An interestingly well written article which I related to

"When evacuation leaves you longing for wine"
On Tuesday 17 March I was in the unfortunate position of having 10 minutes to decide what matters most to me. I was being evacuated due to the fires that raged against the slopes of Devil's Peak and Table Mountain during the night. Waking up to sirens, looking out of the window and realising that your possessions (meagre as they might be) are threatened by an enemy that you are absolutely powerless against is, utterly, traumatic.

And the question that arises, what do you take? Because no matter how much you take there is always going to be something left behind...

Rushed out of my flat (situated at the absolute urban edge of the City Bowl) into my car and watching from afar how flames are licking the borders of my house, I was disgusted at the people taking pictures - a terrifying reality as I, as a journalist, have often taken pictures not asking, or thinking, about the misery I am capturing. It is weird that I did not think of taking pictures of my own misery. And this morning I regret not having any to show.

Having grabbed what I could (some pieces of art, jewellery, ID, passport) I fled to a friend, keeping an eye on the flames in my rear view mirror. That, I know now, must the worst drive anyone can ever undertake.

I arrived at my friend high on adrenalin, and immediately expressed my regret at not having grabbed a bottle of wine. He nodded, and in turn expressed his regret of not having any. "But I have vodka", he consoled.

Standing outside on the communal balcony looking at Table Mountain, the infamous Salt and Pepper Pot towers and my flat submerged in fat orange clouds of smoke, watching the flames work their way into the suburb and in-between answering calls from relatives and concerned friends, my dear-dear friend was feeding me Pravda - and I was downing it like Oros.

While he momentarily left the balcony to top-up my glass, his neighbour the fashion designer offered me a small bottle of sparkling wine. I declined, realising that there are indeed occasions that bubbly can't be justified. I was actually in the mood for a very old bottle of red, thinking that my bottle of Kanonkop Cabernet Sauvignon 1998 in my corner cupboard would have been just about right.

Returning with another glass of Pravda, my friend, who was supportive but contemplative during the ordeal, revealed the reason behind his somewhat distracted mood.
"Prinses, you had some time to grab your things, right?"
"Yes...?"
"So you took your art and ID and stuff?"
"Yes...?"
Pointing to my shoes, and taking a big sip of Pravda, he asked "and those are the shoes you took?"
The fashion designer agreed with a stifled laugh.
I am back in my flat, cleaning out soot, keeping an eye on the still-burning spots, shaking my head at the sight of the once-green, living mountain, talking with the fire and rescue team camping outside my complex, and rethinking reasoning. What we decide to keep till later and what we decide to have now.

Tonight I just might open one of my "special" bottles - and I'd be wearing my stilettos.