The View from the Blanket Fort
On Friday morning, The Mayor sent a message: “I will send you a message later. Nothing dramatic or serious, don’t worry.”
Naturally, my mind went into an immediate spin. What could this possibly be about?
But after spending the entire sunny afternoon on a cricket pitch—watching seven-year-olds bowl a ball and smack it as hard as possible to score points—I completely forgot about the impending text. My husband was busy taking photos and videos, I was deeply invested in the tournament, and my phone sat forgotten at the bottom of my bag all afternoon. The sun wasn’t just winter warm; it was blazing. By the time we finally unpacked at home, we were thoroughly exhausted. It had been a long day.
Then, the message was finally received:
The Pineapple Issue 24 is yours. You have to do everything. Well, almost everything. (Insert laughing faces here).
After a week of solemn reflection, formal mourning, and continuous requests for comment, I am pleased to report that reports of the Mayor’s death have been slightly exaggerated. He is not dead. He is merely taking a nap. Having thoroughly exhausted himself with the terminal diagnosis of his own curiosity, the Mayor has stepped away from the desk, leaving the entire apparatus of The Pineapple—and indeed the unraveling spool of Brida—in my hands.
When the Mayor wrote his own obituary last week, he framed curiosity as a noble, tragic martyr slain by the cruel demands of commerce and clock-watching. It was a beautiful piece of writing. It almost made me feel guilty about taking over the responsibility this week.
With the long weekend here in South Africa, I spent three days thinking, “What am I supposed to write? What am I supposed to do? Where do I even start?” But curiosity got the better of me. I sat down, studied every little detail, and worked out exactly how and when I could have all of this ready.
Curiosity is a wonderful guest, but it makes a terrible landlord. It moves into the house, rearranges the furniture, opens all the windows to let the “possibilities” in, and then looks surprised when the rain ruins the rug. Someone has to close the windows. Someone has to patch the roof. Someone has to figure out how many pineapples we actually have in stock and whether any of them can be converted into delicious meals or drinks.
And then, the cold front struck with a bang.
The weather warnings escalated rapidly: from cold to snow, snow to rain, and rain to thundershowers. We’ve had the rain, the bitter cold, and the thunder, and at this exact moment, we are still waiting for the snow. I find myself peaking out from under the warm blankets every few minutes, checking the window to see if it’s turned white outside yet. Snow only happens once every ten years in my town. I wouldn’t exactly call myself lucky—I absolutely do not enjoy the cold.
But I am going to use this cold, and my newfound curiosity, to my advantage.
While waiting for the snowflakes to fall, I will complete this issue and discover another world filled with stories from our members—all from the comfort of my blanket fort. I might be freezing here, but I will be traveling to warmer places through the words of the Brida community. The Mayor and I have already traveled to magical places made of candy and trinkets while peeling potatoes, and I’ve swapped homes with Ismar and Ritesh. Sometimes, a small change is as good as a holiday, and this week, I am taking my imagination straight into a new world.
Welcome to this week’s issue of The Pineapple. I’m running the show, the coffee is hot, and for the first time in a long time, the spreadsheets are up to date, the windows are firmly closed, and absolutely no rain will be ruining this rug.
