Tuesday, August 09, 2005


Spring has sprung in God’s Own country, beautiful Johannesburg is drenched with the dizzy perfume of jasmine, the chirping of demented birds and great garish splashes of boungainvilliea twirling through the razor wire in a colour that can only be called peeeenk.

It feels good to breathe the sweet scent of burning boerewors, listen to the tsst of the sprinklers and smell the sulphuric whiff of compost laid over the kikuyu. Any minute now the whine of a weedeater will be heard because it might only be August, but spring is here, I know this because my neighbour has his shirt off and is cleaning his pool, totally impervious to my perving him in his little black shorts, taut stomach rippling, biceps and deltoids straining as he re-arranges the plastic garden chairs on his stoep.

Winter? What winter, we've hardly cracked out the jerseys.

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