People in high office rarely respond to letters these days. They dish them out to some minion who has a signature like a squashed spider.
Years ago I wrote to the commissioner of police after I witnessed several policemen in the middle of Joburg sorting out some kind of trouble with protesters who, as they toyi-toyied along, were helping themselves to goods from the pavement stalls of their helpless brethren.
In antediluvian times – I speak of last month – we, in Gauteng, were happy with our idyllic climate. We were having our usual totally reliable and glorious summer – a 15-minute storm every afternoon at 4.15pm followed by a balmy evening.