It’s hard to write, when there is so much you *don’t* want write about. When the world seems to be going to hell in a hand basket. Eugene. Juju. Conversations about land reform. Conversations about tenderpreneurism. Conversations about polarisation and pocket lining and crime and ethics. The disheartening savagery of the politicised chat rooms. The creeping fear that an ugly minority of stick pokers and fire raisers will win the day. That a man they’ve dubbed Kiddie Amin will burn your country to the ground before the so called leaders have even put their pants on. And so you numb yourself on toast and tea and tits and arse. And wonder if this is how it starts. If there is something you could do. What regrets you might be fostering as you pour the milk and stir.