 
# Letters from Lonehill

James Forson
Cover drawing of the Lonehill Kopple: James Forson

Find out more about James Forson at

www.jamesforsonwriter.wordpress.com

Copyright © 2015 James Forson

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-0-620-67017-3

## Dedication

To Merle, who is a constant source of support, inspiration and love.

## Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

1. _Stock Cars at Kleinplasie_

2. _The Bosberaad_

3. _Butterworth Beau Monde_

4. _Body Language_

5. _The School Reunion_

6. _The Coffee Shop_

7. _The Morning Walk_

8. _Taxi Drivers_

9. _Going to School_

10. _The Casino_

11. _Time goes by_

12. _The trip to Kimberley_

13. _A Message from the Other Side!_

14. _Being Gay in Caledon_

15. _My Five Rules for Writing_

About the Author

## 1

Stock Cars at Kleinplasie

I thought I would go a little earlier. Get there before the crowds. Find convenient parking.

Well, I was wrong. It's twenty to six and the parking area is crowded. Cars everywhere. Bakkies. Four by fours. SUVs. Groups of people hurrying to the arena. Some lugging heavy cooler boxes betraying the odd clink of glass bottles. The smell of boerewors is everywhere. This is a big event! The number plates on the vehicles proclaim visitors from far and wide.

In spite of myself I feel a surge of excitement. I am bombarded with sensory inputs.

The smell of the fast-food stands near the entrance to the grand stand.

The noise of the public address system. Loud, incomprehensible announcements.

And then I turn the corner at the bottom of the grand stand. To my left is the arena, with at least 60 dirt track racing vehicles of every description; their engines coincidentally rev at my arrival with an earth-shaking, mind-numbing roar. The bright lights and the discordant, angry mechanical sounds disorient me.

I make my way along the front of the stand, my eyes scanning for an open space to sit.

I see an open stretch of seats halfway up the grandstand. Thankfully, I scramble up and sidle onto the hard wooden bench. This could be a long night – hard on the bottom.

As I get comfortable, the announcer thanks the drivers of the vehicles for their opening lap. I have arrived just in time to see them leave the arena on the right hand side, one by one. What a let-down. I can feel the bottled-up adrenaline froth in my veins.

But now I have a chance to take stock of my surroundings.

In front of me is a large oval dirt track.

All along the far side, double-cab bakkies have been pulled up against the perimeter fence, their gaping tailgates wide open. All manner of braai skottels, folding chairs and cooler boxes are to be seen. Groups of people mill around the bakkie doors, drinks in hand. Children run around.

The centre of the dirt track is relatively empty. Two ambulances stand quietly off centre – a sombre reminder that this is serious stuff. In the walkway at the fringe of my grandstand, people are walking to and fro. Some are walking to their seats. Some are laden with pizzas. Others with wrappings of slap chips. Family men in jeans and thick fleece tops. Plump mothers clutching bags. Teenage boys in garish t-shirts with martial arts symbols. In spite of the chilly evening air, young girls flutter by in shorts and tiny tops. This is obviously much more than an opportunity to watch powerful cars drive much too fast around a tiny track.

Down from me and a little to my right is a man whose face makes me long for a camera with a telephoto lens. A faded green rugby springbok windcheater. A blaze of red hair spiking out of the top of his head. A portcullis moustache. Arms tightly folded across his boep. Crevasse lines ploughed across his face. Large unfocused hawk-like eyes stare across the arena. What sort of life must one have lived to have a face like that? Hardship? Hard work?

To my left, in the same row, is a plump young man in a tracksuit that was clearly bought with future expansion in mind. The half-eaten sandwich in his right hand with the flapping sleeve serves to point out important features of the track. Crumbs fly from the sandwich and his mouth. His equally plump wife or girlfriend dutifully makes appropriate affirming noises. Is she here because she wants to be here, or because Tracksuit Man wants to go to this event? Or is there some bigger significance at work? On the other side of the wife and or girlfriend of Tracksuit Man is the mother of one of them. And beyond her are what seem to be further family attachments.

A row of young men, early twenties, are seated to my right. They all have droopy moustaches, some more successful than others. They all are wearing black t-shirts with the required martial arts insignia. Jeans and black boots complete their look. They come fitted with brown bottles in their right hands. They are the true believers. They are here not to have an evening out or to pick up the young girls with the shorts and the flimsy tops. They are believers in the motor car; the stock car. Their hopes, their dreams, their aspirations centre on the oval before them. Perhaps they are motor mechanics, who dream of someday having their names emblazoned on their own racing cars; of escaping from the grind of dirty work and poor pay to the harsh lights and roaring sounds of the oval dirt track.

All this while two commentators have been conversing on a podium in the centre of the grand stand. Their voices are carried far and wide by the public address system. They mention the great names of the dirt track, names unknown to me; they prime the audience about the events to come, and they hark back to racing battles, won and lost. These are the motorsport muezzins calling the faithful to the tabernacle of the track. Here, the cares and naggings of daily life are forgotten. The engine block of the internal combustion engine is the welcoming altar for human comfort and succour.

The track is groomed and watered. It is raked and made ready. The homage to horsepower is about to begin. A man holding a starting flag gets down onto the track. This must be the Starter Man.

And then a row of large power cars enter the oval. Eavesdropping on the conversations around me I discover these monsters are V8 Flexis. Shouts of glee and recognition go up from the crowd. The revving of engines provides a discordant clarion to the opening.

The vehicles line up in a pre-arranged order. Starter Man with his flag ducks his head in turn into the two vehicles in the front row. A final instruction? A confirmation? A naughty joke?

Standing between the two rows of vehicles, he holds the flag before him like a poster. With a slight look of boredom, Starter Man walks backwards to the two front cars.

A slight delay – we know he's messing with us.

And then he waves the flag like a rhythmic gymnast.

The engines roar to life. The sound is deafening. The women shriek. And the cars are off. At first it is terrifying; several tons of automotive hardware are screaming down to the bend in the oval track at a speed way beyond what should be reasonably allowed in such a confined space.

Miraculously, there are no collisions. The vehicles barrel round the bend into the straight on the far side; the initial pecking order resolved, and the race is on. Again there is a musical chairs melee at the next bend and a new hierarchy emerges. Some hardy souls attempt to overtake on the outside. The leader defends strongly and against the laws of logic and science, as all the vehicles come out of the corner unscathed.

After the race had started, Starter Man had skipped over to the retractable steps at the side of the raceway, hopped up, and pulled them up behind him. He takes his place on a pulpit above the track. Verily, he is the high priest of the tabernacle of the track. He has been leaning over the railing, half-attentive to the cars whizzing round the track. Then, as I discover later, when the leader commences the last circuit, he takes a chequered flag and assumes a position of readiness.

As the winner crosses the finishing line, he waves the flag in a figure of eight. While waving the chequered flag, he looks, not at the track, nor at the vehicles, but vacantly at a fixed point in the middle distance. He is like a bored post office employee in days gone by, automatically franking letters while thinking of other things.

I am truly impressed. What childhood, what profession, what life experience must mark out a man to behave in this manner, while tons of combustion engine hardware hurtle by? Surely, he could not have behaved this way since the first day he started a race? His mien is studied. His movements are precise and practiced. The Jack Daniels bomber jacket, and the base-ball cap proclaim his authority. His eyes reflect a distant disdain for his current situation. Here we have the Main Man – the starter of every race, at an exciting, noisy, racing event; and he appears to be bored out of his mind!

I'm still pondering the meaning of this, when another race starts. And the funniest little cars are racing, somewhere in the collective voice of the grandstand I hear the word "midgets", so these must be midget cars. I'm learning all the time.

The midgets are pushed into the arena by serious, large, four-by-four high clearance vehicles. The midgets have staggered advertising panels on their roofs giving them a lean-to-one-side appearance.

Again, the same ritual. Starter-Man does not disappoint, and they are off. The sound is not as deep throated as the previous V8 vehicles. The little cars look incongruous, darting around the track. They seem to be connected with bungee cord – in the straight the leading vehicle will streak away from its followers, but on coming to the bend, the following vehicles will close the gap. This provides an compelling yo-yo visual effect.

And so it goes for the evening, with a variety of vehicles; V8 Flexis, Midgets, Heavy Metals, Hotrods, 2.1 Modifieds, 1660s, Standards and Minis. All the races with the same procedure, overseen by Starter Man. This is a different universe with a different language.

The names of the sponsors have an earthy quality to them; Tony's Spares; Albertinia Vervoer; Worcester Gearbox, and firms for earthmoving and radiators. The drivers have names like Swannie and Doep and Arrie and Frik and Lammie.

The Moustache-Men to my right are particularly interested in the 2.1 Modifieds. They stand up for the rhythmic gymnastics of Starter Man at the beginning of the race. Their fists pound the air as they utter words of encouragement to a VW Golf proudly proclaiming Tony's Motor Spares. The roaring start, the bungee-ing of the cars as they come in and out of the straights. The changing leaders. The little white and blue Golf gets powerful support from my comrades. I feel a kinship with them. It has become my race too. I keenly follow Tony's Motor Spares. Alas, in the last bend a nondescript Ford Escort overtakes our man. My disappointment concurs with the " _Ag fok 'it, man_!" of the tallest Moustache-Man. I am surprised I take it so seriously. Maybe there is more to this than I thought.

Two men, carrying an assortment of flags, stand in the centre of the two arcs of the track. It appears that they have to wave a specific flag corresponding to a track condition. Fortunately, tonight is uneventful so I don't get to work out which flag goes with what event. The mystery of the Semaphore Men will go unsolved for now.

And then there's Quad Bike Man. His sole purpose is to ride back and forth between Starter Man and the middle of the oval. The sacerdotal significance of his role escapes me too. There is much to learn in this culture. In a lull in the proceedings, Quad Bike Man takes the toddler daughter of a friend for a ride around the track. How sweet.

By now, my backside is getting sore. The bench is hard and the night is cool. The racing is still going strong. I stiffly make my way down the stand. I share camaraderie with the folks coming past me, bearing pizzas and slap chips. The noise, the lights, the excitement fade behind me as I walk across the car park.

I find my hired car. It looks so small.

## 2

The Bosberaad

Well, it's getting to that time of the year again.

I can feel it as I walk in at the reception areas at my clients' premises.

There's a sense of studied preoccupation, an invisible sign that says: "Don't disturb, we're busy."

Balanced Scorecards, Personal Development Plans. Personal Performance Contracts. All manner of buzzwords and their accompanying acronyms seem to hover in the air.

If this is unfamiliar to you, let me explain.

The bosses go away for a Bosberaad over a self-awarded long-weekend. If they're into Ubuntu, they call it a Lekgotla. It takes place at a very expensive resort. Usually far away in a picturesque location.

There is lots of golf (always lots of golf). Lots of expensive whisky, mainly single malts. They will usually go to great lengths to explain – very loudly – that a "double malt" is not only an impossibility; it's not a sign of generosity either.

And numerous irrelevant and pointless arguments about the wine on the wine list will ensue. Where each Lesser Boss tries to show the others how well he's memorized Platter's Wine Guide. It's always a "he". And there are heated debates about whether the vineyard is north facing or south facing. Deep conversations about the calcium content of the soil. This is serious science. You will hear big words like malolactic fermentation and botrytis.

They take themselves very seriously.

Then of course, there's the obligatory Strategy Session – with a facilitator. This is usually on the first day – while the Bosses are still reasonably fresh and their minds have not been addled with whisky and red wine.

The facilitator is there to hook up the digital projector, do a few stunning and highly entertaining presentations, and of course, write up the Bosberaad Report.

Or, if you will, the Lekgotla Report.

Now if the Bosberaad is held at a golfing resort, then all the men play golf, and all the women go for treatments in the spa. If the Bosberaad is held at a private game lodge (emphasis on PRIVATE) then everybody goes on games drives ( _in die bos_ ) and the wives go for treatments in the spa. There is a teleological predictability about these things. One may also speculate about whether bosses' wives are the most beautiful in the world, because of all the beauty treatments paid for by the company.

On the topic of bosses' wives, there are generally two sorts. The First Wife type and the Trophy Wife. The First Wife is generally plump, wears too much make-up and can navigate the cutthroat world of bosses' wives with cold-blooded efficiency. The Trophy Wife is generally a few years older than her husband's daughter, has de rigueur long blonde hair and a décolleté that plunges to infinity. Needless to say, the First Wives do not get along with the Trophy Wives. The wives of the first sort see the way their own husbands look at the wives of the second sort, and know it's time for defensive action. Never have such engaging smiles hidden so much malice.

But back to our story. In between the game drives or golf, and all the beautifying and eating, – there is the Gala Dinner. The gala dinner is usually held on the last night of the Bosberaad. Now the Gala Dinner can take on a variety of forms. It can (mercifully) just be a braai in the bos. Or. It can be formal. This means wearing long trousers and sitting down at tables.

Now there are certain carefully crafted roles at a Bosberaad Gala Dinner, something akin to what that fellow Belbin thought out. You have the New Outjie and his wife. You can spot them easily because they are furthest from where the Big Boss is sitting. The New Outjie will try to impress the longer-serving managers by asking deeply insightful business questions at a time when everyone else just wants to get drunk on free liquor.

Then there's the Noisy Bastard. Usually the marketing director. His noise masks the fact that he has no idea what he is doing, and relies completely on the marketing agency to do his work for him. The Big Boss has not yet worked this out.

Another specimen is the Arse-Creeper. You can spot him by his constant proximity to the Big Boss's elbow. He laughs slightly too loudly at the Big Boss's bad jokes. Agrees vehemently with the Big Boss's ideas, no matter how ridiculous or impractical they are. Big Bosses are given to Ridiculous, Impractical Pronouncements.

Let's not forget the Bore. The Bore is usually the oldest person in the team. Many years ago, the Bore was the blue-eyed boy. He managed neither to mess things up too badly, nor attract a promotion to the next level in another organization. So, he's not so bad as to be fired, but not so good that he'd move on up. So he tells everyone, usually the New Outjie – at great length –, about how things were long ago, and how it was so much better then, and how he should really be the Big Boss. The latter when the Big Boss is out of earshot. The Bore is not a complete fool.

Another critical role in an effective management team is the Fondler. You will find him among the older trophy wives or the younger first wives. Most likely the latter. One hand firmly clutching his whisky glass. The other hand trying to find a welcoming bottom or an accommodating shoulder or arm. A warm, damp hand is quite typical. Like everything else in his company, the Fondler's actual performance is nowhere near as good as his Reported Performance.

Then there's the Big Boss. It takes a lot to be The Big Boss. At unguarded moments, he will tell dreadful racist or sexist jokes. These jokes are always greeted with great hilarity. After all, he is the Big Boss!

In meetings, when they haven't a clue about what to do next, Big Bosses will ask a question. Listen carefully to how the question is put. It does not disclose that the Big Boss doesn't know what the real problem is, but it's not helpful in solving the problem either. The other tactic demonstrating Grand Big Bossness, is to get someone to write a report on the matter. This provides a welcome delay and he can in the meantime confer with his friends at the Golf Club about what he should be doing.

The Big Boss will make a speech at the Bosberaad. If he is a good speech maker, this will be a vacuous combination of complementary platitudes and slightly risqué jokes. If the Big Boss is a poor speech maker, you are in for 20 minutes of discomfort. The consumption of red wine increases asymptotically during speeches of this nature. After the speech, the older Lesser Bosses have to hurry to the lavatory. Your career seems to wither if you leave during the speech.

The Big Boss has the central role at a Bosberaad. He sits at the centre of the U-shaped conference table. All eyes are on him for indications of the sort of inputs that Lesser Bosses can make to enhance their status. The Strategy Session goes something like this: The Facilitator will make a presentation on the economy, or the market for widgets, or the political situation. There will then be a delicate debate about What This Means For The Company. When this has gone on long enough, the Big Boss will tell the Lesser Bosses what the company's Strategy will be. The Lesser Bosses will nod their heads in grave assent. The Facilitator scribbles profound notes on the flip charts dotted around the room, and they move on to the next topic. The session always ends in time for 9 holes of golf before sunset.

So, at the end of the Bosberaad, the Big and Lesser Bosses, with their wives and accessories, will head back to the big city, deeply grateful that the "Way Forward" is now clearly spelled out. Certainty brings a deep sense of reassurance.

One day they'll work out that it was all a waste of time.

## 3

Butterworth Beau Monde

The road from the airport seems to take forever. Perhaps this is because the road is straight and wide, but the speed limit varies between 60 and 80 kilometres per hour.

Warehouses, filling stations, the odd bed-and-breakfast touting a cheap night's stay.

If you didn't know what to look for you might miss the entrance to the Mercedes Benz factory, notwithstanding the twirling three pointed star in the sky. I suppose there is a certain arrogance to being a luxury car manufacturer in an impoverished town. Everybody should know where your factory is.

Then, over the Buffalo River into East London proper. The brightly painted Drill Hall of the Kaffrarian Rifles is a politically incorrect reminder that this part of South Africa is no stranger to conflict and violence. The belated and sanitised Buffalo Regiment sign fools no-one.

Then there's the traffic circle at the bottom of Oxford Street. My goodness, my fellow South Africans really struggle to negotiate traffic circles. Dither, dawdle, and daydream. It's usually a beat-up bakkie that hovers in the middle of the intersections, in the wrong lane. No wonder it takes forever. But not today.

Today, the traffic is kind to me and I am shooting off along the potholed, uneven road in the direction of Quigney. Funny name for a suburb. Such a pity it is a run-down area. It could be a beautiful suburb, holidays at the sea side. Alas, Quigney is poverty stricken.

A potential not achieved. Is this a theme for the Eastern Cape?

Quigney is behind me. Heading out towards Woodleigh. The roads improve and the factories and warehouses give way to suburban elegance. At last, I'm on a two lane highway.

In no time, I join the N2 Highway and then Gonubie is behind me.

The rolling countryside of the Eastern Cape opens up. Valleys, clusters of trees and neat farmland. It's pretty without being picturesque.

The farmland and the trees thin out to open scrub and bush.

Lalis – the distinctive clusters of homes and kraals – appear on the horizon, hugging the hill ridges.

It's a quiet time, punctuated by a road without memorable scenery, time for introspection. Long before I get to the bridge, the Kei River announces itself with a sharp, winding descending road.

In spite of the special passing lanes, the ubiquitous Toyota minibus taxis scream past at every conceivable opportunity. A new meaning to the term "Quantum leap"?

The Kei River, steeped in history and immortalized by conflict, uncoils itself as I approach the bridge. I grin wryly as I pass the remaining structures of the two customs posts on either side of the river. A forgotten memorial to apartheid, which legacy is still so palpable. I really have crossed the frontier. This is the Transkei. It's not just a name. This is a different world.

Now the road rises up. The lalis approach closer to the road. This is a real land. People live here. Never mind the tenderpreneurs and the wabenzi of Gauteng. This is the home of the struggle. A long struggle. A struggle that started long before 1994. Long before 1894.

The lalis are all around. The houses have a uniformity, a sameness in their construction. Some homes are bigger than others. Some have more outbuildings. But there is a tacit building code underlying their design and positioning. There is an ordering in this society that is not apparent to the unobservant eye.

Goats and the odd cow graze in the road reserve – the dreaded "Transkei Robots!" All along our journey, the railway line has snaked its way alongside us.

Then there settlements and a shop close to the side of the road, followed a lengthy stretch without distinctive landmarks. And suddenly I am in Butterworth.

Even though it is mid-morning, the streets are teeming with people. The new shopping centre stands self-consciously on the right hand side. Immediately the traffic slows down. Taxis are turning right from the left hand lane. Farmers sitting far forward and hugging the steering wheels of their old bakkies, loaded with drums or goats, are hovering in an intersection, waiting for permission – that never comes – to cross or to turn. Trusting pedestrians everywhere, expecting that vehicles will slow down and allow them to cross. The town hall on the right hand side – over the years it has been painted in various shades. Like an elderly lady, clutching at her dignity, in the remnant of a world that existed before she was built. 1897 – She wears her age proudly. On the left hand side, the town square. King Street. Blyth Street. A forgotten past.

Housewives walk with their ubiquitous supermarket plastic bags. Mothers with bundles in their arms or on their heads. Or babies on their backs. Young men in designer t-shirts strutting with mobile phones in their hands. Men wearing hats, beanies, caps. Old people shuffling along the sidewalk. Every now and then a black BMW 3 Series or a black Golf GTI with blackened windows revs a growl when people do not cross the road quickly enough.

I am struck by three things. One. Even though it is mid-morning, there are many people about who should be at work. Two. Everybody appears well dressed. Some are even smart. No one in rags. Three. Although there are a few old motor vehicles, most of the cars and bakkies, four-by-fours even, seem to be late models.

And then I am at the bottom end of the town. Near the shopping centres and the filling stations. Over the bridge. I ignore the impulse to turn right onto the Centane road and flee to the coastal resorts touted on the noticeboards. Instead, I set my face in the direction of Mthatha. Up the long rise. The homes are affluent here. Painted. Well-maintained. Some even have a patch or two of mielies. Trees are not big here. They must have been firewood before the spread of electrification. Past the sprawling satellite campus of the Walter Sisulu University, with the administration office of the King Hintsa Further Education and Training College, tucked under its wing. The road plays hide and seek with the railway line; now you see it, now you don't. Rolling hills, grasslands. Homesteads spread out as far as the eye can see. There is no high density living here.

After what seems like a long time, with no memorable landmarks, I am in Idutywa. A little town on the road to Mthatha, a punctuation point. But it has its own airfield! The town hall and the drill hall attest to who used to be in charge here in days gone by. If I turn right at the traffic light, Streatfield Street, not only will I pass the airfield, but I will be on my way to the ancestral home of the Mbekis. If I go straight, I will head to Qunu, home of Madiba. This place is full of history!

I decide to do neither. I head a little way out of town on the N2 and turn right onto a dirt road. It's been a long time since the road has been graded, but slower driving enables me to enjoy the countryside. I'm in amongst the lalis and homesteads now. Goats and cattle amble alongside the road. Every now and then, a bored herd boy can be seen. Washing flaps on the boundary fences.

After a while I come to a concrete bridge over a small stream. On the other side, I pull over and get out.

The dust settles.

I look around me.

The first thing I notice, is the silence. Not that it's silent-silent, because I can hear dogs barking and cattle lowing. But it is silent. No growling hum of a big city here.

The next thing I notice, is the breeze. It is a gentle, cool wind. It strokes rather than ruffles. The grass rustles under its caress.

As I recalibrate myself to my new surroundings, I notice other things.

While the homesteads are far apart, there is no privacy here. You can see what is going on in the yard of the neighbour next door to your next door neighbour. I follow the figure of a schoolboy in a green jersey on the other side of the valley. What is he doing out of school at this time of day? There are no secrets here. You can't hide. All is out in the open. If you build a new room on to your house, your neighbours will want to know where you got the money. A dozen pairs of eyes will follow your wife as she sneaks off for an assignation. The whole community will know when you get a visitor. I watch a Toyota minivan taxi approach. It takes a long time to get to where I am standing, reinforcing how big the spaces are here. In a roar of noise and a cloud of dust, it flashes past me. The driver and I exchange a wave. The roar of the taxi is an intrusion. Soon the silence, with dogs and cattle sounds, closes in again.

What is it like to grow up in a community like this? A spatially spread-out, transparent, closely bound community. A community governed by structures and relationships that are invisible to the casual visitor. Herding goats. Going to school. Buying groceries. Cooking food. Friendships. Family. Kinship. Games. Absent fathers. Migrant labour. Political alliances. And rivalries. How do the lali dwellers regard the town dwellers and the city dwellers? Relationships with your parents. Your siblings. Your cousins. Your neighbours. What is the value placed on learning? What are the dreams that fathers impart to their sons? What do girls aspire to be?

It's one thing to talk about these things in a professed intellectual manner. It's another to actually know and understand. To feel with the heart. I struggle with this.

I stand a long time in the warm sun and the cool breeze next to the dusty road over a nameless stream. Deep in the Transkei. Far away in another reality.

There are many leaders in South Africa for whom the lali is their home, their reality. Its images colour their present and their future. What memories are taken from these hills and valleys and streams of the Transkei? How does it shape your world, your values, your understanding? What is it you want from life?

My reverie comes to an end and I get back into the hired car. The journey back to Idutywa seems short in comparison. Idutywa seems more familiar, as if we share a bond, a common understanding. The traffic is still infuriatingly slow, the drivers dithery, the pedestrians everywhere. But somehow it doesn't matter. There is that lovely Afrikaans word: "verdraagsaamheid". Forbearance doesn't seem as powerful.

My mind is full and the journey is short back to Butterworth. In no time, I am in the long slow line of traffic down the hill into the town, to the Centane intersection which tempted me to the sea this morning. For some reason, the traffic light has been disconnected, and it is now a three-way stop. I have time to look at my patient fellow travellers. A black E-Class Mercedes, with blacked-out windows, inching forward irritatingly slowly. A farmer in a scratched and rusty Toyota bakkie with cattle bars and a forty four gallon drum. Some plump government officials in a nondescript white car. An elegant woman with big sunglasses and a cell phone in a four by four. This all seems so far removed from the quiet valley I have just experienced. This is not just a roadway intersection, but an intersection in time and culture.

At last, it is my turn to cross the Centane road intersection. I sandwich in between two taxis that seem to be impatient to get to town.

Over the quaint bridge, and I am back in Butterworth. Butterworth proper. Downtown Butterworth. It's as busy and chaotic as it was when I came through this morning. Different people are doing the same things. I give my attention to the cars and bakkies and trucks and people everywhere. It would not be a good idea to bump into a person or a vehicle!

I nod respectfully to the town hall. After what seems as long as a dental appointment, I am finally clear of the town. Alas, my journey will not be swift. Delivery vehicles. Long-haul trucks. Taxis. Farm bakkies. They clog the road. Each vehicle has to be patiently followed until an opportunity to pass can be used. And then you have to be quick, because behind you, five vehicles will have swung out to overtake in the split second it took you to ascertain that the road was clear.

No time for looking at the scenery now. Both hands on the wheel. Fierce concentration is required now. I throw frequent glances in the rear view mirrors. It's like driving down a forest road in the dark of a rainy night. Images flash by, but you have to concentrate on the bumper of the vehicle in front of you. A sudden red light in front immediately brings a foot to the brake pedal. The vehicle behind balloons in your rear view mirror. It's irritating to have to drive in this way.

At last, we are dropping down to the Kei gorge. The passing lanes help, but vigilance is required. The two former customs posts are past, and the road is climbing the high ground again.

The Transkei is behind me.

I am struggling with a conundrum. It jars my rational mind. I turn it over and over in my mind.

The homes and the lalis were structured and ordered. There was a hidden system that guides and governs and controls. It has been around before the time of the town halls and the drill halls and the holiday beaches. And it is still here with us.

And yet today I have seen a suburb, Quigney, which has never reached the status it might have obtained. The town of Butterworth has known better days; it is in decay, its roads potholed, its sidewalks dirty, and its inhabitants unemployed. Idutywa, a town with its own airfield, speaks to a past that is gone forever.

On the one hand, proud timeless order. On the other hand, a potential not achieved. Is this a recurring theme for the Eastern Cape?

I pass the Gonubie turnoff, no closer to an understanding.

## 4

Body Language

I have always been well-endowed. By this I am referring to the comfortable covering of fat over my body. I am not obese, but I am plump. Diets, eating plans, and weight loss programmes have had no effect. It's as if the universe had been stubborn in its resistance against changing my body shape. I have always eaten what is put before me. I have an aversion to sending back food on my plate. I have always eaten until the food is finished, rather than to the point where satiety is reached. This has been a given. Not to be questioned. The way it is. The way I am. This is what is.

As a youngster, under six years of age, I was thin, scrawny. Even skin and bone. So I have been told. Old photographs of me at that age show a normal looking child. What happened in the intervening years?

Let's unearth and decode the text strings. I have had to listen hard and long for them. It has been a patient process of listening when there is no sound and hearing when there are no words. They have come to me because I have listened for them, not listened to them. The words have come to me at mealtimes when I have been expected to eat. I have asked my body: Are you hungry? Do you need to eat? My body has said no. It is sated. Where then have the words come from? I have listened for them. They have not come from me. They have come from far, far away. From my past. From my childhood. But they are with me. They are with me now.

"You must eat all your food."

"If you don't eat your food, you don't love me."

"Sending food back on your plate is disrespectful."

"Not eating all your food is wicked."

"You are bringing disgrace upon me if you don't eat your food."

"There are people in India who are starving."

Looking at these words on paper now, they are frail and commonplace. They have no impact. They are not even interesting. But they have a power greater than an army, greater than a court of law, greater than a sovereign constitution.

We are on holiday in Sea Point. My mother, my brother and I. My father had died a year ago. We are staying with Uncle Karl and Aunt Lettie. In Frere Road. We are sitting down to our first dinner. I am six years old. Hyperactive. And not hungry. I eat some of the meat but none of the vegetables. I push the plate away. My mother is deeply embarrassed.

"Eat your food this instant. You can't waste good food." Her tone is harsh and cruel. I remember bursting into tears and sobbing.

"Go and wash your face. You'll feel better." Aunt Lettie gently tells me, her hand on my shoulder.

And countless more instances. Similar events. Like a dam slowly filling with water.

"Eat your food."

"It's good for you."

"You must eat the vegetables."

Chiding.

Threatening.

As I look back now, the message is clear. Even though it has never been written down.

"You don't eat your food."

"If you loved me, you would eat your food."

"You are a bad boy because you don't eat your food."

These are powerful emotions for a child of six or seven to deal with.

A child whose father had recently died. A father who was an alcoholic and whose alcoholism hung like a veld-fire cloud over the family.

A broken family forced to live with relatives to stay alive.

Poor. Dependent on the charity of relatives.

No child of that age, under those conditions, could resist, could hold out.

And then the last straw.

I must have been seven, not quite eight years old. One evening, before supper, I remember my mother taking out a bottle of tonic. I didn't know what tonic was.

Her attitude was that of one who had passed beyond human endurance.

"I don't know what I can do. I have tried everything. The child won't eat. I am a failure as a mother. You must take this tonic every day so you can eat. A tablespoon before each meal. It will be good for you. You must eat."

And I remember a sense of surrender. A sense of giving in, capitulating.

From then on, I ate my food. I ate it all because I would be a bad person if I left any on the plate. I learned to block out all feelings of satiety and fullness. I ate because I had to eat. Not from joy. Not from needing to eat.

To leave a plate with food still on it, was a sign of weakness.

Cleaning your plate was what good boys did. It showed you loved your mother.

Feeling full was just a temporary discomfort. The important thing was to clean your plate.

And those powerful messages have played ever since. They have played every day. Business lunches, dinner parties. I cleaned my plate. Going out for a steak and eating every last chip. Stuffing them in. Feeling bloated and uncomfortable. Anything to get the plate clean. Hostesses took my clean plate as a sign of approval of their delicious cooking.

And never having permission to take the decision. To stop. To say: I have eaten enough. I will not enjoy any more. Let me push back my plate.

Good boys did not leave food on their plate. Good boys who love their mothers, eat all their food.

These encryptions are hard to break. Time and again I find myself bolting my food. Why? Because I want to get it down, get it over with. Get the food into my body before the feelings of bloatedness take over.

And when I become aware of this, I understand what is happening. I give myself permission to say no. I put down my knife and fork. I push back the plate.

No diet plan can be of help here.

It is too late to change the past.

What has been done, cannot be undone.

But a small, belated victory has been won.

## 5

The School Reunion

I remember the final days of my school career and my matric examination. Perhaps they are coloured by whimsy and nostalgia, but they still speak to me after forty years. In my mind, I go over the sequence of that partly-forgotten time, seemly so long ago. On the last Friday of the Matric examinations, most of the matric class wrote the Agriculture Examination. Now you have to remember that I grew up in the small country town of Worcester and that Agriculture was, and probably still is, big, very big. So at least three quarters of the matric class had completed their matric examinations on that Friday. This meant that there was a really big party on Friday night and a hangover on Saturday morning. And another big party on Saturday night. With an even greater hangover and great tenderness on the Sunday. So when Monday rolled around along with the History Exam, nobody was particularly brisk. The History exam came and went. Nearly the whole school had completed their exams when that was over. Another huge party on the Monday night, and it looked like school and exams were over and life could begin. Except for seven of us, the Latin students, we wrote our exam on the Wednesday.

Well, somehow I got my way through Ovid and de Bello Gallico and unseen translation and the Future Periphrastic Subjunctive. And walked out of the school hall where the exams were written and didn't return to the Hogere Jongenskool, Worcester.

Until forty years later. Until now.

These are the thoughts that fill my mind as I bowl along in the little hired Kia Picanto heading on the N1 towards Paarl, the majestic du Toitskloof Mountains spread out ahead. They seem to beckon me to my past. But they are also a physical and psychological barrier.

Soon I am at the toll gate, I pay the fees and after crossing the long sweeping bridge I enter the Huguenot Tunnel. Its otherworldly efficient light-dark is a suitable returning rites of passage experience. Soon, I am blinking in the sunlight and making my way past Rawsonville.

The town of Worcester is little different to other towns in the Breede valley. I have been lucky enough to go back from time to time over the intervening period. Yes, there have been changes. And no, there have been no changes. There is a wonderful new civil engineer-designed entrance to the town coming past the Mountain Mill Shopping centre and bringing to an end the awkward and dangerous Worcester West intersection. Too soon I am in Trappes Street, then High Street, then in the car park behind Quenet's Arcade.

The cappuccino from the coffee shop tastes so non-Worcester. I remember when we had to go to the orange-seated La Perla in Strand Street in Cape Town to get a cappuccino in those large, bowl-shaped cups. I disliked cappuccino as a youngster, because the frothy blanket delayed the drink from cooling down and I always burnt my lips. Only in later years did I come to appreciate the caffeine hit. I smile at a sign on a wall in the arcade: "Smile, you're in Worcester!"

The sign obviously works.

I have checked into my bed and breakfast establishment at the bottom end of Church Street. I've had a lie-down and a catch-up on the iPad. Using an iPad seems so un-Worcester, with the memory of Springbok Radio being the height of communications technology.

I'm all showered and prettied up. I take a slow drive through Langerug, the suburb to the west of the school. Am I avoiding something here? I find parking right outside the school hall. I have forgotten the many benefits of living in a small town.

Groups of elderly men stand at the entrance to the school hall. Intently, I scan to see if I recognize anybody. They turn to stare at me, in the manner of country folk – who is this interloper?

On the far side I see my old classmate Pussy, familiar through his Facebook entries. (Pussy was not called Pussy for the reasons you are conjuring up!). He's talking to two other old boys. We greet with self-conscious warmth. Cedric and Robin.

Pussy is a camera buff. So we walk around the premises for him to take photos. The building seems so much smaller than I remember. And the silly idiots have demolished the left hand side of the main building. With childish excitement we point out the features.

Kees' office – he was the Principal. That was Botha's classroom. And Loots. And Vermeulen. That was the Art Class. Upstairs was Bester, and Gonin. The woodwork classrooms. Now where were the old toilets where cigarette smoke billowed out at break time? Bal. Barrie. Kokkie. Nagaap op Dagdiens. Our nicknames for the teachers. It made them seem human.

We make our way onto the sports fields. The layout is different, but the memories come back. Rugby. The kluck-kluck of studs on concrete. The smell of Deep Heat.

We bump into Marius. He was in my matric year. Now he's headmaster of the hostel. He invites us in to see the old school photos. Along a corridor in the hostel, all the old Boys' High class and team photos have been displayed. We chortle and guffaw as the memories come flooding back. The hostel head boy comes over to investigate what all the hullaballoo is about. He takes it all in his stride when we incoherently blurt out memories and recollections. For him, we are just a bunch of old farts. We part with firm handshakes and implore him to keep high the spirit of Boys High. The fact that the old Boys' High became co-ed before he was born is lost on us.

We make our way back to the hall. There is no urgency here. People mill around. Firm handshakes. I get the feeling that for most of the folk here; they are locals and this is an annual event. A big event. That is the sadness of the South African talent diaspora. Of the seven of us who wrote Latin on that hot November morning, only three remain in South Africa. And I am the only one of those three here tonight.

The pre-dinner drinks are in full swing. Names like Jakkals and Muggie and Laggie and Prop abound. I hear the deep idiomatic Boland accents. It sounds oddly quaint. And very beautiful. A power of crisp, compact expression that cannot be equalled in English or Gauteng-Afrikaans. Of the 80-odd attendees, there are only seven English speakers from various years. I am the only English speaker from my year. I recognize several folks. All of them older, greyer, fatter, balder. All this seems right. This is the way it should be. Much hand shaking. What do you do now...? Do you remember.....? And what happened to....?

I find my Afrikaans vowels compressing and my 'r's softening. I am back home. These are my people. You can take the boykie out of the Boeland, but you can't take the Boeland out of the boykie.

Eventually, we make our way into the hall. Very much like a kerkbasaar. Long tables in chevron formation. I sit at a table with Robin. Two old boys opposite me were a few years ahead of me. Their fathers taught at the old Boys' High. The system fed itself. A recipe for sustainability.

The last head boy of Worcester Boys High [(before it became co-ed) sits next to me. Neither he nor I am impressed with this. We are people of the earth. Like the farmers across the table from me. They can't quite understand what a management consultant does. No matter. This is about who you are; not about how you earn your living. They talk about wine in a way that that doesn't verge on the mythological and the incomprehensible. If they were ever to use the word varietal, they'd use it as an adjective.

Then the Event begins with the Welcome.

The Roll of Honour – Old Boys who have gone before us. A moment of silence.

First timers – that's Robin and I – we have to stand up.

The Over Eighties – there are half a dozen of them. Stalwarts of the Worcester Community.

Fathers and sons – there are a few of those.

Teachers – none could make it, but we toast them heartily.

Old Head Boys – my neighbour stands up, along with a few others.

Then the business of the night. The Master of Ceremonies clearly enjoys his job, and sacrifices succinctness for anecdote. No matter, the party is in full swing at my table – there are many comments and chirps. No one seems to mind. The PA system is loud enough for those who want to listen.

Minutes.

Finances.

The President's Report.

Then a host of toasts. The Over Eighties receive great applause. A wag at our table suggests a toast to the Under Eighties. Much guffawing and good nature.

Then it is the turn of the Guest Speaker, an Old Boy who makes wine. He weaves the characteristics of good wine into the making of good character. A good Worcester Boys High Character. It is short, humorous, with enough content to give it substance.

After the Thanks, we have the School Song. I can't remember it at all. I mumble while staring at the far wall.

Then the School War Cry – I remember parts of it.

Finally, Thanks and Closure.

And then, at last, it's time to eat. Hearty country food, this.

Beef stew with a generous gravy, chicken pie with a light flaky crust, pampoenkoek with cinnamon, rice, sautéed potatoes, beans. The pampoenkoek is just like my grandmother's. Farm labourer portions. No fine dining here. No pretension. Straight from the heart.

The conversation ranges to all the nuances of "Do you remember..."

It's starting to get late. The old boys are starting to leave, no late night for them. No one seems to have had too much to drink. It has been a very dignified occasion. I wander between few groups recognising a face I might know. The conversation ranges very widely. Bird watching in Peru. Mountain climbing. Agricultural economics. Education. The Gobi Desert.

Don't let the Boland accents fool you. These guys have been around. And they've achieved.

It feels comfortable to be around them.

It's getting late – late for a person who matriculated 40 years ago. Time to go. A lovely evening. No disappointments. It's been good to tap into my roots, my hometown. All too soon, I am at my bed and breakfast. This small-town living has great advantages.

It's a bright, sunny morning as I head the Picanto down the N1 past the Ceres turnoff, over the railway bridge with the diminutive Renosterkop to my left, and the Chavonnes station to my right. The curved road stretches out towards Rawsonville. Next stop – Cape Town Airport and back to Lonehill.

Instead of closing off the memories of my matric exam, I've become reacquainted with a rich cultural artery. Part of me. Part of who I am. Part of where I come from.

The Du Toitskloof Mountains ahead look less like a physical and psychological barrier and more like an assertive statement of distinction.

## 6

The Coffee Shop

It's a warm, quiet, autumn afternoon. There is a relaxed air of listlessness. I make my way to the small coffee shop in Quenet's Arcade, to while away an hour before my next meeting.

These little hiatuses are very precious to a self-employed management consultant. It's a welcome break from doing the work of finding, contracting and servicing clients. It's a time to sit back, perhaps return a few phone calls, and perhaps respond to a few emails. Or it's an opportunity to ponder over whatever needs to be pondered upon. And of course there's nothing like a strong cappuccino to get the pulses racing and promote a warm sense of wellbeing.

The coffee shop I enter is not part of a national chain of franchises. Thank goodness. Huge muffins and so-so coffee are not necessarily the key ingredients of a comfortable coffee shop sojourn. The one I'm at now is a small, friendly owner-managed business. Tables and chairs spill out onto the tree-framed patio outside. Here and there, tables are occupied by ones and twos and threes. Just right. Not over-full, but not deserted.

I select a small table next to a tall tree that has been pruned to fit the arcade. A blue checked table cloth and a selection of salts and peppers and sugars in a natty wooden dispenser do not disappoint. A young man with a shaven head and a Metallica t-shirt brings over the menu. I order a cappuccino.

I decide not to unpack my laptop. This is going to be me-time. I fiddle with my smart phone, not because I have any messages, nor do I need to need to respond to something, but because it is a habit. I catch myself in this and put it away.

I sit back in the chair.

At first I am bored. The go-go of driving in traffic and attempting to be fearsomely goal-directed has made me blind to my immediate surroundings. I relax my shoulders and push the work thoughts out of my mind.

The warm sun through the tree is like a soft shawl around me. The sounds of the pedestrians walking by, fade into the background. I can hear birds tweeting. Is that a bulbul? A couple of house sparrows hop around under the tables, finding food in unlikely cracks and crevices.

It seems like the past and the future have disappeared. It is only the present. In the 'now'. It is comforting, calming and relaxing.

I find myself slipping into one of those hazy reveries, where the mind goes blank and you lose your sense of self.

Slowly the chatter of my fellow patrons trickles through to me. At first the chatter is indistinct. Only one word in many gets through to me. A dishevelled gibberish, in keeping with my quiet, introspective state. Not intrusive, but aware.

Slowly, the words make sense. There are three conversations going on around me. Two middle-aged women and a child over my left shoulder. Two businessmen in front of me. And to my left, a man and a woman. I am eavesdropping on three different conversations. By being still within my own thoughts, I have intruded into the lives of seven people. I have become a participant. A conspirator.

"I don't know what to do. I'm middle-aged. And I have only a half day job."

"You should do what is right for you."

"They haven't provided the balance sheet yet. I'm very keen to see the cash flow. I'm not sure a business like that can support itself."

"How long have you worked with this guy? We are going to have to do a full due diligence without his knowing."

"The problem is – will we get the right information?'

"If I leave Hannes now he's going to be devastated. I mean, we've been man and wife for 25 years. You don't just throw something like that up for nothing."

"But Hartjie, you are so unhappy. Can you go on like this?"

"And how am I going to support myself? I'm not a young woman."

"I'm not sure where we are going. I mean, are we a couple or not?"

"Yes, but, you are not listening to me. You never listen to me."

"Where is this relationship going? I mean, after 5 years you must know what you want from us?"

"You are putting a lot of pressure on me. I'm not ready, I need time to think."

"But we have been going out for five years. That must be long enough?"

"Can the business sustain that amount of staff? I'm not sure that we won't have to retrench some of the lower levels. And you know what a hassle that is. The Labour Relations Act and all that kak."

"That means we will have to reduce the price because we will have to cover the cost of retrenchments. Do you think he will accept that?

'Don't know. We will have to try it out on him. The problem is, how do we raise it with him?'

"It's going to materially affect the price."

"Are you able to make ends meet? Do you have enough to live on?"

"Now you see, that's the problem, I don't. And I don't know how I'm going to survive. This bloody affirmative action makes it very difficult. I'm very good at doing books, trial balance and all that, but I just have a matric. These days they don't want an old, white woman with just a matric. They'd rather take some black just out of school for a small salary, even if she can't do the work, just so they have their BEE status."

"So how much longer do you need? What do I have to do? I mean, is it my fault? Have I done something wrong? Don't I fulfil you?"

"Yes, but, you have to understand. My job is not very secure now. The people are talking about retrenchments. It would be irresponsible of me to ask you to marry me. What happens if I lose my job? How will I look after you?"

"Ag man, you're just saying that? Any old bloody excuse to put it off!"

"I just don't know how I will support myself? Where will I stay? This is so very hard for me."

"What do you feel in your heart? You know, in times like this you must always do what your heart tells you to do."

"That's just it. I'm so confused. Part of me says yes, part of me says stay with him for the security."

"I have to go now. I'm seeing Mike at half past and I still have to drive there and get parking."

"OK, I'll give you a call later."

The two middle-aged men begin packing up their papers and documents.

"Are you giving me an ultimatum?"

"All I'm saying is that I can't go on like this. I want to get married and I want it to be you. But you are not interested."

"That's not fair. Look how I've always been faithful to you. I've never looked at another woman. You are the one."

"Well, do something about it."

The woman stands up, and walks away angrily. She almost collides with the two businessmen who are perfunctorily shaking hands across the table, black laptop bags in their hands.

The young man calls for the bill.

I am about to devote my full attention to the occupants of the last remaining table.

"Is that the time, Hartjie? I must get this one home to do her homework."

She waves a hand at the young girl who had been playing with the sugar sachets. Probably her daughter.

Now it's just me.

Even the bulbul has deserted me.

However the sparrows are still conscientiously at work.

The sun is moving lower in the sky. It's getting cooler.

I glance at my watch. Time to go. Reluctantly I call for the bill.

Soon it's just the sparrows, pecking away to find something to eat. Funny how the most fragile system is the most enduring.

## 7

The Morning Walk

It took me quite a bit of time to adjust. I had this feeling, deep inside me, that this was a waste of time and that I should rather be working. It takes a long time to change the habits of a lifetime.

All my working life I have been ruled by an alarm clock. I am not one of these people who wake up in the morning and are instantly alert and full of enthusiasm. Mine is a slow progression from deep sleep to grudging, baleful wakefulness. There has been the ever-present imperative that you have to get to work and you have to be seen to be working. Idle, slothful, evil people get to the office after seven. Happy, dependable, trustworthy people are in the office long before seven in the morning. There is no time for reflection. Goals have to be achieved, deadlines must be met. Twenty years of being self-employed and working from home could not dispel this.

These were the deep ingrained feelings of guilt I had to cope with when I not only decided to get up later in the morning, but to go for a walk as well.

But, as I read somewhere long ago, the only way to grapple with a problem is to grapple with it.

So, on an average week-day morning, if the weather is clement, I fight off the urge to go to my study to respond to overnight emails. I don't consult my mobile phone diary to see what the day has in store for me. Instead, I put on a pair of takkies, pop a straw hat on my head, and take up a walking stick. I go for a walk.

As I leave the house and go up the drive, I am assailed by all sorts of real and imagined complaints. My back is sore, my left knee is dicky. I should have put on some sunglasses. I should have had a drink of water before I left. What happens if a client phones and I am out?

Up the road I go, and then across the park in the middle of our crescent. All around me are the signs and sounds of people who are doing what I, in my super-ego dominated heart of hearts, should be doing.

Cars are backing down driveways. Large SUVs are accelerating with a contagious urgency. It's funny how important people look when they are in a hurry. When actually, they have just planned their time badly. These are the myths and lies that bind the world of going out to work. Clearly, I am not alone in my frantic state.

And then I'm out of the crescent. The walking stick is a great help. It says you are going for a walk, rather than an errand. It also says you are walking, rather than running. It is a symbol of genteel middle class existence. Heaven forbid I should ever have to use it for self-protection.

The slow-moving line of traffic in the boulevard is stretched out in a self-replenishing serpent. I glance at the people in the cars. Mothers taking children to school. Students off to an early lecture. Men in large cars with large residuals to pay off, are trying hard to look important. Trying to get out of Lonehill in the morning can be a menace. Not only do I not have this problem, working from home, but on my morning walk I can look at these hamsters-in-a-cage with a certain amount of pity and condescension. Who's the smarty pants now?

A bit further along the traffic has thinned out, and I see my regulars. A frail granny of tiny stature who always greets me with a loud voice. The plump, retired man with the tiny dog that hops along at forty five degrees to its axis of travel. The harassed husband with the schnauzer with a mind of its own. The mumbled greetings of the domestic servants. The odd young man or woman who is out for a run. No greeting from them. Their designer running shoes and coordinated running gear indicate that the weighty matters on their minds does not permit them to greet old farts trying to keep up with a walking stick. Don't forget the gleeful and enthusiastic Labrador dragging its owner. And then there's the young woman with the unhappy eyes and two Pekinese.

By the time I've reached my turning point, I have come to terms with my guilt about going for a walk. After all, why shouldn't I? I will be home and showered and dressed and in my home office before most of them have parked their cars. I will have been refreshed by the bustling red bishops nesting by Lappies Dam. I will have enjoyed the fresh morning air, and smelt the jasmine. It's hard not to sound smug.

But now, all too soon, I'm home again. It's time to shower, time to start the day.

## 8

Taxi Drivers

It was late afternoon on a warm spring day. I had just had finished a meeting and I was on my way home on the N1 South, going down the hill towards the Rivonia intersection. A kombi taxi came hurtling past me in the emergency lane. Almost involuntarily, I burst into a torrent of angry invective.

Once my anger had subsided, I had a chance to think rationally about the event, and my reaction to it. There were two aspects I wanted to understand. One was gaining insight into why I was angry, and the other was how other people would interpret my response.

Let us start with the latter aspect. I swore long and hard at the taxi driver. My anger was caused not by the race of the driver, but by the action of the driver. Had the driver been white, Singaporean, Brazilian or Moroccan, my response would have been the same. Had a black colleague and passenger been with me in my car, she or he might have been disposed to interpret that my anger was racially biased. She or he might have assumed that I would naturally have turned a blind eye to a white taxi driver storming past in the emergency lane. She or he might have assumed that my outburst was fuelled by a deep hatred of black people. She or he might have assumed that I used every possible occasion to hurl abuse at my fellow black country-people. She or he might have come to the conclusion that I was a hardened, unreconstructed racist, or whatever the current labels are. And this is a very convenient fall back argument, which avoids the real issues.

Every time a white person criticises the actions of a person who happens to be black, it seems convenient to ascribe this to deep, arrogant racism in the white person, and that the comment had nothing to do with the behaviour of the person who occasioned the outburst. It is, seemingly, assumed that all white people hate black people, and that all white people want black people to continue to live in poverty and submission.

This is a very useful argument if you want to objectify all white people, and blame them for all the failures in South Africa after 1994. It then becomes acceptable to impose all sorts of punitive measures on white people; fines for not implementing BEE fast enough, charters demanding that family business have to hand over equity carefully husbanded over generations, trivializing valid criticism from a white person, seizing the property and assets of white people and marginalising white people because they all hate black people and they do not want black people to be successful and enjoy the good life.

By propagating the myth that white people live in constant, anxious longing for the "good old days" of apartheid, black opinion formers can use this to denigrate and vilify valid criticisms by people who are white of people who are black. This is a useful mechanism to nullify criticism of poor policy, criminal activity or anti-social acts. Comments from white people are irrelevant, not because of the content of the comments, but because it comes from a white person. It makes the continuing demonization of white people acceptable.

Let us leave this part of the analysis for a moment, and return to the former of the two aspects I wished to understand. Why did I become angry when I saw a taxi using the emergency lane?

After all, the taxi driver was intent on providing an excellent service to his passengers, by getting them to their destination as quickly as possible. The traffic on the highway was proceeding very slowly, and the emergency lane was clear to all the way down the hill. There were no traffic police who could pull over the taxi driver and impose a fine. Surely there was no harm here? Nobody suffered loss. Why not turn a blind eye and concentrate on more important matters? Am I not a victim of my own racist, imperialist heritage? Am I insensitive to African values and culture? Am I so crippled by the residual vestiges of apartheid in my psyche that I am unable to make rational observations?

Rubbish!

A well-functioning society depends on most of the citizens conforming to the formal and informal rules of society most of the time. The formal rules are contained in laws and statute; the informal rules are embedded in shared values systems, and a shared desire to contribute to the common good.

Stopping at stop streets, not using the emergency lane, paying your taxes, paying your creditors on time, acknowledging emails, acknowledging the contribution of all citizens in society, and returning phone calls, are just a few examples of maintaining a functional society that works for all its citizens. If one or two citizens break the rules from time to time, it creates some problems, but society can cope with it. When more and more citizens break these rules, then everybody loses. Imagine a society, where no one stopped at stop streets or red traffic lights, where parking bays for the disabled were just parking bays and queues in supermarkets were historical oddities – you can just barge your way to the front!

My anger was brought about because someone had broken these delicate rules of society. Someone grasped a privilege that was not due to them. Within my personal value system it is unfair to use the emergency lane when other law abiding citizens have to stick it out in slow moving traffic. Is it unfair to wait in line at a supermarket till, and have someone sweep past to the next available cashier? While a small number of people do this, it is an irritation, rather than a catastrophe. What if everybody behaved in this way? An unruly free–for-all? Is that the sort of society any of us want to live in?

Now we all know that not all white people are happy to live in peace and tranquillity with their fellow citizens. And there are black South Africans who believe that a bullet is the best way to deal with a settler. But hugging these old stereotypes does not help us work together to make sure that the folk who hold these opinions, are in a dwindling minority. It also does not make for a thriving, harmonious society.

Some facts arise that would surprise some my black friends when I canvas my white friends. The white folks in my circle want black people to be successful, but not because they are black, but because they are good at what they do. My white friends and I want to buy our groceries from black-created supermarkets. We want to buy insurance from black financial services firms. We accept that the white firms left over from apartheid are too few to service all South Africans, and the thousands of guests from beyond our northern borders. We are frustrated because a minority of our black fellow citizens are embarking on creating business without relying on state patronage and friendly tender processes. We want black people to be hugely successful, not out of impartial kindness, but out of self-interest. When black people do well, then white people will do well, too.

When black people in South Africa have jobs, create business, and have an acceptable quality of life, then South Africa will be a safe and prosperous place for all its citizens, black and white, old and young, rich and poor.

I heard a black female lawyer the other day bemoaning the fact that white firms do not give her firm any work. She put this down to overt racism. The white firms were deliberately (in her mind) disadvantaging her firm because she was black. It did not dawn on her that no law firm, black, white or any other hue, will 'give away' assignments to another firm without good reason. This is both the beauty and the baggage of the capitalist system. Work is not given to you. You have to go out and earn the right to be trusted. You have to do this every day. It requires hard work, competitive fees, and quality work. Work does not come to you because you are black. Or white. Or because legislation dictates that work opportunities should be given to you because of the colour of your skin.

It comes to you because you are good at what you do.

There is a very strong argument that white people benefited unfairly from apartheid and that black people must have restitution. They must have the opportunity to 'catch-up' what they have lost. And in my understanding of fairness, that is a reasonable and defensible argument.

There is a slew of legislation which proposes to set matters straight. Some laws are well thought out. Some are idiotic. Some are well implemented. Some are implemented atrociously. But they are there. And if we replaced all the acts with different legislation, it is unlikely that the new legislation would be any more effective that what we currently have.

Laws work only when society agrees to be bound by them. When we respect the rights of individuals, not collectives such as race. When we respect the property, tangible and intangible owned by individuals and the state. When taxi drivers don't usually use emergency lanes. When police don't usually accept bribes. When schools are not burned down because no running water is available. When court dockets don't go missing as a matter of course. That's the sort of society where broad based black economic empowerment will flourish. The sort of society will be robust enough to deal with land restitution issues.

The sort of society we all – black and white – will want to live in.

The society I want to live in.

And, may I be so bold, the society you want to live in.

## 9

Going to School

I've always had a thing about education. It must be because my own educational experience was totally unremarkable.

However, let's not get side tracked into my undistinguished school career. Through a chain of interesting events I ended up with fourteen years' experience in chairing the boards of two independent schools.

The sojourn at each of the schools started off with recruiting a new headmaster for that school.

Now it's a fascinating experience to recruit a new headmaster. You have all the usual challenges of securing someone with the "right" mix of skills, experience and education. The recruiter's guideline is: can the person do the job, will the person do the job, and will the person fit in?

In all cases, the first two requirements are straightforward to deal with. It is the last one which poses the greatest challenge. And let me explain why. Schools are dynamic organisations, but unlike business or the state, teaching is a vocation. All good teachers have a maniacal glint in the eye; some disguise it better than others. Underneath the commitment to timetables and administration and teaching the syllabus, is an overwhelming sense of caring. This caring extends obviously to pupils, but also to fellow staff members and parents. Anything that supports this, is welcomed. Anything that detracts from this is studiously avoided. This is what makes it so hard to find the right sort of headmaster. The person must fit in with the culture of warm affirmations, love and maintenance of self-esteem. But the headmaster is also meant to maintain discipline among pupils, counsel underperforming teachers, and generally keep all parts of the organisation going in roughly the same direction. And from time to time, this means violating the warm affirmations, love and self-esteem maintenance.

There is a very close relationship between the headmaster and the chairman of the board. Most governors think that the board meetings are where the work of the school is done. Far from it! The real strategic work of running a school is done in the regular meetings and discussions between the headmaster and the chairman. The headmaster is in an invidious position. He (or she) has no one to talk to; his fellow senior staff members are both supportive colleagues, and potential assassins. His headmaster friends at other schools are only too keen to put the word out on the independent school grapevine, should he show any signs of weakness. And his non-school friends have no idea of the complexity of running a school.

So the headmaster and the chairman talk through all the matters. The usual matters include the finances, staff problems, performance of the sports teams, delinquent school-fees payers and other choice topics of discussion. Unusual matters could include the antics of problematic teachers or their spouses, litigious parents to avenge their child who did not receive sporting colours, and the niceties of timetabling, sports fixtures and the state of the school bus. Infrequently, there is an event which could affect the reputation of the school if it leaked to the public domain. Sometimes, both of you have to walk around with a press release in your top pocket in case someone from the media calls you for a statement.

Then there is the matter of getting to know the school. This is a lot more difficult than it sounds. In a factory, you can see machines working, you can study breakdown statistics, and you can measure units produced and rework.

Not in a school! The class marks tell you nothing. Some folk new to school governance, insist that the Head be incentivised for a 100 percent matric pass rate and punished for any failures. And, at first glance, it sounds wonderful. This is right from the world of industrial metrics. The folks who come up with these suggestions usually have a smug look on their faces and try to conceal their contempt for these lowly mortals who really understand very little about running a productive enterprise.

"How are we going to change the admissions policy?" asks the old hand on hearing this suggestion.

"What do you mean; the admissions policy?" asks the newbie.

"Well clearly, we will have to change the admission policy if we expect the head to maintain a 100 percent pass rate." the Old Fart intones.

"What has the admissions policy got to do with it?" The newbie is still confident, but a little confused.

"It means we are going to have to weed out all the kids who don't fall in the top quartile."

The newbie is on unfamiliar territory and looks expectantly at the Old Fart.

And then, after a short lecture on the normal distribution and cognitive ability, the chairman gently introduces the next item on the agenda, and the matter is forgotten.

Until the next newbie joins the board of governors.

The quality of the 'raw material' coming into a school can vary considerably from year to year. A good school caters for all the pupils, not just the academically gifted, or the good sportspeople, or the good actors or singers. Everyone must find a special home. A mere pass for a struggling student can be a much greater achievement than a pupil who achieves 7 As.

As a governor, you must not just understand these things; you have to aggressively protect them. You have to look after the interests of every pupil. That's what you are there for.

Then there is the staff at the school:

They are in awe of you as a chairman. They endow you with all sorts of mystical powers and are suitably obsequious and gushing in your presence. Or maybe they are just good at sucking up. They think you are checking up on them. And that they have done something wrong. They give you long explanations of why they are doing something in a particular place at a particular time. Which is a pity. Because teachers are usually really good, honest people whom I deeply respect. They don't need to do this. I am on their side.

But there is another side to teachers. Don't get between them and their teaching. If you go to the staff common room in the morning before the first period, they will be polite and greet you, but they will have no time for chit-chat. Their day has begun and they are going live in a few minutes. The things to talk about are coordinating joint periods, sports fixtures in the afternoons, exam rubrics, marks schedules. No time for a chairman who is clearly in the way.

And I love them for that!

Three things are critical if you want to run a successful school.

They are in no order of priority, because each is essential. If you don't have these in place you cannot have a functional school. They are the 'must-haves.'

A school cannot run without good leadership. Get the best management team you can afford, spell out what you want, and get out of the way of what they have to do. The chairman and the head must be in constant contact. There must be no surprises. The chairman should cultivate a relaxed collegial relationship in which the head is comfortable to talk about problems, both personal and institutional. At the same time the chairman must bear in mind that he is the one who will fire the head if the school is not run well. It takes time to work this out.

An independent school cannot run without cash. This means getting very mean and nasty with parents who promise to pay, but never do. Some parents fall on hard times and need support and space to get their finances in order. This can be managed. Most delinquent parents cannot manage their cash. They hold back on paying the school fees to finance their lifestyle, overseas trips, and the latest large four by four motor vehicle. This means you have to be assertive. First the calls. Then the letters. Then the interviews. It's fun to do a little play acting.

"If you do not pay by a certain date, your child will be removed from the school."

And then all the guilt they throw at you:

"How can you do this?"

"Who gives you the right to deprive my child of an education?"

"I am going to go to the newspapers!"

"Do you know who I am?"

'The school is badly run!'

I have heard them all. The trick is not to get emotionally involved. You are a messenger. Don't address the emotional content in their accusations. Repeat your one-line over and over again.

"If you do not pay by a certain date, your child will be removed from the school."

The parents who have been in financial trouble before, soon realise that there is no sympathy. Shuffling your papers together and leaning forward as if to get up, is a good signal. But don't get caught in the passage. Duck into the next office and close the door. An ambush is an ambush.

The parents new to this sometimes need a nudge.

"We have been over this a few times now. I have heard what you have to say. It does not alter the school's position. If you do not pay by a certain date, your child will be removed from the school. I am going to bring this meeting to a close."

I have two learnings from this. The first is that parents inevitably find the money (unless the child is in the last year at school – but that is another story and strategy!) The second is that it is the same small group of parents who end up in this position, year after year.

But I have interrupted myself. The trick is to get the money in quickly, and the whole amount. The other side of the coin is to have a well thought through budget that is enforced with discipline. That is good management stuff. Look for the runaway items, check for items misallocated to the wrong month. Control staff costs tightly. If maintenance is being done, make sure there is cash on hand for the 'extras'. At least this part of running a school is close to the running of a business.

The final 'must have' requirement is that a good school must have clear, documented, policies, procedures and systems. Now this is where the chairman is at a disadvantage, because these policies and procedures are very specific to education, and very specific to the institution you serve. However, if you have appointed the right leadership team, they will take this task upon themselves. The chairman's role is to encourage sustained work and ensure the process does not get pushed out by other, more glamorous activities.

From time to time, a school gets embroiled in a crisis. It may involve parents, staff or pupils. Some situations can be truly terrible, and some can be just plain idiotic. I am not going to describe any of the details of these situations, as it would breach confidentiality. At the risk of repeating myself, there have been times when I have walked around with a press statement in my top pocket waiting for the journalists to call. While staff, parents or pupils have painfully messed up their lives, the school has emerged stronger and more resilient.

No discussion of school governance would be complete without mentioning the squabbles amongst the board members.

These take on a few forms. New board members invariably think the existing board is a bunch of fools, with their heads mired in the past. The new members are at pains to encourage existing board members to think 'strategically' and 'out of the box'. Greater efficiencies must be obtained. The computer labs must be made available to outside companies for training purposes. And of course, many more pupils must be accepted because this improves margins. It takes a long time for newbies to grasp that schools run on a 13-year production cycle. If you take on a youngster in year one, the institution has to be able to follow through for the next 12 years.

The computer lab argument is usually easy to deal with. New board members leap on these assets as a wonderful means of raising additional revenue. "Make the assets sweat!" they intone with glee. Really? Do corporates want to send people for training either after school hours or during school holidays? Who is going to oversee these foreign (as in 'not of the school!') visitors while they are on the campus? Schools are designed for swift, efficient movement of large groups from one area to another. How will access to other parts of the school be controlled? And the good one: who is actually going to control the physical computers in the classroom and make sure no coffee is spilled on keyboards, no memory cards are stolen, and no viruses or pornography finds its way onto either a computer or the server? The appetite for IT training as an additional revenue stream peters out.

The 'increased numbers of students' argument is an interesting one. Factory efficiency tells us that the closer you run your plant to capacity, the greater the economies of scale. It is a compelling argument. Until you start asking the right questions. Should we revisit our policy on maximum class size? How are we going to raise the funds to build the new classroom block? What will be the impact on school ethos and individualised attention when the school doubles in size? Each one of these debates must be pursued with tact and gentleness. After all, the new governor has a valuable role to play, and has demonstrated some interest in the thankless task of school governance. The role of the chairman is to orient and focus them so that their considerable skill and expertise is put at the disposal of the school, rather than regarding the school governing body as a middle management operations committee.

Voting from the desk is another phenomenon. This is where a parent uses her or his role on the governing board to advance her or his children's best interests. This is done with varying degrees of subtlety. Sporting facilities, colours, academic subject offering; all these are fertile opportunities for the aggressive parent to promote the interests of offspring. It is easy to counter this if the chairman has a good board behind him. Any change or improvement should always benefit, if not all the pupils at the school, then at least a broad cross section of pupils in a phase. Often this is not a battle won. It degenerates into low level guerrilla warfare that reappears at every handy opportunity. Eternal vigilance is the by-word.

No discussion of independent schools would be complete without mentioning the car park assassins. These are the doughty parents who never bring an issue to the attention of a teacher or head, but discuss at length in the car park the perceived idiocy and incompetence of the teacher/subject head/ head master/ board of governors, either individually or jointly. Their preferred time of operation is either when collecting children from school, or watching their children at a sporting event. Then they spout forth in a loud voice about the many shortcomings of the school and its management. Their voices are strident and carrying. Oftentimes, these are the same folk who are unable to manage their finances and who have to be forced to pay the school fees on time with aggressive cajoling.

Car park assassins never bring their problems to school management for resolution; take their children out of the school that is, in their eyes, so poorly managed; or step forward to join the board to be part of the solution. That would deprive them of what they enjoy most of all – a good moan about the school!

The wise chairman treats these non-contributors with silent contempt and continues to serve the best interests of all the pupils.

Good schools are full of stories of remarkable men and women who never give up on wayward pupils and irritating parents, who cannot bear to see a pupil perform at a level lower than that which their potential indicates. Teachers for whom every pupil is a treasure chest to be unpacked and the glittering contents brought before the world.

It has been my privilege to serve people such as these. I have learned so much from the heroes of our education system, people who never set out to teach me.

But who taught me more than I ever learned at school.

## 10

The Casino

It's nine 'o'clock on a Tuesday morning. That sounds like a reworked line from a popular song? The warm spring sunshine warms up the faux stone building. The daisy beds gleam and nod gently in the morning breeze. A centuries-old building, built less than 20 years ago.

Inside the casino, it is perpetual time.

Neither day nor night.

The crowds have gone. The restaurants' doors are closed.

The tables are stripped. The chairs are stacked.

The glittering lights of the rows of slot machines; the flashing neon lights are summonsing an audience who is not there.

The excited throngs of the previous night are safely in their bleak offices. And here in this hiatus of time, this timeless casino, the gilt has worn off. It feels tired. The glitter is tarnished. And yet, it is a new day. A spring day proclaimed by the daisy beds, not a moment ago.

A niggling sense of fear pervades the cobbled walkways. There is a sense of loss, but what has been lost? There is a sense of wanting to be, a longing for a better life; a life with meaning.

The artificial morning light spreads across the vast ceiling. Officially, day has arrived.

It is impossible not to notice the people.

The cleaners and security guards go about their duties. Automatons. Lethargically frisking the new arrivals. Picking up rubbish with brooms and long-handled dustpans. It's a routine that repeats itself day after day. In a place where cold reality blends into the chimera of longings and aspirations. They are real only because I am here to see them. Like Schrödinger's cat. They are oblivious of the time of day. Their life begins when the shift ends.

And inside the gambling area, banks of slot machines, with their lights tinkling like tawdry whores, are begging passers-by to sate on their sameness bodies.

You see them there. The old people, grey haired pensioners who should be having tea in bed or playing with their grandchildren. A sad desperation, wanting fulfilment in a place of dreams. Every one of them has that faraway look. Are they remembering the passions of their younger days? Are they vainly hoping for that windfall that will change everything?

You see them there. The domestic workers. Men in blue overalls. Women in doeks. The same faraway look. A beaten, tired demeanour. Poor people inflicting greater poverty on themselves in the hope of riches. A loaf of bread disappears when a hand touches the button. A pathetic contradiction.

And here and there, a foreign tourist. Has jetlag taken sleep from them? Or perhaps they need to while away a morning?

Sleep-drained people at the blackjack tables. Croupiers bored and looking at their watches. A joyless place.

Is this a place to escape the harshness of the outside world? The weather is always good – it never rains. The sunrise looks the same; the same clouds hang motionless against the gypsum sky.

Is this a place of hope? Where one turn of the wheel can bring release from debt and worry? Sadly, the money ends up in a single place, in the name of pleasure.

Is this a place for people who have lost their usefulness? A social scrap-heap? A past-it parking bay? A place when the un-useful go to escape from their uselessness? A place too whimsy on deep-held dreams and agonise about what might have been; could have been.

Alas. It's time for me to go. Is this something I will understand?

Perhaps I have a use.

I am fortunate.

## 11

Time goes by

I have no idea what I want to share in this letter. I am sitting at a client's premises, waiting for a meeting to happen. I have been here since 07h45 and the meeting was meant to start at 08h00. It is now 08h49. But rather than complain about this lack of respect and this disorganised way of conducting business, I am going to use this time-gift more constructively. I am going to write. That's the beauty of having a laptop with you.

It is fascinating to be waiting for a meeting to happen. You note the client's other employees walking around. Some are socialising, some are going to the kitchen for coffee. A few are settling down to work. There is little urgency. And those at their desks in the open plan area are chatting amongst themselves, delaying the start of the day.

I take stock of my own response to this situation.

Work has changed so much since my first faltering days as a plant operator on a diamond mine in the Northern Cape. Now that wasn't an office job, but the basic rules of being an employee were drummed into me.

There was a firm boundary between work and home. Work is what you did at the office (or recovery plant or factory) and home is where you relaxed and socialised. You didn't do leisure things at work, and you didn't do work things at home. Five o'clock in the afternoon was going-home time. You packed up what you were doing and went home. The next day when you were at work, you picked up where you left off.

You took your job seriously. You worked hard. You were accountable for getting things done. Those were the days before 'performance management'. If you delivered, your work life was good; if you were a shirker, your boss gave you the rough edge of his tongue.

A memory comes to mind. I was a plant operator in the diamond recovery plant at Finsch Mine at the age of 23. The recovery plant is the final stage of the diamond recovery process. The washing plant (the preceding process) ran three shifts a week, but the recovery plant only ran two shifts because of the volume reduction in recovered feed coming from the washing plant. The tailings were sent off to the tailings dump. Saturday, the last day of the week, was critical. The last shift in the recovery plant, morning shift, started at five o'clock in the morning, and ended at one o'clock in the afternoon. But if the diamond concentrate in the feed bins was not drawn down far enough, you had to work overtime until there was sufficient space in the feed bins, because the afternoon shift in the washing plant would continue until midnight on the Saturday.

So Rudi, the recovery plant foreman, an avid golfer whose weekly four-ball regularly teed off at two o'clock, always greeted me of at the start of the Saturday morning shift with:

'"James, gaan ek gholf speel, of gaan ek jou bliksem?"

(A rough translation: "James, am I going to play golf, or am I going to beat the crap out of you?")

He was a good sort, and would never have resorted to violence, besides there was no incentive for any of us to work in a noisy recovery plant after one o'clock on a Saturday afternoon. You pulled the tons and you went home on time. And Rudi went and played golf.

And so it was in those days. You worked hard, put up with the politics and were loyal in return for a pay check and security of employment. Sometimes you might receive a promotion, and there was always an annual salary increase to look forward to. There were rules and boundaries. As I went up the corporate ladder, I became entitled to the services of a secretary. I experimented with dictaphones and shorthand, but soon writing out a document by hand and giving it to her to type up was the best solution. No memory typewriters in those days. If there was an error – and there were many in those days – the document had to be re-typed. Other useful tasks your secretary performed included diary management, booking travel arrangements and reminding you of tasks you had forgotten. And the office messenger moved memos, documents and letters about the office and left the newspaper on your desk.

Another memory. At one time in my life I was working for a company with a factory in Middelburg and the head office in Sandton. For a while, we lived in Middelburg and then we moved to Sandton – to Lonehill, where we have lived ever since. Regardless of where we were living, I had, at that time, to do a great deal of traveling by car between Sandton and Middelburg. Sometimes, I would travel with a colleague, and sometimes I would be alone. Ah. Travelling alone. An hour and forty five minutes of unspoilt "me-time" with only the radio as a controllable intrusion. How I cherished those times. I could think, daydream, let my mind ramble to all sorts of things, work things, personal things, frivolous things, deep things. Connections. Ideas. I would start my journey with a problem and arrive at my destination with a solution, and a plan of attack. How I miss that special time.

I come back to the present. I am looking at these youngsters milling about.

Probably most of them have already responded to overnight emails on their smart phones. Their various devices are synchronised so that their digital diaries are always at their fingertips and they will always be warned in advance of a meeting. They have no messengers, documents are delivered instantly by an unseen hand. None of them have ever had a secretary; and if they had one of the old school, they would have no use for her skills. A different time, a different place.

Yes, the old times were good, or at least I remember only the good things. The bad is probably deeply suppressed. The present is no better or worse than those days, just different.

I just wish people would arrive on time for meetings. Perhaps they need more special, "me-time".

## 12

The trip to Kimberley

We had a leisurely, late breakfast at the Mooirivier Mall in Potchefstroom. One of those cheap franchise restaurant specials. And tasty too. All that is behind us now as we make our way towards Klerksdorp. Perhaps it was the food, or maybe our conversation was exhausted before Potchefstroom; but we were both silent. Each with our own thoughts.

We are on our way to Kimberley. A mini family gathering. My wife's family.

But it is not all about the family connections. I have my own memories of Kimberley. My first real job was a plant operator at the diamond mine in Lime Acres. One-hundred and eighty-six kilometres west of Kimberley, if I remember correctly. A miniscule mining town, not as quaint as its name would suggest, between the evocative settlements of Danielskuil and Papkuil.

Stilfontein and Klerksdorp are soon behind us. Now it's on to Wolmaransstad. Travelling through the sparse, harsh landscape of the north-west brings back memories of travelling to Lime Acres. What a shock for a boy from the Boland! All shift workers had a POL once a month – Paid Occasional Leave. That meant you didn't have to work a shift on a Saturday. If you were lucky, you came off shift on the Friday morning at six 'o clock. A quick breakfast and a shower at the single quarters, and then off by road to Kimberley. Only that time I was traveling to Kimberley from the western side. But that landscape was similar to the one that confronts me now, approaching from the eastern side.

I reflect on the multiple excitements that used to accompany me on those trips. There was the excitement of not having to work on Saturday – a welcome break from the boredom of operating diamond recovery plant machinery. There was the excitement of going to Kimberley – a town many, many times larger. Excitement anticipating what might happen and who I would meet. What parties would I go to? What people would I meet? And more importantly – what girls would I meet?

I was fortunate. Sharing the single quarters with me was a security guard from a well-to-do Kimberley family. He was good at arranging accommodation at his parents' home, the convenient flat out in the back yard. That very same house is now a bed and breakfast and that is where we are going to stay on this trip to Kimberley.

And again the long straight road, here and there a pan, or a railway siding. A clump of trees, a farmhouse, or a turn-off to tantalising places like Leeudoringstad. We make good time. Bloemhof. Christiana. And then we are going over the Vaal River. We are crossing to another world – that's what my mind is saying to me. Now we are reaching familiar places. The first stop is Warrenton. Time to fill up with petrol.

I find a filling station in town and we burrow up to a pump in between minibus taxis and farm bakkies with sheep railings. The air conditioner in the car has spoilt us – it is scorching hot outside.

Soon the car is reassuringly full of fuel and we are once more on our way.

Familiar signs, long forgotten, come up towards us. Windsorton. Riverton. The blank, bare veld teems with forgotten memories. I remember a few good parties on the river bank at Riverton. But no time now to turn off and relive those times.

Kimberley in the distance. Dronfield farm – the De Beers farm – on our left.

And then Kamfer Dam appears on the right. And then we are in the outskirts to the town. The long country roads give way to bustling, pot-holed, awkward city traffic. Signs pointing to the Flamingo Casino. That is a new addition since the last time I was here.

Small businesses, panel beaters, and engineering works line the broken streets. Tyre service outlets. Electrical firms. Nondescript fast food shops with their Coca-Cola signs. Pap en vleis.

Kimberley is a clumsy town. The roads happened where carts and people traversed the springing-up town as mining started in the old days. Triangles. Roads crossing at strange angles. Disjointed intersections. Makes it difficult to navigate. Now the buildings look familiar. I bear off to the left.

Du Toitspan Road. Yes, that is where we should be going.

This looks different to me. There is a great deal of traffic and bustle going on, and the town has lost some of its elegance, its smartness. Or am I just remembering selectively.

We go past the Holiday Inn – it has had a spruce up. The long bar in the front is now a family burger restaurant. I remember sitting in that bar with my girlfriend-of-that-time. She was wearing a delightful halter-top dress. Made an impression on me.

The elegant homes on either side have been converted into businesses, some with tasteless frontages and large signs in bold lettering in the front gardens.

In no time, we reach our turn to the left. The leafy suburban side street of thirty-five years ago is now a dishevelled connecting road between some of the small businesses of Kimberley.

Our lodgings appear on the left. The corrugated sheet-iron wall around the premises is still there, but the magnificent peppercorn tree in the back courtyard has gone. I don't have much time to take it all in. I have to negotiate the traffic and turn left again to park in front of the house. It faces away from du Toitspan Road. The big trees in front of the house have survived, they have wrested the kerbstones out of alignment. As we get out of the car I notice the double story block of flats to the right of the house. That's where that mad couple next door made Harvey Wallbangers by the jugful. An involuntary smile crosses my face. Those were wild parties. I feel a need for orange juice.

We stand at the front gate. The palisade extending the wall height and the electric fencing is an addition. Inside, the grass looks soft and green with pleasing flowers and shrubs.

We ring the bell and we see movement far up in the long dim passage through the open door. The buzzing sound lets us know to open the gate.

The house still has the old feel to it. The wide-planked wooden floors. The long runner up the length of the passage in the lozenge design that my aunt had chosen for her passage in Worcester. It's cool inside. We want to whisper. So we don't disturb the owners. The owners are long gone. The high ceilings and the smells of old wood bring a restful calmness to the soul. In amiable conversation with the pleasant young receptionist, we fill out the forms and make the necessary payments.

And then we are in our room. Functional and comfortable. A few self-consciously elegant touches here and there; probably from a decorating journal. But, no matter, it's clean and friendly. It's also warm. That lovely bone-warming heat you find in the drylands of Africa. It's like coming home. I think fleetingly of Christmas days in Worcester all those years ago. The mercury assaulting forty degrees Celsius. So hot, the crows were yawning. It's a good start to our weekend away.

We have unpacked. We have had a cup of tea. Now that awkward moment. What do we do now? After travelling close to 500 kilometres since this morning, the last thing I want is to go for another drive in a car. But there is no other option. We need to get some snacks and odds and ends.

It's late afternoon. Cooler now. The hot slanting sun shines in my eyes. We are going past the War Memorial, perched like a blockhouse in its own traffic circle. It's a useful reference point. By a series of fluky turns, and by following the big, wide roads, we find a large shopping mall. Here are all the goods and services which we get at our own, almost identical mall, back in Johannesburg. It's a bit of a let-down. But at least we stock up on some long life milk, a few snacks and some cool drinks. My mind goes back to my Lime Acres days. For no reason at all I recall walking into the Washing Plant at four o'clock one bitterly cold winter's afternoon and seeing ice-stalactites hanging down three floors. No chance of that today.

It's late Friday afternoon in Kimberley. The urgency of the week has stepped down. People seem more relaxed. Families and their children shop for the week-end. Leaving the artificial coolness of the shopping mall, we are enwrapped by the lingering heat of the afternoon; it's like a comfortable blanket wrapping itself around you. We make our way back to our lodgings. Via the War Memorial. We park in the back yard. As we walk towards the main house, I see the old out-room in the back yard. It is now an elegant suite. I smile quietly to myself. The halter neck top. Another memory recalled.

The next morning the Kimberley Cousins join us. We are off to see the Big Hole. For those of us who grew up in South Africa the Sixties, there were several iconic destinations for holidays. Places you had to go to in South Africa. Places you had to see. The Cango Caves. The Cableway up Table Mountain. The Knysna Heads. The Snake Park in Durban. The Kruger Park. And of course, the Big Hole in Kimberley. How many children were dragged off on a trip round "The Union" to see these grand sights? No wonder we are experiencing pilgrim-like emotions as we head off to the Big Hole.

I cannot deny the child-like anticipation I experienced on getting out of the car at the Big Hole Parking lot. There are several emotional intersections here. A visit to the Big Hole, not just any hole, but _the_ Big Hole. And memories of a place I had visited many years ago with my girlfriend-of-that-time. And of course my own experiences of the technical workings of diamond recovery.

De Beers have done a marvellous job of putting a diamond mining experience together. But I won't dwell on all the details of the diamond exhibits or the gift shop or the underground experience. When you go there you will experience it first hand, better than I can describe it to you.

But there is a moment when I stand on the viewing platform and look down over the Big Hole. This is a different vantage point from the long straight roads of yesterday. My eye traces the vertical sequence. It's a timeline, I think to myself. From the busy streets above, with the red roof of 36 Stockdale Street, the old De Beers head office, and the hooting clangour of Saturday morning traffic. Down past the angled sides of the pit as it narrows towards the volcanic pipe. And then the blue-grey pipe itself, ending in the green waters far below. Confident swallows swoop in the nothingness.

It's a quiet moment.

I'm not thinking about Barnato or Rhodes or Oppenheimer or Beit or any other of the names associated with Kimberley. I am thinking about the ordinary people who made this place. Not the dealmakers; but the people who did the work. The people who, long before me, made their way to this place. They worked. They had friends. They raised families. Some left and went to other places. Some stayed here their whole life. Some died before their time. Some went to fight in other peoples' faraway wars and some did not return. Some were victims to the racial laws of this wonderful country. Some died in this very hole.

And this is all that is left of them. Of their lives, their joys and their sacrifices. All that is left is this big empty hole. It's the emptiness that defines it. My fellow tourists see a hole in the ground and marvel at the bucket-loads of diamonds that came from it. The hole I look at is filled with memories of all those lives intertwined with this place. They made their choices and they travelled their paths. The names are lost but their experiences were similar to mine. One day, I too will be a forgotten memory. What will be my Big Hole? Where will my lingering memory be held?

I re-join the group. My wife slips her hand in mine.

## 13

A Message from the Other Side!

It's funny how it works out. It is an imperceptible shifting of the balance. The see-saw totters over to the other side without your being aware of it. There was a time when you were up in the air, now you are down on the ground.

I think it's something to do with the way our society works. We have various terms for it. Some politically correct, and some not. Whether you call it ageism, or old farts, or ou toppies or senior citizens; there is a clear demarcation between "young" and "old". This applies both to the persons who are "old" and the younger persons who are contemplating the "elderly". When your colleagues' adult children start calling you "Oom", then you know you've arrived! They treat you with solicitous deference. They pause for you to go through a doorway. And they rush forward to pick up heavy boxes before you can bend down!

At first it's humorous, but then afterwards you get the point. They are doing this because you are older, much older, than they are. At least, that's how they perceive you.

And, of course, you notice the little differences in yourself. Touching your knees is a little harder. (Touching your toes went out years ago!) There is a bit of huff and puff when going up the stairs. And parallel parking means twisting the body out of its accustomed shape; it protests just a little!

Many of my friends, who are with me on the other side of fifty five, complain about getting older. It's funny how they go into denial. They try to avoid all mention of old age, of middle age, or any age. By not talking about their age and ignoring it, they hope that pretence will mean it's gone away. But it hasn't. There is no use in denying it. They have nothing left to live for, no excitement of an anticipated future. They are caught in nostalgia for the past. They are looking back, rather than forward. And I suppose this is understandable; but is it inevitable? Is it a foregone conclusion that our world begins to shrink, our conversations are re-treaded over and over again and we become less accepting of others and more rigid in our attitudes?

Do we have to become less open to new adventures, and do we want a life that's predictable and safe, where we control what happens to us? And let's not pretend that we are the most flexible, accommodating people in the world. We have no choice but to accept that we have reached the stage where there are fewer years in front of us than behind us.

Many of my friends and colleagues in the same age group don't seem to have recalibrated their priorities and dreams from their days of their youth. Their original goal was to have a nice house, a big car, a job with an impressive title, overseas holidays and kids in an independent school. Now they have all of these. But the goals and the dreams haven't changed. They've petered out. Come to the end of the line. And it's easy to understand why. When you still have kids in the home and you are building a career, they keep you very occupied. Things happen. School events, business trips, holidays; your life builds up a routine, a momentum that takes you through from one year to another.

Now where am I in this? I've been through my mid-life crisis; I've had the depression, and the sense of futility with a body that no longer has the energy of youth. I have achieved some life goals, others have been abandoned. And, yes, maybe my career has not been as successful as some of my colleagues' of 30 years ago, but then, it's been my life. I've done it as best as I was able.

One of the advantages of being over 55 is that you have more time to think; to see the patterns in your life. There is more time to read, explore ideas on the internet, watch TV programmes of other people in other lives – real or fictional. It is a time to step off the treadmill and think, enjoy, accept.

And I've come to a startling revelation.

These latter-time years are the good years. These are the years we looked forward to all the way from our school-days! We yearned for them. We saved for them. We planned for them. They are with us now! We are in the place for which we planned.

We no longer have to compete. Our careers are not going to advance much. If we don't already have the corner office with the button-down leather chesterfield suite, and the Somerset crystal wine goblets now, we are unlikely to have them in the near future.

At the other side of fifty five, the time of putting things off because of other priorities, is over. All the sacrifices we made in the past were made for this time. The times we went without. The times we said: "Rather not, we can't afford it!" – These times are over. Let's enjoy the fruits of our sacrifice.

We have all been saving for the future. Insurance policies, pension funds, retirement annuities. It's all good and well to have all these future-focused plans – but what if you get hit by the mythological bus the day after tomorrow? What then? What will you have sacrificed for? Think about it. We can't go on postponing our lives forever.

Let's explore what this means for us Other-Side-Of-Fifty-Fives! (OSOFFs – a new acronym!) The kids are out of school. For some of you lucky folk, they may even have moved out of the house. You and the wife (or husband, or life partner or love interest) are not bound by lift clubs, got-to-be-home-by, or school functions. No more school fees, uniforms, and unquenchable demands for pocket money. We don't have to save so voraciously now, why not put a little less aside now, and enjoy the now.

Your career has stabilised. You don't have to fight to get to the top. Maybe you are at the top. If you are not – so what? This is as far as you will get. So don't fret about what might have been. Enjoy your life where you are.

We could go on, and on. But you grasp the general idea. Now is the time for new opportunities. This is OUR renaissance. I like the word "Renaissance"! A rebirth. A renewal. A time for new challenges, new priorities. A time when we can use the wisdom accumulated over the years and put it to our own use. I'm not talking about a bucket list – although that may be part of it. It's a time to look at all the components of your life, not just work and family, and look at what needs evening out. This is our time.

Let's go back in time and reconstruct the mind-set we had when we left school or university. We had dreams. We had all sorts of hopes for the future. What we wanted to be. What we wanted to become. What we wanted to own – yes, we were materialistic! Back then we had big ideas, no experience and no money. The world was ours to be unpacked then, and it still is, right now. Heck, we know a lot more about life and the world. We have experience, wisdom, insight and maybe a bit of financial independence. Now is the time to rewind the tape and redo (or just do!) the things we really, really wanted to do, before job and career and family and home mortgages and responsibility intervened.

We will need to consider a few obvious things. If we are going to do all these exciting things, and I don't mean skydiving or following the Amazon to its source, then we'd better make sure that our body is good for the challenge. If you are unfit and overweight – do something. We can't have a renaissance if our body can't keep up with us. Be realistic. We will never regain the sleek body we had at twenty. (That's if we ever had a sleek body at twenty!!) And let's be honest – joining a gym is a waste of time and money.

So what have I done about this? I try to walk more – at least 5 hours a week. And I do my "stoutness exercises' (Remember those from Winnie the Pooh?) I use a Swiss ball and roll around and contort myself in all sorts of inelegant ways, much to the derisory amusement of my wife. I even try and swim a bit in the summer months; I am getting quite good at impersonating a drowning rose beetle. Much thrashing and gasping, but it gives me a work-out.

So, what else can we do in our renaissance?

Let's make special time to include our partners (wives, boyfriends, life partners). Include your special loved one in business trips, stolen moments at the local coffee shop, or disappear for a week-end. Forget about the lawn and the blocked gutters and the broken vacuum cleaner. They will still be there when you get back.

Read more. Second hand bookshops are a wonderful source of enriching reading – try something other than novels or business books. Try reading up on history, climate change, philosophy, anything at will stretch the mind and fill it with new thoughts and ideas. If ever there was a time to expand the mind by reading – it is now. We have the internet and we have tablets. Google, Wikipedia, YouTube and Coursera can become your University. MOOCs are not just a four letter acronym. Fantastically large amounts of information are at your fingertips, when you want it. Nearly all of it is free. But there's a caveat. Two, actually. The first is – read about things that you either don't know about, or don't care about. It broadens the mind. Reading only about subjects you are comfortable with, will just reinforce the implosive spiral. The second is – you opinions will shift as you gain new insights and evidence. Be prepared to have your choicest prejudices severely pummelled. This is hard. Under the weight of new evidence, you may be forced to change your stance on evolution, the economy, lesbianism or female bishops. As someone once said – sacred cows make great hamburgers.

Reach out to school friends, dear colleagues and friendly neighbours. Facebook is a great way to meet up with old school friends. And if they live across the world, you won't have to invite them for dinner – but you can still chat, share anecdotes about teachers and post pictures about your joint past. You don't have to do something special for local friends. A tub of spaghetti and a budget box of wine will do. Look for enjoyment. Look for things that will give us simple joys – right in the moment.

Find a cause. Nothing stirs the blood like doing something for others. Children, animals, the environment. Out there is a cause crying out for your special skills and experience. Do something for others without payment or fanfare. Big or small – it doesn't matter. But it will take you out of your comfort zone and give you an amazing sense of satisfaction. Leave a legacy.

Leave the past in the past. It's no use fretting over the mistakes or decisions made in the past. It's done, it's over. Use the glass-half-full analogy. Your life has been perfect up to now. Be thankful for what you have, who you are with and who you are. How are you going to finish this great adventure of your life? It's up to you.

Do it with style. Learn, do, and be. Now.

## 14

Being Gay in Caledon

I always find the contrast between Caledon and Worcester to be so pronounced. Worcester is in a green valley with trees and grass and vineyards, with the ageless Breede River anchoring it to the foot of the Brandwacht peak. From Worcester you can go to Cape Town, to Wolseley, to Robertson or De Doorns. Or you can go for a drive round "Kyk-in-die-Pot" and end up back home again via Aan-de-Doorns. It seems to be the natural place for a town to be located. It belongs there.

Another of the places within easy reach from Worcester is Villiersdorp. Now that's an interesting place. It seems to get drier the further you go away from Worcester, past the Brandvlei dam, past that hideous prison building on what could have been a wonderful environmental attraction, past the turn-off to Moddergat and on to Villiersdorp. You will notice that the countryside becomes drier. The fynbos becomes more fyn.

And then there's the town of Villiersdorp itself. Hugging the side of the mountain it seems to beg for its right to exist. Not like Worcester that confidently claims its stake to the floor of the Breede Valley. Villiersdorp is a little country town. Too many people, too few jobs and not enough work. Like the moskonfyt factory that is no longer there, it is a victim of a bygone age. Villiersdorp is not the subject of my story, but I share this with you, so that you might gently make the mental transition from the Breede Valley to the Overberg, which is like going into another land, another world. For between the waters of the Theewaterskloof and the lagoon of the Bot lies the town of Caledon. Home of the Caledonners. Kallie-Donners. Get it? (You have to be South African.)

The Bot River also serves to contextualise our journey. "Bot" can mean to flower, much like the beautiful apple trees in Spring around Villiersdorp. It can also mean as thick as a plank. This might be a useful insight into the town of Caledon. Like Villiersdorp, Caledon clings to the side of a hill, a treeless dusty town, tired of its long struggle to wrest a living out of the precarious Overberg. It is a punctuation point on the long road from Cape Town to Mossel Bay, or perhaps even on the way to the shop in Riviersonderend, where the traveller finds the legendary chicken pies. And here's another insight into the world we are entering. Riviersonderend. A river without ending. A Möbius band of fluvial logic that makes perfect sense in this part of the world.

By now you are probably irritated in that I have not explained Kyk-in-die-Pot. I can understand your annoyance. Let me address it now, that you might later enjoy the story I am actually trying to tell; because we have gone past Villiersdorp, through Caledon, to Riviersonderend and back to Caledon. But we have not discussed why Kyk-in-die-Pot is known as Kyk-in-die-Pot. It has nothing to do with cake in the pot. Because the cake should be in the oven. And so, let us pause briefly and attend to this matter.

If you leave Worcester, on a journey to De Doorns, or Touws River, or heaven forbid, Matjiesfontein, you will pass Uitvlugt on your left, and then before you get to the Hex River kloof, you will find a wine cellar on the side of the road called De Wet. In the old days you turned off to the right and drove between the cellar buildings and over a narrow bridge across the Hex River. On the other side you turned right, and went past the old post office and general dealer and butcher shop. After a short way through the vineyards your road suddenly rose up before taking you to Nuy or Overhex. In years gone by, this section of the road was very steep. And down on the right hand side, tight against the cliff, was an old farmhouse. It was said that if you were cantering up the hill in your Skotskarretjie, and you leant out far enough to the right, you could look down the chimney and see what the good farmer's wife was cooking for supper. Hence: Kyk-in-die-Pot.

So. Back to Caledon. A dry treeless town. Wide roads. A prominent Spar supermarket. A town that has never had its prime. But a town with its own casino. And a spa. All this makes sense if you live in the Overberg.

My dear wife has a school friend who lives in Caledon. And on one of our visits to Cape Town, we were invited to spend a day with them. We duly booked a night's accommodation in a Local Establishment before we left home.

And so we arrive late morning in Caledon, after the drive over from Cape Town. Much hugging and giggling from the two former school friends. A delicious tea, followed by a sumptuous al fresco lunch. Like something out of those lifestyle magazines. Except, it was in Caledon. One of those long afternoons where you vicariously experience life at a girl's school in the 1960's.

After afternoon tea, I suggest that I find the Local Establishment and book in and deposit our luggage before it gets too late.

Husband-of-School-Friend-of-Wife – let us call him Ben, to protect his reputation in Caledon – graciously agrees to come with to show me the way and to get away from the two endlessly-chatting-women. So Ben and I set off and in a blink – Caledon is not large – we are at the Local Establishment. Ben – decent fellow that he is – gives me a hand with the luggage and we announce ourselves in Reception.

The conversation goes like this.

Me: "Good afternoon, we've come to book in."

Receptionist: "Certainly, fill in the register on that table." She looks at the two late middle-aged men (that's us) carrying luggage, and motions me to a table on one side to fill in the register.

I sense a slight discomfort in the plump slightly-less-middle-aged-than-us woman.

A longish pause.

Receptionist: "Would you like two rooms?"

Me: "No thanks, one room is perfectly fine."

Another longish pause. This time with tense fidgeting and rustling of papers.

Receptionist: "Would you like one bed or two?"

By now, the penny has dropped, even for me, and so with genial forthrightness and my most manly demeanour I continue the conversation....

"We'd prefer one bed, thank you."

So there we are. Two old buggers with luggage – and the unnerved receptionist. A quiet afternoon in Caledon.

My dear wife will never forget the slightly forced and excessively cheery greeting she got at breakfast the next morning. It's amazing how different things are in the Overberg, the land of the Bot, just a short journey away from Worcester.

## 15

My Five Rules for Writing

The internet is full of little alcoves of good advice for writers. I have read the wisdom of great writers such as Henry Miller, Kurt Vonnegut, Stephen King, Susan Sontag, Scott Fitzgerald, and Ernest Hemingway.

I am not a great writer, nor am I a good writer, but I harbour grandiose pretensions of one day writing something that someone will read without coercion. There are many thousands of would-be hacks like me, and so with them in mind, I have put together my own Five Rules for Writing.

### Start with what you have

You've planned the outline of what you want to write. You know what you want to put down. You hover over the keyboard. And you stop. Where is that brilliant opening line? That powerful phrase?

Forget it! There are no brilliant opening lines. Start writing! Get it down. It doesn't matter if it's jumbled. Once you have half a dozen pages down you can come back and do the editing. And your opening line might not be as bad as you thought.

### There is no time to write

There never is time to write. There are other priorities, other demands. And if writing's not your full time occupation, you have to earn your living first. There are many good reasons why you can't start writing now. Really convincing ones too!

So steal time! A half an hour here and an afternoon there. A bit before bedtime. An hour's less television. Go and sit at that keyboard. Do it. Make the time and the words will get put down. Think of it as delicious self-indulgence. And healthier than chocolate cake!

### Clearing the desktop

A computer is a wonderful distraction. You need to look at your mails. You must check on the weather forecast for tomorrow. What was the meaning of that word? And before you know it, a precious hour is gone. And the page is blank.

Close the browser. Close the email. Put your mobile phone and tablet in the next room. Only one document open. The one you are writing. If you can't see other things, they won't distract you. You are being disrespectful to your craft if you allow yourself to be side tracked. Serious stuff.

### Brick-laying

It's so boring. It's like writing-by-numbers. You know what you have to write. You have to get it down, but it's such a slog. Maybe there's a shortcut you can use. Why not shorten the story? After all it's important to be concise.

Go and watch a bricklayer on a building site. Those bricks don't get laid by themselves. Pick the brick up, butter it with mortar, place it, tap it. Check with the spirit level. And again. And again. And the finished edifice looks so impressive. And the mason didn't leave out six courses of bricks to get the project finished sooner.

Writing is like brick laying. One word at a time. Savour it. Bed it down, check alignment. Move on. Adjust the plumb line. Arrange the pointing. Tidy the joints. Don't dawdle. If you don't like doing this, become an investment banker.

### The top of the next page

You've written a page and a half. The worst of your guilt has been assuaged. Maybe you need an apple from the kitchen. What about replacing that light bulb? You find yourself looking out of the window. You've earned a rest. Maybe carry on later.

Rubbish. Carry on writing till the top of the next page. And when you get there, carry on till the top of the next page. And the next. And the next. And before you know it you have twenty pages down.

You will find better rules for writing elsewhere. Most of them are more elegantly phrased. The difference is; these ones work for me. Otherwise you would not be reading this.

Happy writing!

## About The Author

James Forson was born in Worcester, Western Cape, South. He completed his schooling at Worcester Boys High and studied further at the University of Cape Town. His early work experience was in the mining, steel, pharmaceutical and banking industries. For the past 20 odd years he has worked as an independent management consultant. He is married to Merle. They have an adult son, Tim. They live in Johannesburg.

www.jamesforsonwriter.wordpress.com
