Monday morning. I woke up at seven and leapt out of bed to switch on the kettle. I then flew back into bed and huddled under the duvet, slightly shocked by the fact that I did not manage outsprint the cold during my trip to the kitchen. The iciness that was initially confined to my eyelids (yes, that cold) slithered down to flood my limbs. I thought if I lay very still the cold would think that I was already dead, and would then abandon me, but apparently (my 41st winter – you’d think I would know that by now) it does not work like that. Once the cold has you, you have to wait a lo-o-ong time for warmer temperatures to come and rescue you. Like, an hour.
My inability to deal with temperatures below 20⁰C is the only way in which I am currently out of sync with the world. The universe has continued to affirm my general course of life-action via synchronistic articles in the newspapers. J and I went to see Milk this weekend, and on Sunday there was an article about legislating gay marriage in the US in the Washington Post. See?
And just when I thought the Helen Zille thing could not get any more ridiculous, the newspapers stopped reporting on it. Really. Almost nothing on Sunday. The Sunday Times clearly thought that enough’s enough and delegated coverage of the matter to Ben Trovato and Zapiro (not his best work, really). The Independent felt the matter serious enough to editorialise on it briefly (I find it amusing that Jovial accuses Mrs Zille of “starting” the spat, when she wrote this week that the media indeed “created” the whole thing.) I think she is right. On the press thing. Not the cabinet thing.
Speaking of which… a final thought, really…
I wonder if Helen Zille lies in bed at night thinking that she has made a terrible mistake, and has no real way of fixing it in the short term. I wonder if she sat for weeks with the CV’s of all the possible members of a future cabinet, and weighed ability against equity, and consulted (who would she have consulted with?), before announcing the list that has everyone in such an uproar.
It is impossible to pretend that it is not a disaster.
One of the girls at rugby club on Saturday (very happy for the Bulls, although two SA teams in the semi’s would have been great) felt that the most disappointing aspect of the whole debacle was that Mrs Zille had the opportunity to raise the bar, to push the envelope and to embrace the opportunity to set an inspiring example as an intelligent and hard-working, female premier of the Western Cape. And then she just turned out to be another Maggie Thatcher-type… well… disappointment. I wonder if she feels that.
Now I really do have to leap out of bed. The day has started without me.