Running for a train on the eve of our last elections – you’d think that my mind would be burning through the issues, scoping the crowd, trying to figure which way it’s all going to go.
You’d be forgiven for imagining that I’m thrashing out some last-minute arguments to post on the walls of various cyber-communities – some tightly worded slogans meant to provoke thought. Or even that I’d be realising how tired I am after months and months of escalating buffoonery on all sides of SA’s electrified fences.
I’d understand if you thought all of that.
How could you possibly imagine that someone would walk past me, and that the smell of patchouli would wipe the teeming slate of my mind completely clean – leaving only the weirdest heart-clench of my very first love?