At a very swish lunch in the Constantia valley recently, the barefoot man was being taunted by tales of some delicious sauce and eventually proclaimed, hands over eyes, “stop, stop!” which immediately set one of our fine dining companions – the very smart lady who foodies (rightfully) fear – off on a recitation as follows:
“…imagine that it was raining crispy delicious crunchy rice and toasted coconut..”
“…imagine a river of milk falling into a chocolate whirlpool…”
It’s Saturday 25th June 2016, a post-Brexit world, and it’s all pretty scary.
But what infuriates me most is that this:
“…obviously the facts are coming in now…” – An Exit voter saying she would change her mind the morning after the vote.
This past weekend a beautiful friend of mine lost her mother to cancer. She was performing on a famous stage in London at the time, and the Saturday morning papers brought showers of praise to both the show and to her wonderful words, but back here in SA her mom was dying. Continue reading
The barefoot man and I started taking dance lessons earlier this year with a fabulous teacher friend of ours, and I, of course am loving every second of it. The barefoot man is getting there, I think. He smiles every few steps, so I take that as affirmation.
Last week an Aussie and an American came to visit – sounds like the start of a dad joke, I know, but it’s true. They were part of an amazing programme our other high energy Have-big-ideas-and-make-them-happen American friend Chad runs every year called Zebra Crossings which brings top young basket-ball players out to meet Cape Town and play some ball with local kids. It’s far more awesome than that, of course, but it warrants it’s own post in the near future so I’ll just leave it there for now.