At a roadblock near Macheke: (we have quickly hidden our one remaining apple and ginger biscuit in the glove compartment as police v. likely to ask for "Christmas box")
Policeman (absurdly young, 19? 20?)"Where are you coming from?"
Us: "Harare."
Policeman (smirking): "Oh, the City of Sewerage."
At a roadblock near Rusape:
Policeman (to me): So how is my mother?
Me (bristling even though I know it's the respectful Shona way of addressing any older woman/woman with a child's seat in the back): OK, thankyou.
It's not the my that bothers me. Not at all. It's the mother. Somehow, in a skip and a jump from white-iced Sacre Coeur, I have turned from a mademoiselle to a middle-aged matron with possible heart problems.
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