Blasted wind

Two days ago I spent a morning here:

It was hot, and I emerged with a decent beginner’s tan and a general feeling of summery well-being. The next day (yesterday) all hell broke loose in the skies and Cape Town experienced, some say, more rain than it has on any other day of this year. Given that summer is not typically wet in this part of the country, people have started murmuring about global warming. This is good for Al Gore and Leonardo DiCaprio, whose inconvenient truths will make them famous again.

It’s not good for taking long drives into the winelands, as we did yesterday, to the lovely Springfield Estate in Robertson. Fortunately the wines are so good that the tasting almost made up for two hours of torrid driving to get there, but that didn’t help on the way back, which was equally torrid.

It’s also not good for a delightful weekend in the country, such as the one we have planned in the next few days, and which involves 50 people getting to a venue that is now potentially unreachable because the rains have flooded a couple of quaint little – but indispensable – bridges.

I am not happy about this. But if I were a true bridezilla (‘Webster’s Definition: Bridezilla\ bride-zil-a n 1 Horrific, bulging-eyed bride prone to screaming spells and spontaneous fits of hysterical rage. Bridezillas are known to drop blows over seating charts, get bug-eyed at the mere mention of carnations and view hurling champagne at their wedding planners as a form of hazing’), I suppose some strong sedatives would be in order round about now. Fortunately I am not.

In fact, getting to the point of being on the eve of an event which has been meticulously (and lovingly) planned and being faced with the possibility of it turning into a muddy picnic with soggy cake and ruined clothes is actually a good way to put things into perspective. It’s the power of recognising powerlessness, and giving in to the fact that things will simply be as they turn out, and while right now I have no idea how that is, I’m pretty sure it will be good. We will be fed and clothed, after all.

At the risk of having a Khalil Gibran moment, there are more important things than obsessing about cake and clothes, or taking strain from family “obligations”, which are less obligations than learning to forget about self for a moment and finding time to be with people who are only here because they care.

The wind and rain will pass, and hopefully it will spare the (too) many people in this country who have no food and shelter, even as we pop our champagne.