Autumn is in the air

I sense autumn is on its way. I see it in the light and smell it on the breeze that wafts across the Peninsula. The heat rising from the earth is less intense than last week and if you sit for a while under one of the sprawling milkwoods of Kommetjie, there is a chill that takes you by surprise after the scorching summer we have had.

The swells at the Outer Kom are getting more impressive, a sign that cold fronts are passing closer to the Cape again.  Random cottonwool clouds drift gently overhead, providing intermittent relief from the direct sunlight which still burns even in late February.

The lawn is burnt to a crisp, as our well has dried up for the first time in 29 years and I only water individual plants now. A few days of autumn rain - if we get any - will revive it. I'll just let nature take its course. A sign of the lack of water is nocturnal visits by porcupines, who have been digging under the fence for no apparent reason, but I now realise that they are looking for water from our fountain, as they have also been biting the irrigation pipes. I put a bowl of water outside the fence for them and that seems to have solved the problem.

Another sign of autumn is the gathering of flocks of birds preparing for the long haul back to the northern hemisphere. Once they are all gone, we will know that summer is truly over. I'm sure they stay until the last possible moment.  I would.

Italy #3

SCENE: Parking garage, Milan, Italy
CHARACTERS: Family members x 5
ACTION: Cameras, bags and mountain bike in boot. Close boot.
M: Where are the keys?
J: In the boot.
M: OK, we'll get in from the inside.
J: The doors just locked automatically.
M: Oh no! Self-locking when the boot closes. (Takes out cellphone, calls car hire company. Words per minute and hand gestures more Italian than the Italians. Finishes call.)
M: They don't have the spare key.
Chorus:  But we're leaving for Tuscany tomorrow!
M: Don't worry. We'll break a window and pay for it. It's cheaper than hiring another car.
REST OF SCENE: None of us has ever broken into a car before. What do we use? We try a spanner. A hammer. A spark plug. My father, who I believe has never committed an act of violence in some 84 years or so, grabbed this opportunity to engage in a nefarious deed and bashed away industriously. To no avail. Not a dent, chip, scratch or crack. We tried every window. Nothing. They must be made from some military strength material. What are the Italians afraid of, drive-by shootings? (That could be it, of course.) We are forced to give up our attempts at breaking and entering, and head off on foot for the Duomo and a spot of sightseeing while M takes a taxi to the airport to hire another car.
                                                          -END OF PART ONE-

Paris #1

I was in Paris some years ago with a friend and we decided to visit a fleamarket which we'd read about in the guide book. We made our way there on the metro, and when we came out into the street, found ourselves in the dodgy part of town. We could as well have been at any fleamarket anywhere in the world, as the stalls were manned by the same foreign nationals from West Africa, selling the same cheap goods from the East. No charming Frenchman (is that an oxymoron?) displaying traditional French bric-a-brac and homemade delights. Having slogged our way there, we browsed anyway, and found ourselves at a jewellery stall with a group of Japanese tourists.
I suddenly noticed that there was an arm between me and the lady next to me, and that it was up to its elbow in her handbag. This struck me as being incorrect and without a second thought I turned and hit the owner of the arm on the shoulder quite forcefully, dislodging his arm from the handbag. He stepped back, opening his jacket to show us that he hadn't taken anything yet. In that instant it flashed through my mind that he might have been part of the group, but his retreating back as he ran off allayed that fear. He was also a foreign national, a legacy from the French colonial past.
The Japanese group kept bowing to me, a little embarrassing for a Westerner unfamiliar with their politeness. I was just relieved that I hadn't made an awful fool of myself!
We decided after that that discretion was the better part of valour and beat a casually hasty retreat from the area in case the would-be thief had a gang of friends. I doubt whether too many people hit him. And I am rather pleased that my instinctive reaction was attack rather than retreat. I would have made a good caveman.

My husband the racing driver

He Who Can Fix Anything (aka Richter - after the earthquake scale as a measure of his temper at any given time) is a motor sport fanatic and 'amateur' racing driver. He is in fact last year's winner of the Fine Car category at Killarney, Cape Town, and is the proud displayer of the No. 1 sticker on his car for the 2012 season. Not bad for a 1968 Ford Escort 1600 racing against 3 litre monsters. Of course it is all the years of driving around Chapman's Peak, honing his cornering skills, late braking (if at all) and overtaking in the most unlikely places, that has contributed to his success.

I was hoping that he would retire while he was at the top, but that hasn't happened. All modifications and repairs are done by him and barely a weekend goes by without taking out the gearbox to replace a gear or the head cylinder to replace a gasket - and as for chasing those elusive oil leaks! The air turns purple when things don't go smoothly (most of the time) and the garage is a place to avoid. I suspect the neighbours can hear his inventive language, as they never seem to come outside on weekends. He assures me that he is enjoying himself, but I'm sure working on cars is the cause of his high blood pressure.

Needless to say, I am the mechanic's assistant and have to stand by at all times to pass the 12 spanner or long-nosed pliers, but mainly to help lift the gearbox back into place and bleed the brakes, one of my least favourite occupations. After a hard day in the garage, he then expects me to have also produced dinner of restaurant quality, even though the cook hasn't been in the kitchen. He doesn't even help with the ironing. 
But at least I can spot an oil leak and change a tyre!