When I was five I took part in a poetry eisteddfod. I had to memorise a poem, stand up in a long room and declaim it to the best of my dramatic ability. I remember one little girl (frizzy red hair, Christelle maybe?) bursting into tears. Yes, I was an insufferably smug little brat. Anyway, I still remember the poem:
"Ek tel my katjie op my skoot
en streel haar sagte pels.
Woer, wir, woer, wir spin sy,
dis hoe sy met my gesêls."
I practised it clutching a little white stuffed cat; The Mother and The Father claimed props would aid the drama. "Ek tel!!!!! My Katjie!!!! Op!!!! My skoooooot!!!!" or something to that effect. Never has a cat been more movingly stroked. Or painfully strangled. Your call.
For my non-Afrikaans speaking readers: I put my kitty on my lap, and stroke her soft fur. Voer, vir, voer, vir, she purrs. That's how she talks to me.
2 comments:
I nearly died laughing. (Can you hear that cliché bell ringing away?)
I remember the words but forgot the tune!
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