There is a boy, a blonde, disabled boy being taken for strolls, in my hood, in his oversized pram, by his nanny in her blue uniform. And when I drive past this blonde boy with his nanny in her blue uniform, it strips away the carefully constructed world I built around a 9-year old girl with her own disabled baby boy brother with her brown hair.
Ek het polisiefamilie. Familie wat in die polisie is. My oom en tannie is al afgetree. Volgens oorvertelling kon my tannie ŉ konstabel met die plathand oor ŉ lessenaar klap. Alhoewel ek dit nie met my eie oë gesien het nie, het ek dit as wys beskou om nie met haar skoor te soek nie.
My sister, four years older than me, has not spoken to me in 12 years. (Of course it is a euphemism for surgically cutting me out of the fibre of her life.) She blames my love for women. She is of the opinion that it is infectious and consequently a threat to her young. I, of course, do not hold such an opinion.
Granted, this might not qualify as a beer, but it certainly qualifies as a kraft/craft drink. Unfortunately I do not remember much about it, except that it was NOT bad, because I had to hastily swig it down to get into Soccer City to watch Bruce Springsteen! I am sure most of you will understand. I will have to revisit. (Such a tough life.)