Our guests arrive in the late afternoon. They are two women, a mother and daughter, from Kadoma. For some bizarre reason, whenever I meet someone from Kadoma, I always tell them that I was born there, because I was, of course. When I say this, they always ask me what my surname is and then they always shake their heads and say the name does not ring a bell - and it wouldn't. I may have been born in Kadoma, but parents didn't actually live there. They lived on the Dalny mine at Chakari. Kadoma was the nearest place with a maternity hospital. When I say that, they always nod slowly and the conversation ends. Me being born in Kadoma has never led to a wider conversation. I shall refrain from mentioning it next time.
The younger woman works in Cambodia, teaching English and she has come to see her son, who lives in Bulawayo, before she flies back there in a week's time. About twenty minutes after they arrive, I receive a message asking if there are knives and forks. This is strange. Of course there are knives and forks. But there aren't. The cutlery has vanished. It seems our thief is back. We had a problem about six months ago with someone taking small items out of the garage and they also took the iron from the ironing room. The kitchen window was slightly open so they have obviously put their hand in and taken the cutlery which is on a stand on the table. We think it's our neighbours. It's a pity that we haven't had the frogs we usually have this year. I'd inundate their garden with the biggest toads I could find.
The fridge has also stopped working - for the third time since we have had it. We have to give them my dad's fridge instead.
Time for a large G&T.
No comments:
Post a Comment