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Boarding school. We always had fish on Fridays. I have no idea why. There wasn’t a single Catholic amongst us. We were mostly Afrikaans-speaking, farming community offspring. Dutch Reformed raised. But Fish on Friday it was. It became known as Fishy Fridays.

Now, Sunday lunch had hardboiled eggs. Hardboiled being an understatement as the eggs had a solid dark blue rim outside on the white.  Wednesdays were sausage days. But I digress.

Somehow the Friday it must be Fish days stuck. The Captain makes sure I get Fish on Fridays. (Nowadays it has meaning for me but I’m not fixated on the concept except during Lent.) The tricky part comes with the fact that the only fish we really like is salmon. And I’m not interested in all the data about farm-raised salmon, (I will pick steelhead trout if available.) I love my chunk of salmon with the layers of “healthy” fat showing.

But twice, where we are for now, the salmon has let us down. It tastes fishy and as everyone knows, fish should never taste fishy. And it looks tired in the display case, the thin “towards the tail” bits lying there.

The Captain suggested we go out to eat, something we rarely do. And that we go to a popular watering hole and watch the sunset. But it’s Friday and it’s a nice day after three windy days so every man and his dog is out to play.

“Why do you have to pick Friday to go to the Sunset Grill?” I asked.

“I didn’t pick Friday, Friday picked me,” he replied.

Suddenly my mind was somewhere else. I didn’t choose the road I’m on, I was chosen and placed on this road. So who am I to question the roadblocks and hills to climb and lack of P.O.P.P’s.


John 15:16 Ye have not chosen me, but I have chosen you, and ordained you, that ye should go and bring forth fruit, and that your fruit should remain: that whatsoever ye shall ask of the Father in my name, he may give it you. 

Cyber Hugs All……

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