I woke to tea and grief and dream-conversations, once Ikhwezi lokusa had pulled at me in the pale blue of the dawn, as the Moon decayed brightly opposite her. In the crispness of the courtyard. Millicent the pig was happy to see me – though I suspect that she would have been happy to see anything bearing a plate of breakfast.

There is a rustle of clothes, the static of hairbrushes and the brevity of a kiss and I am left alone, minding Milly’s sauntering trip around the lawn, watching the sun inch down the cypresses and lemons in the garden. It is only once I’ve sat down at my desk that I realise something is missing – the golden-orb spider’s web is gone. 

I think it was a bird that took her, though it could just as easily have been the unhlangula wind coming in to scatter and brush off the last pieces of autumn. 

Thinking this, I realise that this is the last moment I have to observe the rhythms of this house today – a vast swathe of my remaining Tuesday is fully booked, locked in a zig-zag tracery of highways, intersections and gates across the map of Jozi. 

{Publishes post, gets back to work}