The call of objects.

I had some nice little lily pads in the city, back when I was a single woman. Most of my possessions have been packed away for almost three years now, but one day I will unpack my crates and gasp. Sometimes, at night when I lie awake, I walk through those places - peering into cupboards and drawers - wondering if I still have that bent spoon, or the postcard from Japan that was written in spirals.

Of course, as I suffer from degenerate collecting disease, I bring things home all the time.

This week has been a doozy.

 The plate is tilted only because I was not paying attention. I love old porcelain maker's marks.

I popped into Randall Hare's shop in Wynberg. He is one of the last true gentlemen in town. A wonderful collection of old Cape furniture and Boer War pieces. He restores everything himself, beautifully.

The shop smells wonderful: resin, beeswax, wood shavings.

This wee bird box from the early 1900's drew me in an irresistible way.

If I were to stay at home and garden and cook, surely I would want less. But alas, I am working on a huge commercial for a small chocolate bar. The work depresses me and I seek rewards. 

A few weeks ago, on a hot, hot day, I met my friend Niki in town. We sat at Café Mozart, under the trees. Niki remembers those trees when they were small. When he was my lecturer at university, he was younger than I am now.

That's me in my rockabilly dress. I never told him about the black beast who lives next door, but there he is! Zorro the chihuahua.

A few nights later, as the tall man and I sat down to dinner, a bat zoomed by in the garden..

The painting was a Christmas gift from me to the tall man. My friend Mrs Owl gave a loo revamp to Mr Owl for Christmas. I've been meaning to ask her how she kept it a secret.