“We really should just stay here, keep our heads down, be patient and see what happens next year”.

“NEXT YEAR!!!! You nuts?
Look, it’s only a shade over three thousand miles to Reunion; less than three weeks, two with today’s forecast. Just think. Two weeks from now you could be eating foie gras and freshly baked croissants.”

“Muppet. We’re in the middle of a pandemic, Madagascar is already closed and South Africa is slamming the doors shut. Slamming right now as we repeat this interminable argument!”

“Aahh. Don’t be soft. What they gonna do if you just rock up and anchor? Look at Rubicon. They’re having a great time, hiking and swimming”

“Yeah but if we go, what happens if South Africa’s shut and we get turfed out post Brexit?”

And on it goes. Fortunately, these conversations usually just go on in my head, my two little stereophonic voices duelling, day in, day out as we go over the limited options wondering whose grass is greener. Ours? Or maybe Rubicon’s where they’re gallivanting all over Reunion? And Impi telling us how fab it is to be back in Australia. Or Ziggy and John who made it to the fleshpots of the Seychelles? Even the guys in Tanzania, where apparently a quick shot of the prime minister’s magic potion protects you against Covid, (or not), all having a great time out on safari where even the sunburned and parched African plains seem greener than Langkawi’s tropical jungle.

Whatever, the “voices” can’t agree. Anne says I’ve been out in the sun too long, to get into the pool and shut up. Or maybe I’m just going a bit crazy. Anyway, enough for now. I’m off to cut the grass.