I’m not a Queen 👑?

Dear friends and other interesting creatures,

Let me set the murder scene.

The husband is sitting outside, very proudly looking at the fire he made. Fast forward to after the Boer War.

The fire is inside a built in braai.

In the wall.

With a light inside it, so you can check if you are Afrikaans or English.

The husband is drinking a beer. I ask him where my Strawberry Daiquiri is. He replies bravely… actually, I should be serving him drinks as he is making a fire for me.

A fire for me? I’ve already suggested the use of the oven twice, and yet he keep mentioning a fire. (Must check out his schizophrenic tendancies with therapist.)

Back to the drink. Now … I know my heritage is a touch of Portuguese, a slap on the ass of Italian and a karvoevel with a Cape Coloured somewhere, but none it includes me serving beer! (Wench – – – naaah!)

Then the realisation hit me. I’m Egyptian! Clearly right? I’m Cleopatra. A queen!

Husband says “Even if you were Egyptian, which you are not, what makes you a Queen?”

#LeSigh… “Well, there is no way I was going to be Egyptian AND a peasant!”

I wish you enough,

Wenchy

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