Nightswimming

Everyone bailed out of yachting (which they pronounce jag-ting – as in Afrikaans for hunt) but my racist Turkish suitor took me to the beach anyway.

Dead salty sea. You wade out for about a kilometre before the water reaches shoulder height and then just float. It’s like a salty dam. The temperature was a whopping 42 degrees, the water 20 degrees, but you don’t burn because the sun’s rays are dispersed by all the dust.

Then, the sun goes down and everything turns shimmering silver and they turn up Schumann on the loud speaker to persuade people to evacuate. Instead it was quite enchanting: Night-swimming (REM?) to classical piano sounds.

Yesterday I hid, next to my air-conditioner with Breyten Bretenbach – the two whitie expats in bed together – and tried to play it cool to the wailing SMSes from the suitor. I’m going to have to tell him. How do I get into these situations?

A rhetorical question. Of course I know. I don’t put myself across enough, I just nod because he’s the only person I know outside of work. And he is a babe, if too boring to even fuck.

Tonight I’m going to watch a school play.