So I walked the streets of London, so I visited art galleries that flick-knived my reeling soul, so I solemnly watched the English sun set much to early on an autumn afternoon, so I scrambled into a second hand shop.
So there was this pee pot on a table. It was not plastic, it was not from yesterday. It was porcelain and it talked to me in upper class English. It talked slowly, accentuated, to an Afrikaner from South Africa. Telling me of late nights. Telling me about the darkness of bottomless nights. Telling me of English bums in need of relief. Telling me of pee wishing to wee. So I told the English pot that I am Don Quixote from South Africa. Honestly. Telling the pee pot that chivalry in the end is all that counts. So I lay out my money to the shop owner and walked with me porcelain pot, like a king, a queen, to face a flight home to South Africa. And brother, me precious sister, I did not let that pee pot go by luggage home. No, I walked proudly, straight back, up to the aeroplane. With an English pee-pot in the hollow of my arm. In the aeroplane I cradled it. Knowing that I was taking very old English bums, male, female, to my South African home. To cradle their memory.
Yes, I handled security at the airport like a pro. Never try to take guns from a cowboy. Never try to remove a pee pot from Don Quixote. So I took that precious porcelain pot to my home. Gave it a stand. Toasted it at midnights with wine and opera arias. Bruce Springsteen too.
And then it was time for irony. I went with a very very precious Madonna, a sensitive boffin in art, to Franschhoek. And there was this art object, founded in the guttered dumps that became proud protesting art. Yes, there was this tin-ironed bird standing in front of the art gallery, quaking for my attention. Although the lady at my side, with her immense sensitiveness, queried me, I bought the protesting bird and brought her home too.
So there they are. The porcelain pee-pot from very old England. Next to the frail tin-ironed bird from the ongoing dumps of Franschhoek. So there they are. Protesting, together, against all banality in life. On behalf of old English bums. And dumped material from feeble yesterdays.

Yes, Don Quixote, thank you. You straightened my back.
To walk tall.

Sancho, bring me horse.