And there we were, the three of us just after the sun had set and as that first, early darkness was dropping, with the infant in his trolley, the winds of Araby blowing like a lover's whisper in our ears, hot and husky and stealing away our breath and drying our throats, as all the cars in the country raced paste the Gulf Road, drinking contraband Cape champagne.

"Sparkling -."

Shush you. I won't ruin a perfectly good alliteration over some technicality. It occurred to me that it couldn't get much better than that. So I took an imaginary Polaroid picture and after they had all gone I stayed behind just a minute longer to see how it had turned out. Turns out it turned out alright. It really did.

Contraband Champagne,
written 50 weeks ago

I cracked again today, just like I cracked yesterday, and the day before that. It feels like I've been cracking for months. I have more cracks in me than dry firewood. You who always offered support, affection, and devotion hold out your hands for warmth. Like a spark in a fire, something crackles, snaps and bursts. I lash out at those that I can't keep away. The people that refuse to stay where they'll be safest. Truth is - and all cheap metaphors aside - I've been grumpy with my colleagues, angry at my friends, short-tempered with my family, and untrue to myself. 

I'm not ready to apologise yet, but I'm trying to change.

(-it's a twelve step program)