Image from internet
Each day after work my skin burns as the heat escapes from it. It feels like I have been lying in the sun all day. The heat radiates from my body, my skin is sticky and I feel claustrophobic.
At work not one window in the building can open, there is no back exit or fire exit. The fumes from the chemicals have damaged my sense of smell long ago. I have to ask other people to choose my perfume for me because my sense of smell has been damaged.
Friday afternoon I can’t wait to kick off my uncomfortable shoes and t-shirt and put on something which is cooler, more loosely fitting and more comfortable to wear.
For me the weekend is:
• being bare foot
• enjoying cool drinks topped with ice
• enjoying the shaded areas in the garden
• watching the black dog chase the doves & hadedas (out of his garden)
• being able to relax on the couch
• listening to music or watching movies
• taking a mid afternoon nap
• taking a relaxing bath
• blogging until the early morning hours
Image from internet
And that is why I hate Mondays when it all ends.
The best way to relax is to recline in a bath filled with bubbles.
Bubbles appeared on the lawn after the rain.
10 years old
I was playing a game in the kitchen and my mother said “GB go and play outside I am going to wash the floor tiles”. I went outside and after about 10 minutes I had forgotten what my mother had said and ran into the house but as I came in at full speed, through the back door, my feet slipped right out from under me as I stepped on the soapy tiles and I slid across the kitchen floor. Although I had a bruise on my bum I was not injured. The injury came when my mother said “You fell heavily GB even the refrigerator rocked from side to side”
17 years old
We hadn’t been on holiday in years. One December my grandfather, aunt and my whole family went down and met in Durban for the holidays. We stayed in the same hotel. The weather was hot and it was a great day. I was wearing beautiful sandals and a bright summer dress. While waiting in the morning sun for my aunt, my father said to me in front of my grandfather and his acquaintances “GB what’s wrong with you feet?” I looked down shrugged I had no I idea what he meant and squirmed under everyone’s scrutiny. “You have ugly feet like my great-grandparents!” he finally announced.
I think in those days my feet looked good, much better than now, because age is very unkind to feet. My parents were cruel with their remarks but my feet served me well.