My Speg and I are always open to new things, and on occasion will tackle something just for the hell of it. Anyway, this particular day, we were in writing mode, sort of, and I asked her for a topic. I really think Speg wasn’t thinking too much, or too hard, and the topic that fell out of her mouth, and onto the keyboard in front of me was: "the crack under the table".

Exactly what she expected to see only she would know. The first thing that came to my mind was WTF?

In a previous lifetime, as Yottie, I would often be found under a table. So, it was natural I go there first. But no, there were no cracks under those tables. Well, none that I can recall.

So, it was time for a touch of creative thinking. While trying to create a fictional scenario about a crack under the table, I remembered something. Decade old memories flood back as I recall this. My parents owned a property in a little country village, about two hours from Cape Town. Back then, it was literally at the end of the road. It still is.

The village had its own unique little population, and the various characters. I don't recall many names, as I never went through there to socialize. My weekends at Greyton were for unwinding.

One particular weekend, on the Saturday morning I walked down to the grocer to fetch milk and bread. Milk top heavy with rich yellow cream, and bread...Ah the bread! Light on the inside, and that crust....

I'm rambling now. Back to my memory. At the grocer, I was a bit early, and the store had not yet opened, so it was natural to just stand there, and soak up the tranquil atmosphere in the slowly breaking dawn.

I was jolted from my almost hypnotic state by a pull on my jacket sleeve. The puller, a little old ageless lady, grey and wrinkled, with the most incredibly lively blue eyes spoke. Again, I had totally missed the first uttterance.

"Seun, wil jy nie kom koffie drink tot die winkel oopmaak? Hulle melk nog koeie, en gaan n ruk wees". (“Boy, don’t you want to come have a coffee until the shop opens? They're still milking, and will be a while yet').

Not wanting to be rude, I accepted, and we crossed the little road, to sit on her little verandah. The verandah was cramped, and it was awkward getting to the chair she pointed out to me. Naturally I tried to move the table out of the way. Auntie Granny, (I later found that everyone called her that), chuckled, and told me the table was fastened to the floor! My mouth must have fallen open! "What on earth for" I asked.

She leaned forward, and lifted the edge of the plastic tablecloth, telling me to look.

I did. Under the table, in the concrete floor, was a crack that Auntie Granny was hiding from the world. Years previously one of her friends, now deceased, had hooked her foot in it and fallen.