Huddled against the Cape winters, I feel like one wrong tip, and I would end up with my face in the Gardens Centre and my legs up in the air like a tower in Vredehoek.
On the rim of the city bowl looking down onto the beating heart of the city, the twinkling lights are a pulsating tapestry of stars and streetlights dancing against the velvet cloak of the night.
The harbour whispers ancient tales, with the bay so wide, edged with a silver ribbon where the water glides, in and out, in and out.
Chaperoning this dance, standing in grace and in a time-vacuum is the shadowed, ever-changing but constant Table Mountain.
Pink Farm Chick 