Obligatory "ignore this space" : https://sacoronavirus.co.za

There are those who believe that at a certain age or by a certain process we stop being children.

Turning twenty-one the only change that hadn't been quite gradual was that in my voice; and I don't recall it giving me the embarrassment some talk of. But then a friend committed suicide, which some girls still referred to as committing sewerage pipe. While this wasn't something which scarred me, as our friendship was a recent one, it was concerning that the kinds of boys who were hooking the babes had no interests of their own; so that, in some cases, my friends turned away from the instincts that lead us to think of marriage, and considered, instead, the whether a girl was nice.

It has taken me months of writing and revision to clearly recall these details. I have treated this all as a closed book: you better start swimming or you'll sink like a stone.

Soon after my friend's death, a girl I had had a casual acquiantance with returned from England, and I decided she was very nice: innocent until proven guilty, and all that.

Skipping over matters I've detailed elsewhere, and returning to a cigar bar where a very lovable friend of mine made us a three-some, the discussion turned to that of the ageing process. In response to common adages, I cracked a statement which left both Miss Nice and Mr Lovable with little more to say.

There's no such thing as growing up.

About a month later I didn't know who I was; which confusion of identity occurred while part of the same threesome. But this time we were in the act of walking together.

I had no argument against enjoying the feeling some plants give us. But at times it affected me badly, in the same way food poisoning does (like certain cases of food poisoning, it had nothing to do with the preparation).

Following my assertion that the being of an adult is merely a hat that people wear, Miss Nice and I started getting on quite well, I thought.

Circumspection was my middle name, but a girl can really work her way into your heart with a ball-point pen. Organizing a get-away to a concert in the hills, which naturally included plenty of the green stuff, I unfortunately had car trouble at the crucial moment. But friends and acquaintances stepped in.

The car we used was an old station-wagon which ran on a hope and a prayer; it was destroyed some months later. But while the memory of the rear-view mirror lived on, between what I beheld in it during the outbound journey and coming to myself later that evening, with Miss Nice throwing herself on Mr Loving in a joking sort of way, I recall only glimpses of the preparation of the food. Mr Loving wondering why Miss Nice was acting silly, I found that far from having an opportunity with her, I was already playing second fiddle.

Inexplicable memory loss, my friends: marijuana is dangerous stuff.

By one interpretation, subsequent events are none of anyone else's business; and this particular writing exercise being for nothing but the sake of my recollection, I'll carry on playing my acoustic fiddle in anticipation of receiving my electric one back, tomorrow.

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