81. It’s just an expression.

English is a beautiful language. Not because it is rhythmic or melodic or filled with words that slip off your tongue like caresses. No. English is a beautiful language because it’s a bloody mess. It’s a quilt made up of random scraps. A potluck dinner of a language. One of those cocktails students make by mixing every drink they have together in a hollowed out watermelon. And then drink. Without gagging. Because they are students.

On a more positive note, they are into recycling.

On a more positive note, they are into recycling.

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79. Packed lunch.

“I need”, said my nine-year old son in a panicked sounding voice, “a packed lunch! And we have to get to school early! We are going to Sandton to say our poem today!”

Unlike these fine people, I have not yet mastered the art of packing a glass of milk.

Unlike these fine people, I have not yet mastered the art of packing a glass of milk.

If this sounds obscure to you, welcome to the club. I had never heard anything about a poem. Sandton is a rather large suburb near our home. But I have all of the most important qualities of an investigative journalist. Within minutes, I had pieced everything together. My son’s school was taking him and his class on a field-trip. They were going to a sister school in Sandton, where they were going to recite a Roald Dahl poem to some sort adjudicating committee. For marks. He needed to take something to eat along with him. Continue reading

78. Eleven weeks.

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The more astute among you may have noticed that this post was supposed to go out yesterday. It didn’t. Yesterday was a momentous day in the 23thorns household. Mrs 23thorns has returned from her two-week trip to New Zealand, or The Land of the Long White Sheep, to those who live there.

Few people know that sheep in New Zealand are mechanically stretched in order to increase wool production.

Few people know that sheep in New Zealand are mechanically stretched in order to increase wool production.

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#£%&*#

I have my post for the day, written up and sitting quietly on my netbook. it’s not the greatest post, but at least the subject matter is interesting.It’s about saffron. And abelone. and biltong.

what I dont have is an internet connection. sorry. I’m writing this on my tablet, but i have fingers likee cucumbers, and writing a thousand words like this is somehow unappealing.

oh, well. i will chalk it up as  a day off and phone my service provider tomorrow.’til then, cheers.

76. Bond

There’s something odd in the air today. Or rather there’s something odd in the news. Serendipity. Coincidence. Synchronicity.

A little allusion for the Jung at heart.

A little allusion for the Jung at heart.

I haven’t read much news this week. I’ve been a little busy. A lot busy. That’s my excuse for not responding to any comments, too. Sorry. It’s also my excuse for writing a short post today. And for global warming. Continue reading

75. Sacrifice.

One of the things that sets us apart from the other creatures that share our planet is that we indulge in commerce. Trade.

Trade must have been around for a very long time indeed, from the first moment a person realised that he had too much of one thing and not enough of another. It just makes sense. And it must have made much more sense once we started farming, and manufacturing things like weapons or jewellery.

There's always a good market for jewellery.

There’s always a good market for jewellery.

Another thing that sets us apart is religion. We have gods. We’ve always had gods. Continue reading

74. Marula

A while back, I wrote a post about a magic tree. A magic penis tree. It was, of course, not really magic at all. It just had such strange, unlikely fruit that it some odd beliefs got attached to it. But that doesn’t mean that there aren’t any magic trees down in the Lowveld. Here’s one.

Spooky!

Abracadabrah!

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