I've not left the house for a few days now.
The black cat sits on a pile of books by the window; she's tightly hunched against the coolness and the greyness of the day. She's black-smooth-velvet against the deep-dark green of the tree that reaches, grabs more closely daily for my window.
My tea steeps on the bedside table; the fat Penguin edition Paul Theroux I'm currently reading - My Other Life: A Novel - is a little further away, right under the desk fan, I'd have to reach out of my way for it. Its contents, what I've read so far, are coursing through my veins, deliciously steeping in my brain juices.
I bought the handsome secondhand copy for a mere R20 at the Ballito SPCA charity shop from a faded but bright and chirpy older woman; she blossomed beneath the genuine downpour of my praise for the large book section, it's varied amd fascinating contents, and low prices.
Midmorning yesterday the heatwave unexpectedly broke: Gale force winds drove a cold front, much lower temperatures and eventually, late last night, rain, up the coast from the Eastern Cape.
The storm seemed to gather and rage around my wooden upstairs room battering the walls and windows, but not flustering the cats. I'm still held captive here, reluctant to leave. My warden, kindly and generous, allows me to pretend that here in the eye of my storm reality no longer exists.
While in reality my cheese has moved, I'm resisting change, and will soon starve...despite the kindness of strangers.
