The appeal of synchronicity runs deep

Not being one to shrug off responsibility – I will admit I allowed myself to be treated badly – knowingly. Twice now. My first love and the latest one. I understand the implications but I also understand that what I need above all else is to find inner peace and acceptance. I understand I am this version of myself because of my own personal self-bashing.
My body is the psychical manifestation of this.
I woke up this morning and noticed a smashed whisky glass on the floor – damn I had forgotten about breaking that glass last night, I was quite fond of it, it was one of the few we managed not to break from his house. I can see him holding it, swirling it around elegantly, and talking with furrowed brow about some self- consumed subject. He was not an intellect, but being utterly oblivious to this knowledge was almost endearing.
Last week my phone was stolen – with it two years of digital memories of us. Him singing to me, videos of us, conversations, arguments, declarations of love and hate with equal intensity. Digital proof of a love that consumed me. Relationships are so different these days – this 24/7 contact we maintain with our partners, being obligated to be available virtually,  when not being in their company. What’s app conversations having as much importance as eating dinner together – only there is no nonverbal feedback, you can’t see that his eyes are actually dead when he writes I love you. Two years ago it started. Coinciding events aligning perfectly – Synchronicity.

I found this sweet essay on the topic:

“Often synchronicities are simply a lark, a wink from the cosmos.
Rebecca, a screenwriter, was researching the life of a mysterious woman, a famous writer’s lover who had died tragically at a young age. Driving to Boston to view the writer’s archives, Rebecca on a whim stopped off at the sprawling cemetery in the woman’s home town, and quickly chanced upon her gravestone. On top of it was sitting a rabbit, its pink nose quivering. At the sight of Rebecca, it started skittering around in circles. In Boston a few hours later, she was reading through the writer’s diaries when in the margin of a page, she came upon a few lines of curlicue, schoolgirlish handwriting, which she recognized as being the young woman’s. The words? “Thank God for the rabbits and their funny little habits.”
“A Wink from the Cosmos,” by Meg Lundstrom

So I’ll have a smile on my face now as I clear away the glass – slowly but surely, piece by piece I’m starting to see clearer and dream bigger. It’s all as it should be. I just need to love this face in the mirror a bit more.


I cant even write the word – without thinking of my favourite wines!

Martin Meinert Synchronicity

I have loved Meinert Wines for many years now. Its a small boutique winery in Devon Valley, and like all small wine producers – you can taste the care in the softness of the wine.  I met Martin at a wine and food pairing at Pomegranate in Melville, days when living in Cape Town was a far-fetched dream! I remember he was by far the most charming and eloquent wine maker I had ever come across. (In my vast experience of meeting wine makers in Jozi!)  He is also a partner along with Ken Forrester in owning  the much-loved  96 Winery in Stellenbosch. I haven’t eaten there for a while – but I can easily recall an amazing Duck and Cherry pie in front of a cosy fire!

I have a bottle of 2000 Cab which I plan on opening really soon – I’m really just looking for the perfect occasion! Well I’m waiting for synchronicity really!

Wine Collection

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…because the girl who reads knows the importance of plot.

My dear friend sent me this passage – it resonates with me for various reasons – it is also that little gem that finds its way into your life at the right times.

I have only copied the first and last paragraph.

The entire piece can be found here:

‘You should date an illiterate girl.Image

Date a girl who doesn’t read. Find her in the weary squalor of a Midwestern bar. Find her in the smoke, drunken sweat, and varicolored light of an upscale nightclub. Wherever you find her, find her smiling. Make sure that it lingers when the people that are talking to her look away. Engage her with unsentimental trivialities. Use pick-up lines and laugh inwardly. Take her outside when the night overstays its welcome. Ignore the palpable weight of fatigue. Kiss her in the rain under the weak glow of a streetlamp because you’ve seen it in a film. Remark at its lack of significance. Take her to your apartment. Dispatch with making love. Fuck her.

Let the anxious contract you’ve unwittingly written evolve slowly and uncomfortably into a relationship. Find shared interests and common ground like sushi and folk music. Build an impenetrable bastion upon that ground. Make it sacred. Retreat into it every time the air gets stale or the evenings too long. Talk about nothing of significance. Do little thinking. Let the months pass unnoticed. Ask her to move in. Let her decorate. Get into fights about inconsequential things like how the fucking shower curtain needs to be closed so that it doesn’t fucking collect mold. Let a year pass unnoticed. Begin to notice.’


“Don’t date a girl who reads because girls who read are storytellers. You with the Joyce, you with the Nabokov, you with the Woolf. You there in the library, on the platform of the metro, you in the corner of the café, you in the window of your room. You, who make my life so goddamned difficult. The girl who reads has spun out the account of her life and it is bursting with meaning. She insists that her narratives are rich, her supporting cast colorful, and her typeface bold. You, the girl who reads, make me want to be everything that I am not. But I am weak and I will fail you, because you have dreamed, properly, of someone who is better than I am. You will not accept the life of which I spoke at the beginning of this piece. You will accept nothing less than passion, and perfection, and a life worthy of being told. So out with you, girl who reads. Take the next southbound train and take your Hemingway with you. Or, perhaps, stay and save my life.’


C. Warnke

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Tears to laughter in one easy ‘publish new post’ step

My home away from home, after work comfort.

I am spoiling myself with a large Inverroche Gin – locally made and beautiful –  with tonic and a cucumber!

ginIt is another deliciously warm night. The doors are open and you can smell the saltiness of the sea. There is a woman sitting outside who had the most beautiful laugh – one of those twinkly throat laughs that immediately catches your attention and intrigue. For a really long time I have been self-conscious about my laugh…well the thing is I feel like I never found my real laugh, that somehow I copied bits and pieces of laughter from other people.  Now I just smile with Chinese eyes and regurgitate bits of stolen sounds in a rather desperate attempt to make people believe I really DO find them funny! I can’t remember when last I giggled…I don’t think that can be manufactured.

It’s been an odd week, it feels as though the week never quite began, I foolishly didn’t do yoga, ate terribly and drank way too much. Monday was particularly bad; I started drinking a really expensive Port midday! I can’t allow these days to go by like this – seamlessly – with little to show for it.  It’s not healthy!  No worse than that; it’s not doing me any good!

I have temporarily given up on the Dukan Diet…  We have been going to some brilliant places to dine – to diet would be a crime!

Last night we ate at La Boheme. I had the chicken liver parfait and then a confit duck leg.  Should I gain a kilo – well it’s a gain I won’t bloody regret! Ah that sexy place never fails to deliver!

La boheme

I have re-discovered an old high school friend, one of the few who are still cool and not talking about babies, he plays guitar and gets ridiculously excited about everything and questions everything – he also had a dark, mischievous side which I really enjoy. One of those little thoughts that cross my mind…amazing the appearance of certain people into our lives and the right moments!

Well I’m going to nurse my Gin now and research recipes for lunch tomorrow – hopefully I’m having guests, which I hopefully won’t poison.









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“I’m on a train.”

His voice sounded hard, defensive. I pictured him sitting there, head leaning back, his eyes dark, shifting uncomfortably. He had tried to put this off, master of avoidance – never wanting to feel the full consequences of his actions…always looking for the easy way out, a safe place, a warm body,  leaving trails of destruction behind.

I tried to keep my voice stable, I didn’t want to get high pitched – the question had to be asked, I needed the book to close.

“Are you living with her?”

“Yes, Yes I am”



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My cup runneth over

It’s one of those surprising evenings – where you step outside, it’s almost midnight and yet the air is almost warm on your skin. I am sitting next to my window which is wide open, drinking a glass of wine and this really isn’t winter…really!

We had a lovely night, the girls and I, finally made it to The Loading Bay on the one night of the week that they are open. A delicious craft beer – I forget the name, truffle skinny chips and a Beet burger.

We followed this with a cocktail / coffees at the Piano Bar – lovely and dark with a beautiful cat lurking round.

On my way home, as usual I started having conversations with him in my head.

“We went to the Piano Bar – remember how we loved it there?  How cool it was to just walk up the road. Remember when we had the Lebanese salad – it was so good! We also had a few arguments, you left me there once, and I can’t remember how it ended. “

 Oh how I regret the arguments now…

 I had a busy day today – it started with a therapy session. I decided I needed to figure out why such a strong woman as myself, has suddenly started crying at the drop of a hat. I know it is partly because I miss him, but to be honest – these waterworks have started causing me concern. Even speaking about them in this secluded little session – awakened a burning veil of tears that threatened to come dancing out my eye sockets. I found myself swallowing and swallowing. Why am I so angry? Why can I not stop crying?

” You cry because you are hurting” she said. Being strong all these years hasn’t helped me at all, because it seems I have used up my quota of being stoic and strong, my tears have been banked and there is nowhere left for them to be stored.

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