The Madness Begins

What am I doing here? It’s an easy Sunday morning and I am sitting on a cold concrete floor with my legs stretched out in front of me and a six-kilogram black cock on the top my head.
I really should not be here.
I am a frazzled, but reasonably mature, hip and working mother of two small kids at age 34. And Sundays are rest and wine days.
I should be at my parents’ house by the beach in Simonstown looking out over the yachts sailing. Soon I should be sitting down for a Sunday roast with a chilled glass of white wine. Or shouting as I chase my kids across the beach.
This cold hard floor is not the right place for me.
And yet here I am. Sitting quiet and meek with my head bowed and a cloth over my shoulders. I want to shift and move, but I don’t dare.

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