I look like a Pom on the way to a polo game. How do you dress for this march? Maybe I should do the bushveld look or the angry mechanic. In a flurry I change; now I look like a Xmas tree. I tone down to all black with a stylish Fabiani silk shirt in case I’m on TV. Exhausted, I set out on my adventure, my march for change! Flapping national flag across my shoulders, three hours into the march and I’m hot and flustered; it is sweltering hot, the sun roasts my head and my face burns red. This is hard work; I furtively seek a Woolies to cool me down or a Vida for a caffeine shot; nothing, not even a sachet of water handed out. The crowd surges forward, calling for change. Thank heavens for the mixed crowd; I have no idea how to march. My feet miss the stomping beats, my hands flail at the wrong time and my half-clenched fist hardly rises above my shoulder as I shout profanities and verbiage in a restrained voice, lest I appear too boisterous. At last I spot the Union Buildings; my feet...
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