I always wanted to write a successful novel of less that 200 pages, and it seems I did everything in my live to boycott this. I studied a bit too much, then worked a bit too much. Concluding-but not logical: I did not like football, the ball bumped too much; nor did I like squash, the ball was too small. Tennis was not good, the ball was too fast; and in basketball the ball was toon slippery. Ten happily I read about my ancestors coming to SA a bit ago, and I thought: Me too! I joined the Imperial System, and went for stone, foot, inch, Fahrenheit, and gin and tonic. Additionally, all is about grass here, part of the imperium clearly, which they cut here four times a day, as they hate growth, and prefer controllable sand. So – logically – croquet came on my path, with fair coloured balls and post-medieval hoops. Their balls are quart of an eight of a vadem; they weigh one seventeenth and a half of a stone, wonderful, wonderful, and are hit by clubs, like club sodas. I could not dream of anything better … nor worse. So, it started. Croquet I mean.

Then I got colleagues. The Dartagnans of Greyton. Internationally known as Greytonians of course. These guys, South of the Tropic of Capricorn, seem to be very-very thirsty, the special sun here it is, also in winter. And they like to comment on their own bad play. Excruciatingly and extensively. Which we understand: life is meandering here, thoughts are ruminating, what else can one do? And more even, what else does one want?