Wilson's tacky Wharf

Candlelit deep-foam bath, 500 km from the coast, and over a week away from last Saturday night: at peace, centered, deep silence, black cat on the bath edge, contentment, happiness, peacefulness.
After the Indaba last Saturday afternoon, and before the welcoming party at the People's Park at the Moses Mabida stadium, Durban, we snuck off to Wilson's Wharf across from the harbour: six oysters gleefully shucked - and (almost) squirming in a wonderfully lethal Tabasco/lemon juice/black pepper concoction - and a large cocktail each, served by a soft voiced Thai woman named Lilly.
Tacky, tatty and rundown, I'd not take anyone there, to the wharf, that I'd want to impress; although being on water's edge is always good for my soul.
My eyes are shutting, I'm dreading the effort to get out of my bath; it's a race and pay-off against the slowly cooling water. Then to bed and an electric blanket on setting 'one'.
It was another day of centering myself, communicating, chilling, focusing on the clearly murky way forward.
Our Saturday night together was a crazy one; we over did it on every single level, and paid the price. In full. Then an angry, and angry-worded 95 km ride home to Hibberdene, before, suddenly, beginning to make love while driving, and just before clothes-around-ankles-from-car-to-upstairs room passion that even now leaves me breathless in memory.
A week later and even more water, a lot more in fact, has passed beneath our bridge; I can honestly write that I'm in love, and with all my heart.

Good night