I blame it on the water. And climate change. And cell phones.
In the 50's, 60's and 70's, teens rebelled, rock n rolled, kicked down social mores and standards and shocked their horrified parents and society as a whole. But in time they grew up and became our staid parents.
But the next generation, now cruising around in their 40's and 50's, have lost the plot. Completely.
Forget routines and habits, self control and stability. Whatever we did or didn't do in our youth, it's clear there's a ton of growing up still to do. We may wonder what the hell happened to the last 30 years, but we are free of prison records or drug damaged brains.
But the next generation, now cruising around in their 40's and 50's, have lost the plot. Completely.
Forget routines and habits, self control and stability. Whatever we did or didn't do in our youth, it's clear there's a ton of growing up still to do. We may wonder what the hell happened to the last 30 years, but we are free of prison records or drug damaged brains.
Perhaps it's unique, but our group of mid-life-post-rock-n-roll-generation appears to live its own Princess Aurora lifestyle. Huh? Who? You know, Sleeping Beauty. She woke up after 20 years and got down and dirty with a Prince (yes, well, I can dream). In our case, we woke up to partying b-e-e-e-g.
One of our number (*names and places have been changed to protect the innocent) decided to push out a very large boat with his half century, and share 10 days in the bush with some 70 of his closest friends. Or maybe there were more, we operated in shifts so it was a difficult game count.
Sumptuous food by Lindsay of Soul Food (she's real and her food is heavenly. Contact her on 072 329 3770) was snaffled up twice a day, hungry or not. Oh, those Swordfish and Dorado spiced kebabs. Polenta and grilled vegetables. Salads. Smoked trout, cream cheese and egg breakfasts... The Sticky toffee pudding was delightful, such a shame Hazelnut meringue was taken off the menu. One of the overgrown children decided that what a post midnight game of Scrabble needed was Hazelnut liqueur-oiled brain cells.
Eventually we sobered up and sheepishly returned to our regular roles as parents and pillars of the community (sorry, just snorted chilled Juniper Berry juice and Quinine up my nose when I read that sentence!) Wise old birds, it was agreed at brunch on Day 2 (oh, yes, the games began from the off) that none, repeat none, of the photographs will ever be posted on Facebook. Ever.
Nevertheless, having been squiff-eyed throughout, our gracious host wanted to know what had happened at his party. So he set up a Dropbox link and invited guests to upload any non-compromising photographs, on condition that they remained private, accessible only to the participants and weren't shared with the wider world. Good call and, because at one point or the other (and for some, the points joined into one very long, very solid line!) everyone let their hair down in a way they'd rather not remember, the pact is sealed.
This, then, is the only public photograph of that bushveld blowout, taken during the game drive on our first morning. I risk life and limb publishing it so if no further blogs are ever published, dear reader, you'll know that I was 'done in' by the savage group of aging rockers. The life of a whistle blower is, alas, one of jeopardy.
Back to reality, we offer cheery, if restrained, greetings when we inevitably bump into one another around town. One or two of the less gentlemanly (yes you know who you are) can't resist referring to The Night Of The Tablecloth Annointing and they shall, one day, have an accident in a dark alley but that will be the beginning of a new story.
Eventually we sobered up and sheepishly returned to our regular roles as parents and pillars of the community (sorry, just snorted chilled Juniper Berry juice and Quinine up my nose when I read that sentence!) Wise old birds, it was agreed at brunch on Day 2 (oh, yes, the games began from the off) that none, repeat none, of the photographs will ever be posted on Facebook. Ever.
Nevertheless, having been squiff-eyed throughout, our gracious host wanted to know what had happened at his party. So he set up a Dropbox link and invited guests to upload any non-compromising photographs, on condition that they remained private, accessible only to the participants and weren't shared with the wider world. Good call and, because at one point or the other (and for some, the points joined into one very long, very solid line!) everyone let their hair down in a way they'd rather not remember, the pact is sealed.
This, then, is the only public photograph of that bushveld blowout, taken during the game drive on our first morning. I risk life and limb publishing it so if no further blogs are ever published, dear reader, you'll know that I was 'done in' by the savage group of aging rockers. The life of a whistle blower is, alas, one of jeopardy.
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| Morning tea in the bush, and some ammunition collecting for a raucous game of "Bokdrolspoeg" (or Antelope Shit Spitting) that evening. Not for the weak-stomached, it's a really foul pastime. Marinading the dung in gin didn't improve it one iota. |
Every generation deserves a revolution and we have turned into reprobate mid lifers - we didn't invent the mid life crisis. We just perfected it.
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