It was one of those still, clear Cape afternoons — the kind that used to be rare but which, with the region’s water crisis worsening, is now increasingly (and devastatingly) common. We sat at a table under the oak trees at Boschendal wine estate, in a happy golden haze brought on partly by the dappled sunshine and partly by the chardonnay, not worrying about the drought or about the fraught history of viticulture in SA. It felt too good to be true, and it was. Above us, an owl decided that he’d had enough of these garrulous humans, and emptied his avian bowels: a direct hit, straight into my wine glass. One look at the curdled contents destroyed my idyll. Being inclined towards overdetermined symbolism, I took this as a sign: it was wrong to be indulging in such pleasures. The proverbial blood in the soil, the national political and economic quagmire, the misery of so many compatriots – surely the owl’s poo was just a material expression of the taint of immorality attached to any fo...

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