Dinner was nice, although my son wanted me to leave a piece of freshly cooked pasta on his bedside table when I went to switch his light out this evening. I declined, because it would never have stayed there all night and it was smeared with a generous coating of olive oil. Olive oil, much like baby oil, just never comes out of the sheets, does it?
But, to be honest, it’s gone downhill from there. I have spent the last hour with an accountant, staring at the details of this page. Now, at this point, I should at least explain that the accountant in question was Mrs 6000. And yes, I knew that she was an accountant when I married her, which just shows you how special she must be. As I complained of the latest raping of my payslip by the taxman, her eyes started to sparkle – the things that make normal people come down with a sudden case of narcolepsy make her day. Strange lass.
But even her enthusiasm did little to make a very, very dull subject any less dull. And, when it was over, the verdict was that I openly gave consent for higher percentage relations to take place and my case was thrown out of court with costs. And SARS had been proven right and I turned to the solace of red wine once again.
And thus, onto that quota photo, which – thanks to my wittering on – now no longer really fits the standard definition, but here it is anyway.
Shot by phone from Campground Road in Rondebosch on the way home yesterday evening, the shadow of Devils Peak visible in the evening sunlight through the smoke of the fires in Fishhoek.
The palm trees framed it nicely, the scaffolding less so.