Today is the shortest day of the year in South Africa.

Since it also marks the official start of winter, my thoughts naturally turn to gnawing. Not just the suicidal gnawing of my own wrists due to Seasonal Affective Disorder (of COURSE I suffer from it – I suffer from every ailment under the sun except hypochondria, remember?), but the gnawing of actual food.

One of the things I’m pondering is this: If the saying ‘you are what you eat’ is actually true, and I like to eat bread, does that make me a loafer?

And don’t even dare to answer. Unless your answer was going to be a resounding: “Of COURSE not, Red!”, that question was entirely rhetorical.

If you’ve been one of my imaginary readers for a long time, you would know that I don’t cook. And putting it like that is still a gross understatement. Water? I can totally burn it.

In the good old days, when I lived in an actual HOUSE (as opposed to the tiny room I find myself in these days), that room which in other people’s houses is known as the kitchen, was known as my coffee maker’s private quarters. The stove was just a very large and potentially dangerous, decorative ornament.

Luckily for me, my sister cooks. Well, all of them do (see? It’s entirely their fault that I don’t. By the time my mother got ‘round to having me, the cooking gene had – thankfully – been depleted. As well as the looks, the talent, the charm, the intelligence, the bone structure… but that’s a sob story for another day), but the sister I’m referring to happens to live conveniently close to me.

She is married to an Italian. And in order to keep that part of the ancestry alive and well, she cooks almost exclusively Italian. She has become so good at it, it has spilled over into her personality, which has become increasingly feisty. And it must be from all that stirring of-a da Spaghetti, but she now can’t speak without gesturing wildly and passionately. Some people, like my brother-in-law and me, might even interpret the latter as an occasional slap in our general direction.

On the pantry door of this wholly Italian kitchen, the following has been written: “The trouble with Italian food is that five days later, one is hungry again!”

But since the Longest Night of the Year is about to descend leaving me no choice but to go to bed right now, some day soon (see? I’m so commitment phobic, I don’t even want to make a date) I’ll tell you why eating leftovers at that very sister’s house might just kill you.

Sorry about that last bummer, sorry excuse for a post.

I didn't mean to be so cryptic, but maybe it's a good thing that I was, because now I can't even remember why I went all back-of-the-hand-to-the-forehead melodramatic on you.

Okay, okay. Not really. Unfortunately I do remember.

As you know, my return to South Africa at the end of 2005 was anything but triumphant.

But upon my arrival I kind of had to hit the ground running (or rather, my very unfit, slow version of running), so there wasn't a lot of time to mourn the brutal murder of my American Dream and everything else that went along with it.

Being a bit slow on the uptake, I didn't realise this until recently, when I finally moved into my own place for the first time since being back. Suddenly I had time to think, and well... after getting over the initial shock of ME actually THINKING... it was as if all the unresolved emotional baggage that I've been lugging around with me suddenly bobbed to the surface. In the process, it overwhelmed me and dragged me under. (Makes me wonder why my emotional baggage couldn't have been stolen at the airport in Jo'burg instead of my laptop! Too heavy, I suppose.)

And well, you saw the pathetic result of that near-drowning.

Thank you for your incredibly sweet comments and concerned e-mails. It really helped.

If your biggest fear on earth was, say, a fear of heights.

And then one day, someone - who knows full well what your fear is and how serious that fear is - misleads you and you end up on a 'plane and when you're 10,000 ft up there (or however high), they suddenly strap you into a parachute and say: "Surprise!" and push you out the door.

Should they really be taken aback if you are less than thrilled and never, EVER want to speak to them again? Would you also be so upset and distressed that you would sob?

And no, the above is all metaphorically speaking. I hate heights, yes, but love flying. Won't go skydiving though.

Can't cope. Hate my life. Wish I could just "Poof!" vanish...

I suffer from every single ailment under the sun, except...