You most probably won’t believe me when I tell you sometimes a hectic day befalls me. Sure, it’s not often, but occasionally it happens and today was one of those days. If you’ve really got nothing to do and even the thought of pulling the wings off flies can’t get you keyed up, let me guide you through my enthralling day.

WARNING:  The following is trivial and may lead to intense irritation due to its frivolous nature.  Although in my defence I have to tell you, sometimes when the exhausted neighbour feels like throwing in the towel because of the pressures of her medical practice she visits me and happily goes back to her work. What I’m saying here is that's it's often good to walk in the neighbour’s shoes (mine), dancing around on what she imagined were the greener fields on the other side makes her realise my life is also fraught with issues. Little did she know.

So this is all going to read a bit disjointed, but bear with me, it’ll be worth it. Your life will seem meaningful after this. Trust me.

Ok, so the frantic day starts with me deciding to wash my hair ….. I know, Hectic! …. and no, it’s not an everyday occurrence. This frenzied performance is because I’ve got an early start -  I’m going off with Alex to lay claim to some prints which I took to the framers about 3 months ago and now I believe they think I’ve run off without wanting them back.

No actually let me start at the beginning, this story’s more about the haves and the have nots. The thing is I’m a have not, Alex is a have not. Roger is a have and so is Hans.  Unfortunately it seems like one can’t be a half have or a half have not, it’s all or absolutely zip.  It’s to work or not to work and as I’ve said before, I don’t know anyone who has half a job, it seems one has to dedicate oneself to the job or go without. I’ve opted for without, but that’s just my personal preference; it simply suits my lifestyle. 

We, Roger and I are have nots in the car department. R, who works in the government hospital in the townships of the down and outs, refuses to drive anything which would draw attention to itself and invoke envy or desire, ie he believes he’s on full alert for hijacking. So our cars invoke pity and ridicule, ie no self respecting hijacker would be found dead in one of our beat up vehicles.

Now Alex is a have, you see Alex has this Merc estate car which is like a workhorse and carries absolutely everything – huge trees, chairs, bookcases, and now my pictures; she swears anything can fit in this car and she’s going to cart me all the way off to get my pictures and this huge chandelier I ordered, also months ago and is sitting at the airfreight place awaiting collection. 

So we fetch our stuff and charge off to spoil ourselves for the rest of the day relaxing and lunching at the Melrose Arch hotel.  It’s divine there and quite frankly after our dizzying schedule we need a little TLC.  So it’s between coffee and we’re sauntering off to lunch at Mayo’s when I cell phone trills.  It’s Roger, bless his sweet little heart, to say his car has broken down, right there at Bara – apparently the battery’s gone. I must admit I felt rather put out, I mean here I was having a hectic day and he phones me to say he’s broken down.  I know he also works, I mean he left last night for the hospital, worked all night there, all morning there until noon and then needed to race off to his private practice which he should be doing until about 6 -7 tonight, then he does his private operating list in the evening. He’s become this hugely sought-after obstetrician and every pregnant woman wants him in her life. Which is fine, but does it really have to spoil my lunch date.

Thank God for Alex, she always says she doesn’t need computer skills (she’s the ONLY person I know who is 100% PC illiterate and I’m embarrassed to say she actually uses a typewriter to print out her husband’s accounts), to continue, she says she doesn’t need a fucking  ADSL line, a laptop, infra red, 3G, just give her a telephone and a directory and she can sort anything. And I must be honest she did. Apparently you can just phone a battery centre or even a windscreen centre and they’ll come to you, wherever you are and fix it right  there, on the side of the road even.   Huh, I bet you don’t get that kind of service in a first world country.

Thank you so much for tuning in to this amazing saga. Due to the fact that the husband has just arrived home from his dismal day, let me, as his beloved wife, go wash his feet, mop his brow and, because I’m feeling a little guilty I’ve actually cooked him something nice, so I’m going to do the little Stepford wife number tonight. 

Tomorrow is yet another day; another day, another story. Ta-ra.

History’s written to help us understand the present and the way we understand the present depends on how we view the past.

That’s what my friend Erna told me yesterday, she’s was an art teacher, but has since retired and spends her time dropping pearls in the ears of her friends. Yesterday was a holiday here, Women’s Day and we spent it, the whole coyote pack, together. Women are so much nicer than men.

Watching the war unfold in the Middle East reminds me a little of South Africa and the struggle between God’s children and the original inhabitants of this land.

To understand us just a little, quickly read this bit of history.

In 1488 the Portuguese rounded the Cape of Good Hope forging a route to the East to trade in spices.  This was the first time Europeans landed in South Africa.

The Portuguese had little interest in the hinterland of South Africa, but their trade with the East grew more profitable during the sixteenth century and the Cape provided a perfect landfall for picking up water and food.

It was in fact the English who first thought of establishing a permanent settlement in the Cape in 1620, but King James I showed no interest in developing the plan and it was left to the Dutch to take the first steps.

The Dutch East India Company was flourishing and business was booming between the Netherlands and India. The Dutch sent out Jan van Riebeeck to run the new settlement, plant vegetable gardens, improve Table Bay as an anchorage and acquire livestock from the local inhabitants. His rule lasted from 1652 to 1662. When he left there were around 260 citizens.

The Revocation of the Edict of Nantes by King Louis XIV in 1685 forced many Protestant Huguenots to leave France. Many took advantage of the East India Company’s offer of a free passage to the Cape, so marking the first sizeable transfusion of new blood into the tiny colony, around 225 Huguenots arrived, but the colony remained Dutch in character. Although today in the winelands of the Cape there’s a beautiful mix of French and Dutch architecture. Of course there’s still lots of little Chantals and Louis running around the Afrikaans community – they just love the French names.

As the colony grew, the new Governor in 1679 introduced a freehold system of land tenure in Stellenbosch, which is just outside Cape Town, this proved successful and it was extended into other areas.

Problems soon arose, too many farmers meant an oversupply. Some settlers prospered by retaining the profitable monopolies, while others went to the wall. The choice was then between returning to Cape Town or venturing out into the interior.

The ‘open’ frontier was a bone of contention between the trekboers (farmers who grazed their livestock beyond the Drakenstein mountains) and the Xhosa tribes. Two pastoral and hunting groups, each adhering to its own distinct system of land tenure were bound to clash and the first of a new series of ‘frontier wars’ began.

With France invading the Netherlands in 1795 the English, who were worried the French would grab the Cape colony, took possession of the Cape. At first British rule made no difference to life, but in 1820 5000 British settlers arrived and the colony began to be anglicised.

An English colony grew in Natal, taking advantage of the profitable ivory trade.

Meanwhile the Bantu speaking people had just undergone a huge upheaval, something comparable to our two world wars. It was known to some as Mfecane,  to others as Difaqane  or Lifaqanei, but the meaning is similar to ‘crushing’ , ‘hammering’ or ‘forced migration’.

The Zulus or ‘People of the Heavens’ were part of the Mthethwas confederation and in 1816 Shaka, then 29 succeeded his father as Chief of the Zulus. He was a brilliant military tactician and he built the Zulu empire up carefully away from the Mthethwas, well aware that the stronger Mthethwas could easily crush him should he become a threat to them.

In 1818 the Mthethwa were defeated and their influence declined, whereas the Zulus only grew from strength to strength.

Absolute power destroyed Shaka, in 1824 there were no longer any clans in the area south of the Thukela River, to the north the picture was the same. Some estimate that two million people died during Shaka’s reign.

His bloodlust turned on his own people as well and when his mother died, 7000 Zulus were murdered that day in a meaningless killing frenzy.

Shaka’s half brothers, Dingane and Mhlangana brought the madness to an end and stabbed him to death in 1828, he was 41 years old and had ruled for just 12 years.

Shaka had created the Zulu nation but at the cost of destroying the way of life of the Bantu speaking peoples forever.

Meanwhile down in the south the Boers (Afrikaaners) who were the frontier farmers were becoming more and more disenchanted with their way of life and the endless frontier wars with the Xhosa people.

This was the beginning of the Afrikaaners thoughts of mass migration which would be called the Great Trek. There were deeper spiritual and psychological causes, they were despairing with the fact that slaves had been emancipated and were allowed to spread all over the country. The fact that the slaves were now on equal footing with Christians, contrary to the laws of God and the natural differentiations of origins and faith. That it was unendurable for every decent Christian to bow down under such a burden was the reason we preferred to leave, so as to be better able to preserve the purity of our faith and doctrine. Was how Piet Retief put it in his famous Manifesto.

This resulting Great Trek was hailed as the vanguard of Afrikaaner nationalism. It was seen by most Afrikaaners as God’s way of leading them through the wilderness, into their homeland. Away from the English suppressors to a country of their own where they could worship their saviour in their own way. It also offered them free land, cheap labour, good hunting and ‘proper relationships’ between whites and blacks.

But first they had to deal with the local inhabitants.

They decided to establish a Boer republic in Natal, where there was a port and in 1837 Piet Retief was sent to negotiate with the English settlers there and the Zulu king, Dingane.

At first the trekkers were well received by Dingane, but Retief misread the signs and Dingane had them killed. What followed scarred the Afrikaner nation for generations. Early on the morning of 17 Feb the Zulus attacked the rest of the party. In the merciless onslaught the Zulus killed 97 men and women and 185 children and their 250 servants.

The Afrikaaners planned their retribution against the Zulus with great thoroughness. There have been volumes written about the ensuing Battle of Blood River, where the then Ncome river ran red with the blood of thousands of Zulu warriors slaughtered in the battle.  Before the battle the Afrikaners proposed a vow or covenant: if God would grant them victory they would build a church and forever afterwards celebrate the anniversary. To the hard pressed, despairing Boers this victory had all the attributes of divine intervention.

Well that’s the history we all learnt here under the last government. Now, the universities are teaching that in fact Dingane’s half brother, who wanted to overthrow Dingane, sided with the Boers and in fact the Boers fought the Zulus side by side with Mhlangana’s impis.

So it’s all been a huge bit of propaganda, building this impression of God’s chosen race, defeating the black hordes with God’s sanction.

And for me it’s this similarity with the Jew’s story which is so interesting. The Great Trek promulgated by a history of writers as deliverance out of Egypt of the Children of Israel, except the Boers where delivered from the Cape and British rule and trekked to the promised land through the wilderness, which is the same as the Israelites’ journey through the desert. Both see themselves as the chosen people of God and whereas the Boers invaded what was Zulu and Ndebele land, the Israelites invaded Palestine, which was already inhabited.

I know it’s all rather simplistic, but just looking at all these different groups who had these allusions of grandeur and believed they’re God’s chosen race: the Jews, the Muslims, the Nazis, the Afrikaners.

They’ve all got this horrible grasping, grabbing attitude to land.

I wonder if God’s not an infidel?

I picked up an interesting read at the airport the other day:  The Contortionist’s Handbook.

Written by the delightfully eccentric, week-end cocaine aficionado and daily paranoid, Mr Craig Clevenger.  

Firstly let me sing the author’s praises, he’s a genius, a marketing one, if not literary. He writes two sweet words: ‘CHUCK PALAHNIUK’ right there on the outside of the front cover. It’s subtle, he knows that nothing else will matter after that.  Yeah, obviously the guy’s a Sagittarian, surely that explains it all.

Mr Clevenger claims he’s venting about modern society’s penchant for psycho-babble.  So, in retaliation he created this character John Dolan Vincent, who’s a six fingered neurotic savant. For various reasons which I’ll not divulge here, John keeps overdosing on painkillers and, to stay out of the funny farm, he decides to regularly change his whole identity, so to stay ahead of his game he collects other people’s identities. He’s clever and street wise, he has this genius for complex situations, then he falls short on stupid little things.  He’s fascinating and entertaining, brilliant and dumb. It’s the contrasts and the quick edgy discourse that’s compelling.

Although I can’t quite understand Mr Clevenger’s issue with society’s predilection for fung shui; if you remember a good few years ago polite society used to revolve around how much you made, favoured topics of conversation would be: the car you drive, your telephone number – the wrong prefix which put you in the wrong part of town and by Pluto, you’d be out on your cubic zirconia. But since most of the planet lives in poverty and the others are in credit card debt up to their Oakleys, we politely keep away from such subjects and instead we talk star signs, which suits me fine since I’m a Leo, the absolute top of the pile if you’re interested. So do yourself a favour, lie if you’re a Libra, confess to your shoes being made from pleather rather than admit to being a Virgo, unless of course it’s Virgo with Scorpio’s moon rising, that is such an ace. Contrary to popular belief we still have some standards, frankly it’s the same game, just a different topic.

The thing is Mr Clevenger doesn’t catch the subtleties of new age discourse and I fear, since his book’s been a bit of a hit, some of you may be swayed by his rather archaic views, so let me set you straight.  Feng Shui’s a scientific study of energy, unlike coke, which is a relatively modern mood altering experience, wind and water energy has been affecting us since we’ve been us and yes, it affects both your inner and outer child, no matter what your Chinese star sign. And let me just tell you bad energy can be as detrimental to your health as a bad trip or at least as bad as those overdoses John Vincent always ends up taking. So when Mr Clevenger starts rattling on about the evils of holistic DIY, please remember he’s a man who tapes the windows up with foil, so very much like the sociable Howard Hughes.

See, we’ve just seen the dawn of the Age of Aquarius and with that comes change and a moving from money and possessions to spirituality and enlightenment. Poor Clevenger, I hope this won’t affect his royalties. 

So, after all this I can definitely recommend the book, it’s stylish and well written. It’s a quick, fast, clever read, you’ll enjoy it. I promise. Even Mr Palahniuk says so.

I think I’ve done enough on Moz, we all survived basically – some better than others.  It was such an alien environment and as for survival, well Simon would have been the first to leave. In fact he almost did.

When things are so basic there’s no where to hide and however odd that sounds it’s really true. We use all our excessive consumerism to hide our miserable little foibles and without them it’s fairly scary what emerges.

Actually, I’ve just written so much crap I’ve had to delete it all, what a waste of time. I’m becoming such a totally painful bore. Anyway I just want to say this, because I want to say this.

I just have to tell you it was Simon who took the most stuff along and who suffered the most, he had 17 lug boxes crammed with stuff, he brought his toys:  This sail kite thing with this three wheeler buggy that pulls one all over the beach, two kayaks, diving equipment, plus, plus, plus; it took him two days to pack his Landrover and this trailer thing which has absolutely everything in it. Once there he couldn’t cope with the emptiness of our existence. I mean there was nothing to do, literally. We walked the beach, swam, talked, read, ate that’s it. It’s scary for these driven, do, do doers. Always running away from themselves by being busy, busy, busy. It’s scary when one faces the fact that life is incredibly simple.  Yes, we build confusion, complexity, problems, I suppose we believe it gives our lives depth and interest, makes us feel worthy, important. So Simon was a misery; he sulked and sniped and he was meant to be the one who has all the know how, equipment, experience; our big doctor blazing the trail. How the mighty fall. I suppose it’s also this control thing, we love being able to control our environment, if you have the money, you control your space; the more money, the bigger the space, the more minions you get to control. It’s like fake power, I know a few South Africans who don’t like London because they feel worthless there, ordinary, one of the minions, whereas here they’re the big fish in the little pond. It’s just interesting how we all are, I mean I’m not judging the them of course. Ha.

Anyway I can just tell you I cruised through, yes, I’m fabulous, you see I’ve had years of laid back practice before the trip - retired ages ago. The others too, Barbara brought her water colours, when the light was right, about 4 we’d go down to the beach and she’d paint the locals, they loved it. It’s a nice way of connecting with people. There was this one little boy, who we imagined to be an orphan, when the fishermen had distributed their fish, they always gave him the last of their catch, a few little fish strung together, he seemed to always be alone. He just loved looking at the paintings and when Barbara said ‘look that’s you there in the red shirt’ he laughed, it made him so happy to be noticed.

I know at the luxury resorts one does nothing too, but it’s different, your ego’s in full swing. It’s all designer gear, make up, hairdryer. Massages, facials, parading – ok not always, but it’s about shopping, gearing up, masking. It’s always about buying your happiness, well that’s how it seems to me.

Not that I’m above it, I have to admit I don’t really know what this holiday did for me, because the minute I hit Cape Town not a week after the holiday, it was into the shops, a divinely gorgeous Loyd Maish bag and Diane von Furstenberg cross over top later – hmmm, what can I say? I love my masks. Mask me up Armani, Jimmy Choo, BMW.

Ok, so last time we spoke I was waxing lyrical about soul food, but I have to warn you not to take me too seriously; what I mean is, when I say simple, I’m not talking basic.

Within the first hour of setting up camp a local woman came around and asked if she could clean for us. Us, being philanthropic naturally said YES! Nevermind that she’s obviously got Aids and TB and is going to cough spittle onto all our dishes; anything to assist the local population. Not to mention the fact that we didn’t wash up or wash our clothes once and everyday there was a pile of clean clothes, washed dishes, tidied camp. Life in the bush is tough, believe me.

Somehow they, the camper fundies, managed to bring freezers, fridges, stoves and every evening we sat around a fire sipping cold champagne, had ice in our G&T’s and espresso on tap. I have to admit if you’re going to rough it, try to do it with the experienced, they seem to have a knack of making it all bearable.

The most interesting part of all were of course us, the contestants, the participants and often we said if we were in the game, who would be out first. 

I shared a tent with Marisa, we had the best fun. Marisa is presently Gundelfingering her husband, which in normal parlé means she’s divorcing her husband, care of Mr Billy Gundelfinger, SA’s most celebrated divorce lawyer. She was meeting the said lawyer straight after the holiday and had brought masses of paper to peruse before the meeting.  So most mornings she would wake up and start reading what she called the family bible, which was a list of about 350 pages consisting of all their joint worldly possessions, which her husband had drawn up.

So I would lie on my rubber blow up mattress, staring at the tent ceiling, contemplating the day ahead, waiting for someone to come visit, bringing coffee. Marisa would suddenly slap a page and screech.

NO!! I DON’T BELIEVE IT!!!

What?

I CAN’T BELIEVE IT

What?

He’s written here:  Third kitchen drawer - one plastic spoon, broken.

Marisa’s dear husband of many years had, in his lovable compulsive, obsessive little way listed every single possession they owned in each of the four residences they have. He had not only listed each and every item, no matter how big or how immaterial, but had generously put his initials next to any item he thought worthy of his ownership; leaving Marisa very little in the way of material baggage, which she was obviously finding slightly hard to swallow. 

It’s strange listening to someone listing all these possessions they’ve collected over the years, Marisa says he’s a compulsive buyer and they’ve a lot of money, which means there seems to be tons of, what sounds to me like, unused, useless things: crockery, crystal, jewellery, art, cars, holiday houses, etc. God it just goes on forever and honestly, sitting in one of the poorest nations in the world you really have to wonder what it’s all about.

Life in Moz seems so fragile, if anything major happens, everything just cracks. The people seem to live in grass, reed huts, often close by to empty ruined shells of what look like brick and cement small houses.  We wondered why no one had put a roof on them and made them habitable, instead of living in a grass hut.  They grow a small amount of crops, have a goat or two tethered to a tree and as I’ve said, live off the land: oranges, cashew nuts, coconuts, papaya.  There seems to be no healthcare, one sees TB, Aids, basic things like ringworm, cradle cap, most young girls seem to be carrying a baby. But it works, it’s clean, there’s space and harmony.

The coastal road north is slowly being repaired and very soon the tourist trade will boom. Sometime soon one of the major hotel chains is going to move in and start exploiting the fabulous beaches, the locals will flock to the site, shacks will spring up, pollution will kill the fish, destroy the natural surroundings. The little I know about township life in South Africa, it comes with so many social problems which these people living these basic lives don’t have to deal with at the moment.

Normal life for us there seemed so far away, there was no radio, no cell phone signal, no newspapers, quite frankly London could have blown up and we wouldn’t have known a thing. Well, actually I forgot, Marisa’s a passionate Italian and the first thing she did was start going around talking to locals, trying to find a TV for the World Cup. She finally finds the ‘dive shop’ where Jakes, the local diver and his wife live, work and thank God, watch a TV driven by a generator. Marisa immediately schmoozes poor Jakes and the next night it’s her and me going over to Jakes’ place, carrying our little camping chairs to watch his TV. She’d already warned us all, that’s why I’m the only one actually going, the wife’s none too friendly, but Christ the woman answered our smiles by silently glaring at us both, not that that intimidated Marisa, no not at all.  So while the wife slobs on the couch, sending us waves of animosity, Marisa immediately moves in and, believing she’s being charming, tries to draw out both husband and wife. Her comments consist of: God the Italian team is the BEST looking team ever, I mean they are to die for! Jakes kinda agrees, but admits to not really being a soccer fan, soccer’s still a sport for blacks and fairies, here in SA/Moz. Rugby’s for real blokes he assures us. Yes, we nod enthusiastically; well I do, ‘cos I’m polite, Marisa just stares at him, shaking her head in utter disgust. 

It gets embarrassing when Marisa starts dancing around the room whopping and clicking her fingers to Italy’s success, I glance over at ‘the log’ and judging by her facial contortions, I’m nervous she’s halfway to ballistic. Jakes, unlike the spouse, suddenly feels a burning passion for soccer before unknown, before meeting Marisa unknown and believing himself to be fairly intellectual after a few brandies, engages Marisa in in-depth soccer analysis.  It’s difficult to remain upbeat in miserable company and eventually I just wished they’d shut the fuck up, in fact I wished the TV would explode then I could leave these creepy sickos behind and get out of there.  No such luck, Italy won; we’ll be back for the final! The wife looked as excited about that as I felt; another fun filled night in her thrilling company. What bliss.

I’ve got more, believe it or not, tomorrow!!

I’ve just taken a break and paid a quick visit to Cape Town, my brother and his brood were visiting from Dubai and I didn’t want to miss them.

Let me carry on with the Moz holiday ….. We were heading for a place called Morrungulo, which is about 600 kms north of Maputo, basically just a long beach stretching for miles, good diving – there’s a reef and a place to camp. It took us 10 hours to travel 500 kms, 50km per hour.

We met someone who had returned there after 30 years away and he said before the war this part of Moz was mostly uninhabited, the war forced people to the coast in search of food.  The population is only about 19 million and it’s a big country, about twice the size of California which has a population of over 36 million (so says the CIA fact sheet). There seemed to be very few old people and I see the life expectancy is only about 40 years old. 

The people are incredibly poor, monetary wise, but they seem to be living off the land mostly and I didn’t see anyone starving.  Every coconut tree is owned by someone and there’s usually a little pile of coconuts under most trees.  They are successful fisherman, which is surprising since any fairly competent European fisherman will bore you senseless with the list of equipment needed to fish and the contrast between the two was marked, we watched the big game hunters leaving to tame the waters in their two hundred thousand rand boats, the rods, the GPS; seeing themselves as living the Hemingway fantasy.

The locals’ boats look like little tubs, they’re tiny little sieves, which they row out through the breakers, don’t forget these guys can’t swim so they have to time the departure between the waves carefully and hope to hell there’s no sudden drop on the ocean floor, else they drown. They row out sometimes about 60kms, bailing water from the bottom of the boat; they just use hand held lines with a hook and bait. They go out in all weathers, leaving about 7 in the morning and returning about 4.30 in the afternoon.  The local women and children congregate on the beach in the late afternoon and when the little tubs catch a wave, the women wade out to meet them and help them in, it’s actually quite sweet, there’s something so simple and honest about it. From the bottom of these tiny little boats they unload barracuda, tuna, sometimes even marlin and sword fish.

We found the locals not unfriendly, but not terribly interested in us. They’ve had a lot of tough years and they’ve seen it all and just don’t seem to be interested in anymore foreigners, coming to mess with their lives.  They mostly just ignored us, we obviously bought from them, we didn’t take much food, etc we just bought it locally.  It was quite amusing because we went up to a restaurant up on a hill overlooking the sea, God it’s so beautiful, anyway one sits outside on a plastic chair, plastic table, plastic ashtray and a plastic covered, very extensive menu, the few restaurants we went to always had extensive menus, which is surprising since when one looks into the dark interior of the hut/bar/kitchen it’s difficult to imagine goat stew or calamari pizza being prepared basically because the only light’s coming from a single candle and electricity definitely hasn’t reached this darkest part of Africa. 

So the usual little charade goes like this:

He arrives with a pencil and a scrap of paper.

No one’s English, just the menu. Mozambique is primarily Portuguese

So one points at something one imagines could be edible, usually one plays it safe and becomes vegetarian.

He does lots of shaking his head. Not available.

Another choice, another no no.

Eventually one says ‘beer?’

Big happy smile and painful scratching with pencil on paper

Surprisingly enough the beer always arrived cold.

There was a bakery near where we stayed, I don’t know how, but everyday they baked Portuguese bread, it was great. We bought huge crayfish, which are our equivalent of lobsters, massive things; prawns by the kilogram, about 5 kilos. It was paradise. 

There’s something to be said for this simple way of life and I know it sounds very Oprah but this kind of living really feeds the soul, whereas the 5 star hotel treatment feeds the ego, which in itself not a crime, but, in my mind, one needs to do both.  Regularly.

Ok, more soon, I’m going to drag this out as long as possible.