No one knows what is going on. So many versions of Level Four have circulated that we all have whiplash, and if you didn’t have an anxiety disorder before, you sure as shit have it now… writes Kim Nicola Stephens.
Runners got their shoes all ready and prepped and then someone said NO JOGGING and we all went back to making home-made pineapple beer and running in the lounge… except for my one friend who woke up in the middle of the night thinking they were being robbed but it was actually her pineapple beer brew exploding.
Average, law-abiding suburbia is waking up to the underworld, we just need a bit of time to learn, ok?
So on the issue of Level Four “benefits”… fantastic that 1.5 million South Africans are going back to work. A large percentage of these humans are going to use taxi transport, with a strict rule of 70% capacity… seated 2m apart. I’m no mathematician but… seats on the roof maybe?
Literally nothing surprises anyone anymore. Except maybe exploding pineapple beer.
For the rest, we don’t actually have a fucking clue. We currently have more detail on the Level Three (ETA Christmas 2022) booze sales, which I understand to carry trading hours of 8am to midday, Mondays to Wednesdays when the sun is shining and there is 52% humidity and a strong chance of a South Easter in Pinelands.
Exercise with strict rules, but no jogging (Sunday Times Drama Article, out today). Stunning work, Cele. So we can… what? Squat up and down our pavement once a day? Do 5 min of lunges in front of our gates on bin day? Push ups on our f*cking roof, but only one suburb at a time?
We’re waiting for the details here. It feels very much like an old-school game of pass-the-parcel. You know, where there wasn’t a prize in every layer, just one in the middle and not everyone was a winner? No one knows what the prize is, not even the mom who wrapped it (because she was drunk on Pineapple Moonshine) but we keep peeling back the layers, shrieking with glee each time the parcel lands with us.
What’s the bet the final prize is a f*cking plastic yo-yo from the Chinese Store that breaks after 3 hours? Back to Level Five with a carpet covered in shredded newspaper… and pineapple sludge.
Anyway, we can smoke. I haven’t in more than a decade but check me on bin day, doing lunges in my toweling gown with a Texan Plain hanging out the corner of my mouth.
Coming out of the apocalypse with glutes of steel and a smoker’s cough that had fokol to do with Covid-19.
Who let the dogs out? Well it sure as f*ck wasn’t Cele.
Stay safe, much love. Hit me up when you figure this all out, please. Words by me, Kim Stephens, still running in effing circles.
By Kim Nicola Stephens