I've long ago learnt to write before eating, which is why I know that any attempts now to blog will be futile: I've had my chicken salad, it got here while I was still stuffing around and because I was starving this is now a half-hearted attempt to put words down. The old adage of a starving writer producing the goods is not only an accurate one, but a reality. A full stomach in my case leads to much of nothing.
Especially on a scorching hot summer's afternoon in late November: clammy-and-wet armpits, sweat trickling down my abdominals, a thankfully cool breeze through Narona pizzeria in Buitenkant street, Gardens.
My glasses are glued to the damp and sticky bridge of my nose as a skinny-white and decrepit old man with battleship grey hair and pronounced sinews (I don't think there's an iota of fat on his scrawny scarecrow body) sidelines past with one impossibly-heavy Pick 'n Pay shopping packet in his gnarled right hand.
I'm on a perspiring glass of Fairview sauvignon blanc: I sidelined into here for some relief and shade en-route to collect a few groceries.
It's pay day: for someone who's freelanced for the maajority of his existence in a materialistic society, it's still enormously satisfying to receive my salary into my account on the 25th of every month, irrespective.
That, in the photo, is the terrifyingly tall Christmas tree at the Victoria & Albert Waterfront.