The termites have been at my brain again. Nibbling away at the lovely polished wood until nothing is left but clumps of clay that’s been excreted from their delicate little bottoms. Pants. I hate it when that happens. They just get in everywhere. Anything left still long enough gets chewed up by their busy little jaws. You think you’ve packed up something safe and secure and a few weeks later you open the trunk to find there’s nothing left but crumbling red dirt and a few scraps of chewed print.
So I’m trying to write a new post, people, I really am, but salt water leaked in and rusted all the cogs together; all the delicate mechanisms have disintegrated and flaked off into a pile of pretty but jumbled, sharp bits. Don’t touch you might get a gash. And then tetanus and that’s just ugly.
The pan has dried up leaving a sulphery salty crust on the top, scribbled with a few bird prints but nothing more substantial than that. Maybe the odd hyena track – ooh look one sunk in here, nearly got stuck, but even she managed to get out and has moved on to tend to her sweet little brown pups in their den. Nothing else to report.
Okay, enough already – you get the idea, no?