Anecdotes from a Scribe's Memoirs in the Chilly Embrace of (upcoming) Winter Season

So here I am, deep in thought, having dreamt that I would be somewhere around the globe enjoying warm weather or the balmy climates of other peaceful nations' summers. I mention this because one of the personal anecdotes in The Scribe's Memoirs (be advised, it's a rare item; there's only one copy available on the entire earth!) suggests that when winter arrives, people like myself, with a penchant for warmer climates, should venture to some sunny land somewhere on God's green earth and dwell there until we return to the beloved southern tip of colourful Africa come summer.?

Of all eventualities, I had hoped that by now I would be somewhere in Bermuda (at Hamilton’s, if I may be specific), soaking the throat with the good ol' firm waters, and not worrying a jot about electrical expenses and the costs thereof arising due to my deserved usage of power for warmth and other necessary homely deeds. But then, I've been told of being possessed by such ambitious dreams for a humble servant of life (as if languishing in the crude realities of present days is of any help to one's sense of hopefulness).?

Meanwhile, presently there's no load shedding. Eskom has allowed us some respite from the torment, for some odd reason. It is God’s plan, as a devoted churchgoer tells me, since Easter Month persists. I’m informed that by commemorating the resurrection of Jesus from the dead, this means that He must find light since he’s from the darkest pit. Load shedding doesn’t bode well with such an auspicious, religious occasion. I’m not one to argue with a respected theologian. ?

Which means this scribe can recline on the sofa and do whatever he does best, one of which is to enjoy the electric heater, thus indulging in what I call moments of useful passivity. It keeps one busy, lest the habit of being ‘occupied’ should be broken and a taste for idleness acquired. Indeed, it’s useful to set oneself to the serious study of the great aristocratic art of doing absolutely nothing (go away, Oscar Wilde). ?

In deep thoughts, that is, yes, in profound ponderances about nothing of consequence. A most recent of thoughts – as I idly gazed out the window a few days ago, lost in a reverie, my attention was abruptly seized by the sight of a man strolling down the street. He sauntered along the pedestrian walkway, clad in nothing more than shorts and a vest. The absurdity of his attire on such a brisk day left me utterly perplexed and continues to bewilder the mind. A flurry of questions danced through my mind like leaves in the wind. Is he hitting the gym, explaining his attire of just a vest and shorts on this chilly afternoon? Or perhaps he's simply daring the elements out of sheer audacity. But then, I pondered, who in their right mind, from whatever corner of the world they hail, would permit such a sartorial choice? Are they, too, possessed by the same madness? ?

So many queries swirled around me, yet I harboured no expectation of answers, for in that moment, I stood solitary, an observer amidst the enigma of the outside world. Despite the chill in the air, the chap displayed no signs of discomfort, which stirred a twinge of envy within me. Surely, I thought, he must have weathered far harsher conditions than this.?

Compelled by this curious spectacle, I promptly reached out to a friend via WhatsApp to share my observation, seeking solace from the monotony of the moment. This pal, ever keen to punctuate the mundane with a touch of ominous forewarning, cautioned me against dismissing the man's apparent indifference to the cold: "If he persists in such disregard for his own well-being," my friend intoned with his trademark uncanny gravitas, "he may find himself beset by a merciless cold fever tonight, destined to lead him on a journey to Death Valley in the morning.”?

While we texted back and forth, La Bohème’s last act’s music played in the background, the sound beaming through from one of the speakers in the study. That unfortunate moment where Mimi is just about to visit (with the inevitable promise of no return) the long night. Puccini’s music served as the background to my friend’s message. The fact that the female fictional character perishes because of consumption disease (do we call it TB or white death? Whatever sails your boat), she too dies of cold.?

Reader-dearest: Winter season is slowly creeping in. Dress warmly, for if I bump into you dressed in shorts and a vest, expect a good, firm scolding from this humble scribe; and if we do bump into each other, in case I ask for an explanation for your forewarned blunder, don't tell me your lover lacks poems (papers, that is) for the fireplace or stove, like in La Bohème, or even firewood – that warmth may have faded with summer. For winter is looming. ?

It's a bit hazy so far, so grab a blanket if you're staying home, and dress warmly in case you need to venture out. Keeping warm is the key to keeping the cold at bay – as if you didn’t know this. ?

Ever observant, I'll be watching, like big brother, as you were!?

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