Tomorrow, I join the mad throng in the headlong rush to the coast. It’s the annual migration, no less noisy and urgent than the stampeding herds of wildebeest charging across the Serengeti in Africa’s most dramatic mass movement of gnus and zebras and gazelles. I’ve actually seen it, this flying stampede of wild-eyed wild beasts, hooves thundering across the Masai Mara, kicking up dust as they push and shove and urge the pack on with the ferocity of a Sandton housewife about to board a Plett-bound plane.It’s the time of the season when the pack – the rich pack that is – packs up and heads for the seaside or the game reserve or the mountains or their private homes in far flung bits of South Africa, or the ski slopes in Verbier, Meribel, Aspen in Colorado, the Alps… It’s the time of the year when Johannesburg exhales and prepares to regenerate itself without the baying hordes. Holiday mode glosses over everything. Even the frenzied craziness of fighting off old women to get that last ...

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