I’m tired….

I’m tired.

I’m tired of being in lockdown.

I’m tired of people supporting the lockdown.

I’m tired of people not supporting the lockdown.

I’m tired of people railing about “the situation” before they’ve read all the facts.

I’m tired of the mixed messages from our leaders – local and international.

I’m tired of listening to learned people telling us that they’re learning that they don’t know what they don’t know. Every day.

I’m tired of hearing the numbers. Every day. They are awful.

I’m tired of people dying. All over the world. All day. Every day. So far, none of my near (or far) dear people have died. But I’m hearing of people whose dear ones are ill and might die.

I’m tired of this virus. It has developed a vibrant life of its own that has taken over mine. I’m not ill, but it’s making me sick. It’s the last thing I think about as I go to sleep. It’s the first thing I think about when I wake up.

I’m tired of spending every day – and I mean every day – and a signficant portion of it – in front of the laptop. I’m trawling the interweb for work, bearing my soul listing my skills for all and sundry. Because my business has gone down the tubes. Just when things were looking up. Every gig has come to an end.

I’m tired of having to reinvent myself. Again.

I’m tired of stretching each penny as far as it possibly can.

I’m tired.

One in 58 million

I’m only one in 58 million in this country.

There are many in that 58 million for whom I feel and, today, one in particular. Last evening, following a week of clamouring, the President addressed the nation.

Did he impress me?

No. Not this time.

I did learn, though, that the level of preparedness has improved.

I appreciate the acknowledgement and apology that the government has potentially overreached and contradicted itself.

I hear that things are under review and that the country could be moved to level 3 at the end of May.

It’s not enough. I’ve said I don’t agree with everything he’s done. Yes, I think he’s missed a few things and is lead astray often overruled by pedants.

Think about this: we’ve been locked down for 49 days. It’s 70 since the first case was diagnosed. That’s more than two months. He and that team, responsible for 58 million souls, have probably had no days off.

And they’re dealing with a moving morphing target.

Would I like the job?

When I watched the president last night, I saw something else: I saw a man who is exhausted. He’s worried. He stumbled over the numbers. I would have. He stumbled over that big word, death. I would have. Palbable sighs punctuated parts of his speech.

I also saw another side of the man: when he mentioned masks, he involuntarily smiled. Really smiled. With his eyes. Remembering the last time he addressed the nation and donned the now mandatory mask. You have to admire that.

So, no, I’d not like his job.

Today, we should cut him some slack. At 8.30 pm, last night, he should have had his feet up catching up with his wife, or having Facetime with his grand children.

I’m tired

I’m tired of being in lockdown.

Today is day 49. Theoretically We’re in level 4. That means nothing if one has no work or that the work one did prior to lockdown was in and/or associated with hospitality and tourism. Or domestic construction. Or cleaning someone’s home or tending a garden.

I’m tired being one of the missing middle unable to apply for government support.

Who knows when we’ll get to level 2, let alone level zero when we can associate with as many people as we please, and travel freely. Locally and internationally.

I’m tired of the new normal.

Not the 9 o’clock news

I’ve stopped listening to the news. Except mornings and evenings with the odd article from reliable sources during the day. I do need to stay informed and up to date.

I have to stop this “Corona crud” from making me sick. I do worry how it will all end up: for the people and our democracy.

I have to get on with things and do what I can. Reinvention of Fiona: version 500.

I’m tired, but I have to take these lemons, sour as they may be, and turn them into lemonade, marmalade, lemon curd, pickle and pie.

I just have to.

Until next time, be well
The Sandbag House
McGregor, South Africa

Photo: Selma

Post Script

In yet another aspect of my life, I offer

online English tutoring services

every day conversation and formal presentations
writing – emails and reports, academic and white papers
formal grammar, spelling and punctuation
more information here

And then there’s more:

  • If this post might seem familiar, it’s because I’m doing two things:
    • re-vamping old recipes. As I do this, I plan to add them in a file format that you can download and print. If you download recipes, buy me a ko-fi?
    • and “re-capturing” nearly two years’ worth of posts because of this.
  • If you’re interested in a soft entry into the world of crypto currency and monetising WordPress blog, use the fantastic Steempress plugin to post directly to the Hive blockchain. Click on the image below to sign up
  • I’m still blogging on Steem with the occasional post on Medium.

A re-imagining: life after this Corona

Imagine – can you – a new world?

It’s incomprehensible that less than a hundred days ago, no-one had heard of the Novel Corona virus now known as Covid-19. Corona is no longer just Selma’s favourite beer. It represents the biggest threat to the world’s population since the Black Death (plague) and, potentially, the Spanish Flu of a century ago. The latter, like the current pandemic, was a corona virus and one that had crossed from animals into humans: a bird flu (N1H1). It killed about one third of the world’s population. The CDC describes it as the deadliest pandemic of the 20th Century.

Just 23 days

In my opinion, we are watching something similar unfold around us: in just 23 days, the world has gone from the first recorded death to 1,8 million cases and 103,536 deaths.

By comparison, and over a two year period, the CDC estimates that in 1918 pandemic, about 500 million people were infected and that at least 50 million people died. Over a two year period.

This is what the infection rate looks like now: the confirmed number of infections has gone from one thousand to nearly 2 million. In just twenty three days.

Total confirmed Covid-19 cases: 9 January to 9 April 2020 (After Source)

As at 1 April, there were fewer than 20 countries (of around 200) in the world with no recorded infections (Source). These are remote, like Vanuatu.

In South Africa

Covid-19 hit South Africa in March. Within 22 days of the first recorded case, the we are all locked in at home. It was to have been for 21 days. Just 11 days in, it’s been extended to the end of April, making it a 35-day compulsory stay-at-home.


Until pretty recently, I had kind of sense of what I was: a gig worker – mostly in hospitality and tourism – if one wants to get technical. Included among these was my stall at the market and hosting Sunday Suppers in our home. Less technically, I’d do anything legal – for a fee – of course. Yes, I used to have a regular day job as a consultant and researcher. For reasons irrelevant now, I folded that tent a while ago.

Reading the signs

The tourism sector in South Africa, even before Covid-19 had been slowing: a function of the slowdown of the global and local economies. In our region, it was a lagging but knock on effect from the possibility of Day Zero. The 2019/20 “season” was the slowest many of us in the village can remember.

This drop off precipitated my brushing up my English language and teaching knowledge by getting an advanced certificate to teach English as a foreign language. I have also registered for a course to specialise in online teaching. This had always been my intention, but not to teach children, but to work with my preferred demographic: adults who want to improve their written and spoken English.


Just in the last one hundred or so days, we’ve seen a shift from the real to the virtual – of many aspects of life, including learning. People who hadn’t dreamed of being online teachers are, now.

With half of humanity at home and not working, the world economy is going to go from slowdown to reverse. In my layperson’s opinion, I hasten to add. It leaves me wondering what will happen to international trade and engagement. What will be the impact on language schools? Will the market saturate with teachers and tutors available to teach online?

What I do know, is that the number of jobs available in my selected niche seems to be limited. Or I’ve not found the one. I shall persevere.

What now?

Some things haven’t changed: I remain the Cats’ Mother. I don’t have a choice, and occasionally, I find myself trussed up in bed rather like a cat’s mummy. Wedged between to very heavy, small, large cats.

Meet Gandalf. The high maintenance non-wizard imported from Johannesburg. The hope was, that his feline masculinity would protect our then two girls from a marauding tom.

Photo: Selma

Gandalf’s lack of wizardry means he’s now more commonly called Gandy. He’s very much a mama’s boy and has a love-hate relationship with his sister who is every bit a princess.

Photo: Selma

Pearli is only a homebody when it suits her. She’s also known as the Smith Street Strumpet: as a kitten she’d go with anyone. Now, she’s known to visit up and down the road. Welcome or not.

I mentioned that Gandalf was supposed to have protected two. Well about a eighteen months after his arrival, Melon went to kitty heaven. She will be remembered for her magnificent tail and her penchant for lauding it over all – from great heights.

Cook who writes

The kitchen is my happy place. It takes a great deal to prise me away from the stove. This blog, started six years ago, is a direct consequence of my cooking. The other bits came later. My enjoyment of cooking and feeding people was part of what gave me the courage to start Sunday Suppers.

Selma took this photo of me in my kitchen not long after we started Sunday Suppers. She documented the process.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve preferred to cook meals from scratch. The meals I cook are simple and it’s the presentation (which I’ve been learning) that makes them look and (they say) taste better.

This brings me to the writing bit.

Melange: Favourites from Fiona’s Kitchen

Over the last three or so years, as well as since I began to blog in 2016, people have been asking about a recipe book. I admit that I’ve begun to pay a little more attention to quantities and making sure that recipes always turn out the same. I’ve been making notes. Spurred on by blogpal Allen (@blockurator), I actually have the beginnings of a structure. I’m delighted that Selma has said I don’t need to look far for a professional photographer. With this quality, why would I?

One of Selma’s “action” shots

Until then

Part of my blogging journey includes sharing my rants musings on crypto blogging platforms which has the added benefit of monetising my writing. Another part of the journey has been two discoveries: I really enjoy writing – it seems to come naturally. There seem to be a few people who quite like reading my rambles.

Until next time, be well
The Sandbag House
McGregor, South Africa

Photo: Selma

Post script

  • As I mentioned, my writing is shared on a couple platforms so in addition to some self-reflection, it serves as a self-introduction (belatedly) on Hive and on Uptrennd where I shall be exploring a new set of opportunities for engagement.
  • I’m participating in blogpal @tracyork’s April challenge of sharing a post every day during April – on the Hive blockchain. I succeeded last year – on Steemit from which the new blockchain “hived off”…
  • It seems a good way to constructively use the time during a compulsory lock down, right? For more about this initiative, please check out Traci’s post.

  • If you’d also like to both join the challenge and post from the WordPress platform to the Hive blockchain, sign up here.

Those hair(y) days…into the 90s…

Mid 2019, blogpal @traciyork shared a selection of family photos from her childhood.  It set us chatting about how photos like those reflect the essence of the period through the fashions:  furniture, clothing and, of course hair.

It made me contemplate the very few photographs I have of myself as a young adult in the 80’s.  The era of big hair, bigger shoulder pads and great the best music.

They were the days of Kodachrome and Instamatic.  Photographs, unless they were professional, were often hit and miss.  Not everyone had a camera.  In my youth it was more miss than hit.

It occurred to me that in a time when it seems the world has stopped, to go through my shoe boxes and to keep that promise.  It was also, to some extent spurred on by longtime university friends sharing photos of a spring vacation in 1982.


It’s a mixed blessing that decades perfectly mark certain eras in my life.  So it is with the 80’s that saw me finish school, head to university and then to work in Johannesburg.  Those were seminal years.  They were also among the happiest in my life and what I did, and the people I met continue to shape who I am and what I do.  Some of those early friendships endure.  Happily.

As I finished school, in 1980, the BeeGees were in their heyday, Abba had had theirs and nobody had yet heard of Madonna.  I headed to my matric dance (prom) in braces:  I refused to smile for the camera.  We all wore frocks made from “trilobal”.  I refused to let my mother make my dress.  One of my happiest memories is of shopping for this dress – with my father.

An unsmiling, rather shy and awkward 17 year old in September 1980.

As I recall, we did dance to the BeeGees.  Every school dance I can remember always ended with the queen of disco.



The following year I headed to university.  The beginning of a new decade and on the cusp of adulthood.  All the photographs I could find of that year were of the “miss” variety.  The following year, 1982, is one of the happiest years I can remember.  I just seemed to begin to settle into my own skin.  A few weeks ago, there was some fun chat about those days on Facebook and particularly about a seaside vacation.

This 1982 hit always transports me back to that beach and little cottage by the sea.

Courtesy of Facebook – a photograph I knew nothing of until nearly 40 years later.

In the days that I comfortably wore “skinny” jeans.  I think we called them “stove pipes”.

Courtesy of Facebook:  photograph I knew nothing of, until a couple of months ago.

I shall not share a photo of the two of us taken just last year when Douglas and his family popped in to the market.  I didn’t know that we had been so beautiful.

Now two professional photographs:  the first for my campaign for election to the students’ representative council.

August 1983

The second, to mark my graduation and my 21st birthday.

May (ish) 1984

Two years later I headed to Johannesburg.  My first job was writing distance learning materials.  We wrote them in long hand and then took turns to type them up and into electronic format.  There were only two PCs available.

1986:  Taking my turn.  Floppy disks, bad hair and even worse earrings. They look like mint imperials. They were all the rage.

When I left that job, my wardrobe had to become more “corporate” and the hair followed suit (ha!).  I was also deeply involved in volunteer work, which required casual attire, and really, really formal, and everything in between.

1987:  The same outing as I wrote about here.

A lot more sedate as I “grew up”.


Dressed up for a charity day at the races.

Not negotiable: the seal of approval from my son from another mother.

This is what ended the decade:

1990:  No comment.

This 1989 song always takes me back to that apartment and that year:


Until next time, be well
The Sandbag House
McGregor, South Africa

Photo: Selma

Post script

  • I’m participating in blogpal @tracyork’s April challenge of sharing a post every day during April – on the Hive blockchain. I succeeded last year – on Steemit from which the new blockchain “hived off”… and… it’s fortunate that today I had something to get off my chest!  And…
  • It seems a good way to constructively use the time during a compulsory lock down, right? For more about this initiative, please check out Traci’s post.

  • If you’d also like to both join the challenge and post from the WordPress platform to the Hive blockchain, sign up here.

Jammin’ with chillies: A reprise

Chop.  Chop. Chop.

It’s a Sunday and it’s day two, no three, of South Africa’s 21 day lock down.  We’re all obliged to stay at home so that we neither share or acquire the now not-so-novel virus that virus that’s causing Covid-19.

Then I have a brainwave:  certain folk have been suggesting that I have the odd (probably because they’d be very odd) video with me doing cooking stuff.  Why not?

First challenge:  no videographer.  The Husband, to whom this has been mentioned, is ultra reluctant.  Necessity is the mother of invention, right?

Phone suitably propped (I thought) and turned on.

Take 1

Chop.  Chop. Chop.

Check the footage.  I clearly have a lot to learn about angles.  Besides getting just about the whole of me in, for any gal, is shot from under the jowls is less than flattering.


Take 2

Rearrange camera position.  Not just a prop but also a stay to stop it from falling on its face.  Although, if this doesn’t work, it’ll be I who’s on my face…

Chop.  Chop. Chop. Chop.

Footage not too bad.  The sound, well, I thought I’d leave it.  That’s the usual Sunday sound – the local independent talk station.  Doing music.  Because, of course, it’s the weekend.  Truth be told, I’ve not learned yet how to mute the sound.  Next time.  Assuming there is one.


Because it was a  Sunday, and I’ve got time to kill (who hasn’t when one is in lock down and there’s no dinner guests a-comin’?) I thought I’d post it on Facebook.  My personal page.  Not Instagram.  Then I get a message from a school friend.  I’m not saying old;  just that we left school forty years ago.

Would you mind sharing the recipe?  If you don’t want to, I’ll understand.

Of course, it’s on the blog.  I think.  I’m not sure because of the snafu with my site.

Cutting a long story short, it wasn’t on my blog.  As of now, it is.  Again.

With a story, of course.

Like a few things I make, my chilli jam is based on a recipe that I’ve had for years, courtesy of Jenny Morris’s newsletter, printed out, filed and consequently spared the devastation of a crashed hard drive.  It’s worked hard.

As you can see, I’ve ramped up (and ramped up again) the quantities (with help from The Husband).  I’ve used our own chillies and those Farmer Judy grows in her organic farm garden around the corner.  I’ve bought chillies to make the jam.  I’ve used chillies with a range of hues;  fresh and semi dried.


The recipe still works.  I’ve been making it for more years than I’ve had a stall at the McGregor market.  However, it’s from making it to sell that I’ve made significant adaptations to the recipe and my approach.

What I’ve adapted/learned

  • I use the quantity of chillies that is available as the basis of working out the other quantities:
    sugar: the same quantity as the chillies and onions + 1/8 (by weight)
    water:  none
  • Because I am allergic (really!) to chillies, I will work with a maximum of 500g of chillies.  That’s about 1 kg of chopping.  Including the onions.
  • The original recipe calls for lemon juice;  use commercial juice.  That way I know exactly how much juice I am adding.  Although I love and would prefer to use fresh lemons, the juice yield is a little too hit and miss.

    The “heat” varies depending on the type of chilli that one uses.  Some are relatively mild while other are really hot.  The Husband prefers the jam made with the “Hot F*ckers” and each year, trawls the local nursery for seedlings of said chillies.  He doesn’t mind showering upside down.

Homegrown hot f*ckers


I first shared this recipe in May 2016.  At the time I said that it was

… because I’m a bit gobsmacked at the demand and lastly, because without even tasting it, I’m getting requests for this chilli jam – from people not even in South Africa, let alone McGregor.  I can’t export it – that’s a mission on which I don’t plan embarking.  As for licencing, suggested, tongue in cheek by boarding school and varsity pal from years ago, well, I’d rather share the recipe.

It’s still a surprise when I get requests via locals, for this product.  One, last year, happened on a Friday evening.  He wasn’t returning to Sweden without two jars of chilli jam.

Some people tell me they use this chilli jam as an accompaniment with everything, from Camembert, cottage cheese to chaceuterie.

I add it to a Spanish/Mexican omelettes.  Add to yoghurt with lime juice, salt & pepper with a little olive oil to make a drizzle for flatbreads or a brinjal and rocket salad.

If you’d like the recipe, it’s available  here and consider buying me a coffee?

Until next time, be well
The Sandbag House
McGregor, South Africa

Photo: Selma

Post script

  • I’m participating in blogpal @tracyork’s April challenge of sharing a post every day during April – on the Hive blockchain.  I succeeded last year – on Steemit from which the new blockchain “hived off”…I’m playing catch-up.  Today, two posts.  Let’s see what tomorrow holds.
  • Seems a good way to constructively use the time during a compulsory lock down, right?  For more about this initiative, please check out Traci’s post.

  • If you’d also like to both join the challenge and post from the WordPress platform to the Hive blockchain, sign up here.

Where were you when…?

I went cold.  Not because a Cape Cobra had tried to join us for brunch.  The moment The Husband and I rose from the table – in unison – he literally turned tail and headed back when he’d come.

That was yesterday.

This morning, going through the ritual Sunday chores, listening to the local radio station, I heard the question, “Do you remember where you were on this day, thirty years ago?”

Then it dawned on me that it is the 2nd of February.  I did know that.  Facebook had reminded me and I had wished three folk for their birthdays.

I do remember

Thirty years ago, February the 2nd was a Friday.  It was the opening of parliament and it was to be F W de Klerk’s maiden address.  It was the beginning of a new decade, and a new era.  We had no idea what the future would hold.  We had an inkling, and great deal of hope.  At the time I was working In a job where I was seeing out my last month.  The ninth month of hell.  Not because the people were awful.  Nor was the company.  It was the mindlessly, endlessly boring job.  Not that I had nothing to do.  On the contrary, I was busy and even took work home.  It just didn’t stimulate me.  It didn’t rock my socks.

My office was like a cell.  It was on the top level of a parking garage in the bowels of Johannesburg.  The only natural light came from a long fanlight set so close to the ceiling that I’d have needed a ladder to look down at the street below.

My boss knew that in my spare time I volunteered with a street children organisation in Hillbrow.    She was also a former police woman.  Her husband was still in “the force” as it was known then.  However, and ironically, he was not mainstream police.  Nor was he part of that other, more secret branch of the force.  He was a founding member of the child protection unit and they were all too familiar with, and sympathetic to, the street children “problem”.  The irony continues because some years later when I worked for a national children’s charity, we collaborated with the police and that unit to start National Child Protection week which is still an annual event in South Africa.

Returning to that day:  I had a good rapport with my boss and we had an unspoken understanding of each others’ politics.  In those days, in certain many contexts, with certain people, certain subjects were taboo.  It was just before lunch and Bosslady, very unusually, burst into my office.

Have you heard the news?

No, why?

Let’s remember that thirty years ago, there were no mobile phones, no social media, let alone email.  The closest we got to instant communication was a telegram delivered to your door by a man on a bicycle, telex or fax.  Our firsthand news came via telephone – landline.  If one had an answering machine, a message might be waiting.  For the rest, news came from the news media:  newspaper, radio and television.

De Klerk has unbanned the ANC.  Nelson Mandela’s being released.

How do you know?

My husband…

I sat at my desk, aghast.  Delighted.  Gobsmacked.  Thrilled.


There was no-one near and dear with whom to share the news.  I did not have that kind of rapport with either my boss or my colleagues and subordinates.  I didn’t know who to phone.  Anyway, it would have been a personal call on the company dime.  I had no radio in the office, let alone in my car (the first – a very second hand Renault 5).  I do remember wishing I’d started my new job – at an independent school that was run and staffed by anti-apartheid activists.


I have no recollection of what I did after work that day, but I do remember what I did ten days later, on February 12th, the day that Nelson Mandela walked out of Victor Verster Prison:  a free man.

It was a Sunday and once a month we’d take “our children” from the halfway house in Hillbrow, into the country where our “other” children were more settled.  Always a bunch of volunteers, the children and staff.  The volunteers would make contributions by way of meat, salads and treats for the children.  We’d play games in the sun, chat and just generally have a fun, lazy day in the sun over a lunch braai (barbecue).

A typical Sunday outing to our Magaliesberg project. These photos which include me with four of the boys, were taken in 1988 by a Canadian visitor.


That particular Sunday, I deposited my passengers and headed home.  At the time, the Yellow Peril (aka aforementioned Renault 5) lived in a rented space that belonged to a friend’s apartment.  She, until she became too ill to do so, was part of our Magaliesberg outings.  She is on the extreme right, in pink, in the bottom photograph.  It was not unusual for me to pop up and say hi, as I did that afternoon.  Maxine had grown up in Johannesburg and especially in and around the cosmopolitan communities that were most devastated by apartheid.  Her stories:  how I wish I’d listened more carefully and written them down.  I digress.

Maxine had the television on, her oxygen tank her only companion.  We all knew that that was D-day.

It hasn’t happened yet.  Let’s have a cup of tea.

So we did.  As we sat discussing the significance and events of the previous ten days, we watched Nelson Mandela walk out of prison.  A free man.  We graduated from tea to sherry and thence to wine.  I have no idea what time I headed home down the block.  I do remember our sitting waiting, and then in rapt attention as Nelson Mandela gave that first address to the people of South Africa.

Nelson Mandela, flanked by Walter Sisulu, his former wife, Winnie, and Cyril Ramaphosa, reads first address to the people of South Africa since his trial. Picture: Leon Muller

Thirty years

Fast forward thirty years.  I cannot believe that it is thirty years.  It feels like yesterday and a lifetime ago.  I go cold.  So much has changed and there is still so much to do.  It also dawns on me how the world turns.  For one of my birthday pals, that February 2nd thirty years ago, had so much more significance for her.  Funny that we’ve known each other more than 30 years – we were at Rhodes together;  neighbours in the same residence in our first years.  Neither of us celebrated our birthdays at university – they fell outside term time.  Of course I knew about her journey with V, and until today, didn’t think how special a gift she had received on her birthday in 1990.

That brings, me, in a roundabout way, back to the cobra:  both she and I love our gardens and their life;  we both have more than a passing interest in sustainable living.  It’s what’s reconnected us so many years later.  It’s not the first cobra we’ve had at The Sandbag House, and it certainly won’t be the last.  This one, did give us cause for pause.  Not for us, so much as for our Christmas guinea fowl family.

There were twelve in the clutch. They were probably 2 days old here.

They are very difficult to count, let alone photograph.  We try do do the former pretty regularly;  I do the latter very badly.  When I can.  There is a reason for the expression bird brain:  Mrs Guinea isn’t the best mum. Dad was, in the early days, superior.  In the baby album collage below – random photos of their progress – you’ll see one hunkered down near our little stone wall.  That’s Mr Guinea.  All twelve are nestled underneath him.  Mum was most definitely taking a break.

In the last six weeks, they have diminished in number to less than half.  When they were seven, The Husband and I spent an early windy evening in the dry leiwater sloot (irrigation channel) that runs past our house:  the babies had fallen in and couldn’t get out.  Talk about quick and little!  Eventually we’d scooped all seven out to scamper through the fence.  All this while Dad had a go at The Husband for messing with the kids.  And Mum?  Well she was chattering up and down the fence, like a headless chicken not sure whether to thank us or not.

Then there were six and then, on Friday, there were five.  That evening, The Husband said he wasn’t sure about Little Five.  He’d been commenting on the little straggler for a while: a dreamer, lagging behind and then chivied up to catch up with the family.  On Friday, The Husband thought Little Five was was poorly.

Sure enough, yesterday, there were only four when we did a head count.  I snapped the bottom right pic when I got home yesterday afternoon.  Sure enough:  four.  Perhaps the cobra did have brunch after all.  Today, as it was 40°C, we hadn’t seen them, but a moment ago, we were still grandparents to four guinea fowl chicks.  Ignored by Gandalf the Grey and Princess Pearli, The Husband’s wondering when they’ll move in.

A last word:  something else had been on my Sunday agenda. Until I went cold.

Until next time
The Sandbag House
McGregor, South Africa

Photo: Selma

Post Script

  • Originally posted in Feburary.  I am reposting it because of this.  Please bear with me as I “reconstitute” my lost posts.