The clouds had cleared and parents began to drift in to collect their children from the party. Someone opened a bottle and I found myself sitting on the stoep surrounded by funny, engaging and warm strangers. Instead of switching to performance mode, raising my game and searching for witty remarks to contribute, I wanted to pick up my crochet and listen.
Would they think it odd? Or rude?
I sidled off to find it. When I returned to my seat on the cerise pink cushion and my vodka, I felt more at home. I put my boots on the low table like everyone else, except for the beautiful woman in blue pumps and I crocheted while our small talk deepened to the question of when we might come back to live in Africa again.