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: