The Forgotten Wilbur Smith

I have three books on loan from a South African commercial pilot living in Denmark.

Because I have the tendency to forget, I have learned to compensate with curiosity. I make do with whatever is at hand, inspect and pose it with some interest to what’s between my ears. It also gives me a window I would otherwise be too occupied to use.

With plenty of time to spare this morning, coffee and pastry in hand(my spoonful of sugar to swallow the train so to speak), I sadly stood at the track and watched the clock, black armed, pushing fat minutes into blocks of fives and tens- minutes I could have been in Africa. I could have been in Canada or wherever with my caffeine comfort observing Sean Courtney, had I remembered my book. I’m told by Chris, who was raised in South Africa, the level of detail and accuracy Smith writes with in all of his novels, winning respect and interest before I even turn a page. And after turning a few it gives me a feeling of solid ground. So solid I could kick up the dust with my own feet.

I see Chris reading these books with flashbacks, the smell of heat and nostalgia of his own childhood.