OYSTERHOOD is reclusiveness or solitude, or an overwhelming desire to stay at home.
The manuscript mystery deepens. A woman who lives in my neighbourhood, a few streets away from my home, rang the bell this morning and delivered a card addressed to me that she found in her postbox – the card which accompanied the manuscript which disappeared from my property during the weekend … The thief decided to keep the manuscript, but discarded the card – into this woman’s postbox …
I was asked for a shout for a book that will be published later this year and I delivered the shout today, very excited about the publication. I can imagine that the book will cause a bit of a stir in certain parts of the literary community.
I had a really bad night, but work started anyway just before seven and by four-thirty my brain refused to function, so I gave up and swam and then lighted a fire and braaied steaks my love bought for our dinner. Now, I am already in bed, full of hope for some decent sleep.
But how does one sleep with another horror milestone passing: 100 000 Covid-19-related deaths in the UK. And South African excess deaths during the pandemic are at around 85 000 already, I read last night when I was awake. I know that one often cannot help being infected with the Coronavirus, and yet I wonder all the time where we would be if we were just a little bit more careful with one another. And sometimes, I feel a strange anger swelling inside and I don’t even know exactly where it is coming from. My cheeks are sore.
Be kind. Wear a mask. Support local.
“Physical distancing remains one of the key strategies to curb this pandemic.”