger, while playing racquetball one day with a mutual friend of his and Elaine's, will pause just before serving, frown, and say, "Norm, did Elaine ever own a horse?”

Sunrise

Taken on our walk this morning. With my grandmother chirpring at me about not taking it from behind the fence - as if I would actually scale the wretched thing to get an unimpeded view.
A heated discussion about artistic licence followed, thus ensuring nobody was allowed to sleep in. Again. Sorry

An English country garden? I don't think so....

We have all sorts of wonderful wildlife living in our street, from a cantankerous porcupine to a pair of dikkops (I beg your pardon, Thick Knees) striped mice, wattled plovers and, as of October last year, gray hornbills.
One evening whilst daydreaming at the kitchen window I glimpsed an owl gliding silently down the road and landing in the dead tree I have refused to cut down.
In the garden, fighter bats perform breathtaking aerobatic displays at dusk as we sit under the thatch of the boma on the lawn near the swimming pool. Small frogs with alarmingly deep voices and who view this spot as their own graciously update us on their progress as they clear the bugs, flies and mozzies so that we can take a glass or two in peace. Skittish ghekos eye us warily, little pulses throbbing in their throats as they cling to the walls.
This is why I have allowed the wild grasses to grow at the bottom of the street. We are the last house in the cul-de-sac and the landscape maintenance of the patch outside falls to us.
I am deeply proud of the landscape choice I have made; a little haven to counter the tweezer-lipped edgings, the painfully pruned, snipped, fertilized and sprayed sterile pavements that abound in suburbia. I shall defend it with all my resources. Landscape committee take note

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