Places I sleep

I found myself in Livingstone, Zambia this week, in digs that fringe the Mighty Zambezi. Despite no longer being immune to the Anopheles Mosquito (in vintage Kate Turner, I lost my prophylactics along the way) I slept profoundly, aided by a diaphanous mozzie net and the softest linen.


I was roused by hunger. Not mine, but this Blue Balled chap’s.


He was agitating for the plate of fruit the munificent folks of David Livingstone Safari Lodge ( laid out for me. Praise Jeepers the rooms are not porous to wildlife. I can’t say I would’ve been as stoic as my Uncle’s wife, Bev, who regularly has to shoo baboons from their b&b in Glencairn, Simon’s Town. The bush here is dripping with them.


Places I sleep


Winburg Hotel, Orange Free State. Est. 1867. Think the decor could be circa then too. This bedspread looks like a cold pool of blood. Smudge kept a watchful eye, but not really. I slept here because I had to: my eyes were gritty after 11 hours on the road. I dreamt Stephen King dreams, and also that all my teeth fell out. Cheque please.