Childfreedom
Childfreedom
Childfreedom
I hadn’t been on a press trip in years. Decades, even. Independent travel for stories, sure, but not the old school kind where you meet in a hotel for drinks and then get driven somewhere on a bus. In the old days (how did the nineties become the old days?) glamorous travel was part of the deal, and made up for the terrible wages we journalists got paid. There was so much money in print media it was nothing to fly to Joburg for lunch. You’d be back by 6pm to go to the next thing. I was sent on a luxury crui
‘When last were you at Bosjes?’ my friend, Keith, asks me as we cruise along the N1, and he’s surprised when I say never, but it’s not surprising. Over the past few years (thanks, in part, to Covid) I’ve discovered that it’s not actually necessary to ever leave my bedroom. Plus, I’ve always had a mental block about traveling beyond hospital bend. Nothing good ever comes of traveling beyond hospital bend (unless it’s to go to cafe Ohana or visit my friend, Philippa). This is especially true lately, with Hitl
Earlier in the week I tried to find out exactly where Bosjes was, but all I could find was the Breedekloof Valley. I didn’t know there was such a thing, but I could see that it wasn’t far from Worcester (which I only just discovered, thanks to David Kramer, is pronounced ‘Worcester’ and not ‘Vorcester’) and I definitely know Worcester because my friend, Leslie, comes from there and there’s a road in that town called de la Bat which makes my other friend and I laugh because it reminds us of a trip we took to
Childfreedom
Childfreedom
Childfreedom