I’ve been here nearly two weeks after our “semigration” from my home city, Cape Town. Most of it’s been spent unpacking boxes, drinking too much whisky and driving around the megalopolis trying to find decent furniture.

The GPS has taken me through Mayfair, similar to the rougher parts of Woodstock with its seedy slum feel, and a suburb called Blairgowrie, which could have been directly transplanted from Cape Town’s Plumstead.

Then there was Fourways. Fourways defies comparison, but imagine Parklands mixed with Belville, multiply by 20 and wave a Tuscan wand over it.

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Last week I wrote about our rather traumatic journey to the city of gold, thanks to kulula (once again) delaying then cancelling our flight. A few days later I received an apology from the airline and a discount on our next flights.

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After Alistair and I tweeted about our horrific Kulula experience on Saturday, Kulula asked me to email them. Below is the email I sent detailing the nightmare of cancelled flights, airport sprints and complete lack of care shown towards fur children.

Basically I’ve asked them to sort their shit out. I used to be a fan, but until they fix their planes I’m regretfully going to be supporting the de facto parastatal that is SAA.

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After a trip to the hospital that was less Grey’s Anatomy and more Nurse Jackie, I spent the past week in bed not doing anything interesting except annoying my husband with a nagging cough. Apparently there are degrees of bronchitis and it doesn’t “just go away”.

I believe bed is for fun and sleeping, not convalescing, which is why in my sneezing, sniffing, stomach-crunching coughing misery I still felt vaguely amorous. Maybe it’s that whole affirmation of life thing. I certainly felt like dying.

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