Flip Flops

Yesterday I had to pay an astronomical amount for a dog-collar tag with the name “Bella” and my mobile number (xxx) on its back.

An old lady usually sells collars and tags on this particular spot at the HB Sunday market. She wasn’t there, but instead a collar-less guy and young woman who sell a diverse range of dog tags. Naturally concerned I asked him what had happened to our old lady

Gone, he said.

Oh no! My mind scrambled into blind corners of disbelief “Whàt? Did she die?”

No, she’s just not here, as you can see...

Idiot.


A short walk further I saw a group of five nuns talking to an African lady about the goods she sells. Rounded wall clocks with different African themes. They were old, these fragile and upright white-clad ladies with their papery thin skin and polite voices. If one could turn the time – I wondered what stories would run through their minds and lives...

At a stall selling crunchies, I thought I saw the epiphany of stupid male behaviour. The guy practically jumped from behind his stance to plant him in front of us, asking mere impolite questions such as where we are from and why hasn’t he seen us there... Yeah right... And to be back SOON...

I’d rather take laxatives, than go back...

The oily nut needs to be informed that there are certain rules to such behavior and one is that it does NOT flatter, but scare a girl right out of her sandals and devoid her of any lust for life or crunchies.

I did wonder as we walked on, whether a certain “aura” or “halo” could hover in the air for the unusual male-attention received over the past weekend. Recently I have not been giving a pig in frocks as to whether I attract or annoy and before you jump to conclusions; I have not turned to lesbianism (sorry) and neither have I become a boring WWE- man-hating scheming wrestler... I reached the point of an enlightened existence of drinking from the joy of life with disregard to false images and pretence. One can compare it to drinking good aged barrel wine from an ugly unbreakable pewter goblet.

Buying a pomegranate tree for a mere R50, I whispered “Oh sod that sleazy knob - can keep his old nuts to himself.”

And promptly burst out laughing.

After-all, there was a beautiful-bum guy who hit it off with some Jack Daniels and Irish (Gaelic) coffees on thundery-sunny-rainy Saturday afternoon, who phoned me yesterday...

They say laughing deeply from one’s tummy is as good as the best tonic; lowers cholesterol and blood pressure. Which reminds me to ask when last did you have a thorough check-up on all those things?

Christmas is lurking around the corner, which reminds me, I haven’t...