Where is my tickey? Isn’t it strange that I had to get to the end of the road to be able to see the start? A road that never ends and where a stop is only made when it is too late and I travel sick, have already thrown up. A road shared with many. I had to turn 54 before I could read the road ahead. The road up to 54 was interesting. The road after 54 an experience. Both roads were and are gravel roads; I am pleased. Ex-South-Westerners are familiar with driving on gravel roads. Not all the people who travelled with me up to 54 could always keep up. Not everybody travels the same road; there are turn-offs and stalls. Also, one cannot always stop for every donkey, but one realizes that only later on. Some people never appreciate that. There is, at the end of the day (or should it be at the end of the road?), more to live than only houses and money. Somewhere along the road, one stops for oneself. Somewhere along the road, one picks up oneself. It does not matter how many times one stops, or how many turn-offs one follows, all the little side roads eventually lead back to the main road. All the little roads bring you back to yourself. Somewhere along the road, one stops for oneself...I also know: That there is a universe in which I am sitting in a wheelchair and Werner not. That there is a universe where I score the winning try for the Boks in the finals of the World Cup. A universe where Elbereth is the mother and Anne-Marie the daughter. Where Marinette is the emperor and all the cats believe they are aristocrats from the French nobility. Where Fanie builds his seven outposts in the weightless space to protect the earth and does not commit suicide. Where Freddie does not have to fight on the Angolan border for months and months on end without any news about his whereabouts. Where Monica has long hair and draws Picasso strokes with real paint and not with water on the rough concrete driveway of the garage.