A chance for me yet

Hot dry windy weather.The kind of weather that makes everyone fed-up and couples threaten divorce and dried laundry comes off the washing lines dustier than it was before it was hung up.

Everyone out here (Africa the hotbed of folk Catholicism)  is  crazy about the new Pope Francis from Buenos Aires. Nobody can understand why news coverage is so Jekyll & Hyde  in its extremes — is he a war criminal who collaborated with Argentina’s military junta, or is he more of a saint than Francis of Assisi?

And here too we have insta-pundits who  within the short space of  48 hours have emerged as  living, breathing ,walking experts on the papacy, the inside story of the Curia, the ‘Dirty War’, the need to have a lung removed when young, whether or not to wear an ermine mozetta cape when proclaimed  Pope, the history of the Jesuits vs the history of the Franciscans, the preferential option for the poor, the Falklands war, the  lyrics to Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina.

Exhausting, as if we are all ingesting vast quantities of Wikipedia and then proudly spewing it out again.

It makes a pleasant enough  change from the regular news reports on violence and corruption here in South Africa, but I’m hoping we can all go back to our usual half-baked ignorance and favourite prejudices in a week or so.

The Hunting of the Snark has nothing on my efforts to  coax the Chub into  letting  me take  photos of her. Finally I have some  candid and charming  shots and as soon as Yahoo  lets me, I shall post them. Beware the Jabberwock.

In two days time I shall be six years sober. That amazes me and  fill me with incomprehensible gratitude.

Tomorrow morning I shall plant out seedlings of Swiss chard, pak choi, young Italian flat-leaf parsley and a little tricolor sage. Herbs to carry us through from summer into autumn and winter.

Here, predictably a poem concerning you-know-what:

Sober Song

By Barton Sutter

Farewell to the starlight in whiskey,

So long to the sunshine in beer.

The booze made me cocky and frisky

But worried the man in the mirror.

Goodnight to the moonlight in brandy,

Adieu to the warmth of the wine.

I think I can finally stand me

Without a glass or a stein.

Bye-bye to the balm in the vodka,

Ta-ta to the menthol in gin.

I’m trying to do what I ought to,

Rejecting that snake medicine.

I won’t miss the blackouts and vomit,

The accidents and regret.

If I can stay off the rotgut,

There might be a chance for me yet.

So so long to God in a bottle,

To the lies of rum and vermouth.

Let me slake my thirst with water

And the sweet, transparent truth.

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