"A weekend in the country," I thought, "How Sondheimesque. I'll smell jasmine and watch little things grow."
Actually, I thought no such thing; but that was a much cuter way to open the column than my real reaction - to tell you how my heart leapt at the thought of spending three days away from Jo'burg would be churlish to Jo'burg.
After all, the very fact that the metropolis is a noisy, overcrowded, frenetically paced commercial powerhouse full of angry, frustrated people in dire need of entertainment is what allows me to practise my dubious crafts there. It's tacky to bite the hand that feeds you. Nevertheless, aforementioned noisy, overcrowded etc, can start to wear a bloke down after a while, so the chance to take a break from all that should never be sneezed at.
I got my chance when a couple of old friends returned from London (which has all of Joburg's irritations magnified threefold, plus more cold, less light and lousier weather), and decided to eschew city life completely. Instead they opted for a farm in the mist belt, one of my favourite bits of KwaZulu-Natal. When they invited me down for a break, I didn't need asking twice.
Fresh air, wide open spaces, peace and quiet, I thought.
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