I’m drifting. Somewhere in the middle of the ocean, there I am on a small boat, rowing, rowing, trying to get away from something, trying to make it home. I think to myself that I should have exercised more throughout the year because rowing is much harder than I thought it could ever be.
The water is at once clear and turquoise. I can see the shadow of my boat on the sand some three metres below me. Indeed, I can see my own shadow. And that of the other three people on the boat with me.
I let the oar down for a moment, and it nearly slips away and into the crystal clear water, just nearly. Before it does, Nowhere Man stops it, pulls it back into the boat, to safety. I’m exhausted, on the verge of tears, really. I’m so tired. I can’t go on. Continue reading →
Nonna’s bottle of Shalimar, found at the back of her closet
Just over a year ago, my grandmother (codename Nonna) left us. She was a lovely, funny, happy old lady, who liked pets, receiving postcards from unusual places, looking after people she’d only known five minutes and tending to her orchids. She liked having children around, and always looked out for the ones whom she thought needed protecting. If she liked you, you were always (always!) welcome to drop by for coffee, tea or a meal. She also made what is known as The World’s Best Home-made Lasagna – I guard the recipe with my life, knowing all the while my lasagna will only ever be The Second Best. Continue reading →
I knew right away on Friday morning that something was up. The Angry Chef and I got out of bed and peeked out from behind our curtains. The mountains were dark against the grey-pink-orange sky. The clouds looked remarkably suspicious. And beautiful.
The Angry Chef looked at me and, acting as if nothing was wrong at all, doing his best to be himself, gave me a kiss and wished me a good day, told me to stay out of trouble and told me we’d see each other after work.
And you know what? No matter what happened, I knew we would see each other after work.
Once upon a time, The Angry Chef worked for an organisation which sent him to Africa every so often. In spite of sometimes unusual events that took place during these trips, The Angry Chef would always come back home with fantastic stories to tell. Continue reading →
Once upon a time, when The Angry Chef and I decided to “kind of move in, with boxes” as one person put it at the time, something not quite so obvious was put into motion although it took me no time to figure out. We weren’t just combining our things within the four walls of his apartment (where my boxes and I were gladly and enthusiastically invited to live). Continue reading →
It’s not your typical situation. Frankly it never crossed my mind that I’d run into one of my characters at the supermarket. And yet there he was, in his mackintosh, burgundy scarf, brown hat and briefcase, pondering whether to take low-fat milk or the strong stuff. He might as well have a green apple in front of his face. Continue reading →