One day last week, I was hot and cranky, and although there had been a lot of domestic nudity, I had the decency to throw on a caftan before going on an ice cream run. No sooner do I walk into the store when an itty-bitty sweetheart of a gal comes up to me and asks, "Can I have that dress when you grow out of it?"
Saturday, I continued on my quest to be a normal young person in the city. After having a nice visit with some of my family, I took a lovely walk through my neighbourhood and around the park and surrounding area. My feet ached from wearing terrible sandals. A regular person kind of ache. Not a cancer ache.
Once upon a time I wrote a book about being a journalist in the 21st century. I was leafing through its pages last evening, when I stopped at the chapter The Less Things Change... It's about my time, 50 years ago, working as reporter/anchor at a startup TV station in Zambia. The chapter starts by describing how we got our foreign news film back there in the 60s. Even after all these years, much is still the same.