Zinedine For Life

Gui mourns the Frenh loss on the Soccer Finals, but stubbornly faithful to
Zizou- "Made in Marseille"

Of rotting leaves and choking new baby chicks

Back when we were drinking the juices of rotting leaves and choking new born chicks just to watch them squeal, life seemed so wonderful and stressfree. I was almost six.

Omega was eight, Diana, seven, Cherelle, five and Sinave, still a toddler in our care, crawling after us, chewing wandering worms until we noticed and slap it off his dirty fingers.

I return to the blogging world with a renewed zest for life, not quite matured, slightly emancipated, vaguely clueless and forever sentimental, in an amateurish sort of rhythm that captures you and then squashes you gleefully with mismatched ideals and distressing thoughts.

In the past three weeks, we have bought a home, detested the minus two degrees frost in the morning, failed to fix my car heater, dined in Auckland’s Wildfire and woke to the distasteful hours of the morning to a certain French cry for Zinedine Zidane.
Who remains immortal albeit a head butt.
Clearly, the French need heroes, with anger management classes made compulsory for soccer superstars.

In the midst of all this, we celebrated our one year anniversary, being appreciative of the fact that we have come a long way from working shit jobs to make ends meet away from our families in a foreign place. Life has improved immensely.

A year ago, I was a virgin.

Okay, I lie.

A year ago, I married Frenchy (real name Guillaume but NZers couldn't pronounce that, so Frenchy it is) in Marseille under the brilliant Mediterranean sky, witnessed by families and friends.
Many want to relive their wedding days.
I don’t.
A writer once wrote “A thing of Beauty is joy forever, its loveliness increases, it will never pass”. Beauty being the joining of two hearts, the bonding that lasts, the marriage that says ‘I will never have sex with another human being’.
Yes indeed, that is the hope.
The certainty is uncertain
The guarantee is absent.
But the challenge lie with two people making that commitment.
Without sounding like a broken record, I return now to my dreamlike thoughts of

Back when we were fishing out of tin cans, soaked with mud water, tanned by leisurely hours of sunshine, awaiting the grown ups at sea, anticipating what they bring, be it sea urchins, small fishes, seashells, jellyfish or a smack in the face and a guarantee that your tiny neck will break if you don’t wash off the mud, go home and read your Holy Bible.