This morning from my kitchen armchair I'm watching this pigeon, one of a pair, quenching her thirst,
when a birthday balloon, one of a pair, floats over the honeysuckle fence from next door and makes a little bouncing tour of the garden,
buffeting itself over the daisies like an enchanted ballerina.
I catch it before it snags on a rose bush and bat it gently back over the fence. I'm rewarded with a little voice saying thank you floating back to me through the honeysuckle thicket.
This is Africa hot for me - this enervating sticky heat that I used to love but it just makes me cross and lethargic now. This afternoon I can only lie on top of the counterpane on my bed, the curtains blowing into the room, and read my book trying to ignore the black fly beating itself against the window pane - a tiny demented Dalek.
It's too hot to eat much so all I want is slice after slice of this crisp perfumed watermelon, not caring about the juice dripping down my chin like tears.
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