There are ghosts everywhere. Not the white sheet, see-through granny with long grey hair kind. The ghosts you may think have long since crossed over but then as you walk past that jewelry shop or see someone eating a Kit Kat or hear the phrase ‘dish up’, there they are again. The ghosts of the past. Threatening to make you shiver in your boots, under your duvet until the sun comes out again.
There are no ghosts here, in this tiny mountain town where I have been for the last while. What a treat, a ghost free existence. Everywhere is new. All stones unturned. No boot shivering or duvet hiding.
I do miss the ghost town where I live though. Joburg, Ghostville. If you’re fortunate, your ghosts will come with good memories too. The kind that make you live regret free, still eat Kit Kats and keep you from doing any Hayley Joel Osmond impersonations. I’ll be back there in a few days. Playing from the sheet music I now know by heart, taking Bruce Willis’ advice and making friends with my spooks.
Until then, I’m going to soak up the atmosphere in this ghost-less ghost town. But still check under my bed for Mischa Barton, just in case.