ED’S LET­TER

Marie Claire (South Africa) - - CONTENTS -

MAYBE I SHOULD have seen this com­ing, but I didn’t. I was in­no­cently cross­ing the road when some­body ran over my foot. She was a lady, in a con­vert­ible. I looked at her. She looked at me – and then she drove over me. Just like that. I shouted out. ‘Hey, that’s my foot!’ It was re­ally odd be­cause in an ab­stract way I could not re­ally be­lieve that it was my foot un­der her car. Ob­jec­tively, how­ever, I could see that my foot was in­deed stuck. Un­der her car. She got out and shouted at me, ‘I thought you had crossed!’ It was my sad duty to have to point out the ob­vi­ous to her… ‘Well, I hadn’t.’

The weird thing is, I could see on her face when I rst clocked her com­ing my way that she was in some kind of go­daw­ful rush. I had a whole thought process about it. But then there I found my­self – crum­pled boot in hand and car guard rub­bing the in­jured foot. She started shout­ing at me, ‘This is no time to be shout­ing!’ I was the calm one. So I plainly stated, ‘I am not the one shout­ing.’ At that mo­ment I was just baf ed by the fact that a guy on the side of the street, who is usu­ally af­ter my cash for park­ing, was now en­gaged in a foot rub. I got up to get away from the un­so­licited rub, still hold­ing my ac­cor­dion (aka former boot) when she hopped into her car and drove off. I was so mysti ed by the en­tire en­gage­ment that when I sat down in the cof­fee shop into which I was now forced to hob­ble – mi­nus a boot – I just or­dered a cof­fee and be­moaned my fate to my poor col­leagues who were, in turn, mysti ed by my weird ap­pear­ance.

My rst thought was, damn, I en­tered the Cape Town Marathon last night – I hope she hasn’t de­stroyed my foot and my chances. Then I thought, well, the foot seems ne, pity about the boot. Then I thought, oh dear, I am in a city other than my own and I don’t have a spare pair of shoes. So off we went, me limp­ing about rather fool­ishly, and pur­chased a pair of bal­leri­nas so I could make it through the day.

Why am I telling you this story? I con­cluded some­thing. (Apolo­gies for the obvs.) Ac­ci­dents are like psy­chic ques­tion marks. A weird mo­ment when the ap­par­ently lin­ear for­ward-mov­ing na­ture of the uni­verse col­lapses in on it­self. Things stop. Per­haps they fall apart. But one thing you can be sure of is that stuff has changed around you. It is as if some great cos­mic power is nudg­ing you – nay, shout­ing at you – to slow the hell down. I am not speak­ing of the lady who drove off with nary a care or an of­fer to x my boot, or even the no­tion to take my num­ber lest she had, in fact, dam­aged my foot. Although I am sure the uni­verse was giv­ing her the same mes­sage.

I am speak­ing about me – if I look back to when­ever I have had an ac­ci­dent, I re­alise that be­fore the big fat psy­chic ques­tion mark, I was sim­ply cat­a­pult­ing head­long into life. Al­ways for­ward, al­ways hec­tic, al­ways on, un­til some­thing hap­pened to slow me down. Some­times it was cat­a­clysmic, some­times it was just an ac­cor­dion boot. What is al­ways con­sis­tent is the im­port of the mes­sage. Where are you rush­ing to? What is so im­por­tant you can’t wait? What will you achieve by speed­ing through your ex­pe­ri­ences when you could be savour­ing them? Slowly? Mean­ing­fully? At­tempt­ing to un­der­stand what is re­ally hap­pen­ing to you and why?

So to the con­vert­ible lady who drove over me – I won’t lie to you, I was pretty shocked and awed by the whole ex­pe­ri­ence, but you sent me a wake-up call. I re­ally need to slow the hell down and let the car guard rub my foot.

THE FASH­ION TEAM

PLAYED DRESS-UP WITH ME DUR­ING THE

SHOOT ON P78… RED VALENTINO DRESS

R18 595 TIK LEE; DOLCE & GAB­BANA HAND­BAG

R22 200 CATHERYNE GAEYLA FASH­ION; DKNY BEADED COL­LAR NECK­LACE R1 995

TIK LEE; VA­LE­RIA NECK­LACE R3 200 HEN­RI­ETTE BOTHA; BOOTS AS­PA­SIA’S OWN

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