Busy week

Last week there was no time for writing; I had too many commitments. By Sunday night I was quite exhausted. And yet looking at my diary, it didn't seem so full. How was I able to hold down a job and also do things like visit friends, play squash and train dogs as I used to do when I was younger? One slows down so much as one ages. I suppose it is a blessing. Life might seem very dull and empty otherwise. However last week was certainly not dull and empty. It included a trip to Hermanus to see the whales, another to the West Coast National Park to see the Spring flowers, a visit to the Boomslang walkway at Kirstenbosch, a birthday party, a Dog Agility Trial and a rock concert. I also went on my usual Wednesday fynbos walk, had my grandson Darryl come to visit and attended the weekly Off- the Wall. poetry reading. More than enough excitement for an eighty-year-old! I have learnt a valuable lesson this week. It is not advisable for me to go on a tour organised by Village Management. I do not have the right temperament for outings for the aged. Or perhaps for any organised outings. I only get into trouble. I made myself most unpopular on this particular outing. What I did was to go off for a walk while we were waiting for our lunch orders to arrive. There was a big crowd at the restaurant and I knew we would have a long wait. It just didn't occur to me that members of our party would become impatient and would decide to leave without their food. I had a pleasant stroll. I found a bird hide where I saw dozens of lovely pink flamingos, black-backed stilts, and lapwings. I met a delightful couple who lent me their binoculars. When I thought the kitchen had been given enough time to prepare our lunches I walked back, only to find our party all sitting in the bus, champing at the bit except for two loyal friends who were rushing about frantically calling my name. I suppose I was lucky they hadn't decided to leave without me. I was in disgrace.

Beware of poets on excursions Don't take a poet on Senior's tour not even an old poet Poets are not the same as other folk. They want to stop and look at lilies when it's time for tea. They like to stare at sunsets when it's cocktail hour They compose odes at lunch. When no one else is missing and all are just where they should be, the poets can't be found because they have wandered off like Wordsworth's clouds in search of pelicans or perhaps of rainbows. So now if you should board a bus to travel to a place where tourists like to go, make sure that hidden underneath the rugs and picnic baskets, the folding chairs and vacuum flasks, there aren't any poets