… cinderfella?

“Drop, tuck and roll” were the words of advice that echoed in my head as I fell off the band-wagon and into a burning-bush of common sense. It was to be expected really, as the past few weeks which became months just flew past breaking every speed limit of the possible, that it would careen to an abrupt halt and I would fly overhead and land on my ass. With more than just my ego a little bruised and battered I stood back, adjusted my bespoke suit and re-examined where exactly I had gone wrong.

Strange that most of my summertime mishaps all start at one, single place. This particular stuffy afternoon in mid-July, as I stood beside a bone dry polo field watching the modern day knight’s joust for the prestigious Africa Polo Cup I discovered why emotionally unavailable men should always be avoided. Popping into the loo for a pee he stood there naked as the day he was born with an enticing horn in the showers. Blond, blue eyes and fresh from a Free State farm he was everything I was looking for that afternoon and the coming [sic] weekend.

As June turned to July and then into August, we laboured towards the fast approaching broadcast date for my first TV production the days merged into night and night into morning and the beautiful images, words and ideas magically transformed themselves into a work-of-art. It had taken me three months from meeting to delivery and there it was: the most incredible birthday present imaginable. In the near darkness we sat waiting for the appointed hour with a bottle of [the featured] champagne, a tray of delicate sushi and an air of expectation for the premiere of Belle Époque.

Floating through the Monday, the day of my birthday in a cocoon of self-congratulation, the Tuesday following was a bump back to earth. My production partners decided to change the terms of the original concept and therefore killed the project as it stood. Stunned and shamed with the idea that I would now have to swallow my pride and renegotiate the world’s expectations the drive home was the longest of my life. As always, against my better judgement I turned to him for support. A support that his heart wanted to give, but his head vetoed in fear.

So with my cookie monster in parts northern and foreign for a better part of a month, I remained in the quagmire that was my destination. You see I had focussed so much on the journey that I took my eyes off the end and when I looked up instead of Cannes I was in Caledon and instead of a glittering Lion I was left with a limp poodle. I was allowed one day of disillusioned depression before I was kicked out of bed and into my office. What I did there was immaterial – but I had to be working through the shit to find the silver lining of the dark cloud overhead that hung menacing.

Now almost a month later I have found that silver lining – and learnt how to mine it into a silver bullet to kill my heart’s discontent …

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