When I was sixteen and about to leave school, the Bishop of Natal introduced me to alcohol. Clad in clerical robes, and wearing a gold and cream mitre, he towered seven feet above me as I knelt at the altar rail for my first taste of communion wine. From that delicious sip, I became hooked on the nectar of the Gods for life. When I was thirty-four and had some spare cash, Terry Adams clad in Levis, lumber jacket and a nautical cap, introduced me to hot-air ballooning and I became hooked on the smell of propane. When I was seventy-nine and should have known better, I flew an untidy old washerwoman of a balloon solo and survived an ineptly handled fast landing, with merely the loss of some wrinkled skin and a cracked rib. Alas, my favourite pair of Levis was shredded beyond repair, but even that did not stop my colourful dreams of skimming over hills and valleys, or among the clouds.Bruce AttwoodJohannesburg 2018