Here is a hot tip for the summer. Bongi, a commuter like me from the east, is a wise woman.
She says that a few mint leaves repel the mozzies like nobody's business. You can plant the mint next to your kitchen door and say goodbye to the pesky mosquitos.
They say a mosquito once hit on the ear and declared his undying love. The ear laughed and said the mosquito was no match for her.
Ever since the mosquito makes it a point to remind the ear about her unwise laughter and to tell her that he is still alive.
So douse yourself in mint and get a good night's sleep.
Everyone in the taxi from Bosmont was complaining that we moved straight from winter, right into summer.
Auntie Emma was moaning that this is not right. She said the body should be gently eased into summer.
The temperature in the last two weeks was way down in the early teens - as the funky newscasters say. The next day it was up in the high 20s. Rude, lusty and very hot.
I love summer. You can keep winter for all I care. No matter how many layers I put on, there is always that piercing string of cold that finds its way through scarf and collar to torment my back.
Winter makes me sluggish. I always anticipate spring and summer with great eagerness.
The "high-high" brigade love winter. They get a rest from that temperature spike. In summer they have bits of tissues pasted all over their necks and faces. They fan themselves with tired hands in a futile effort to cool down.
We now have windows open in the taxis. This dilutes the human fug we travel in in winter. I am told the Pretoria-Johannesburg route does not screen passengers. The commuters suffer from the pong generated by those who shun water and deodorant.
We all sympathised with Pinky who suffers terribly. She said what made it worse the other day, was that one smelly lady was carrying a sour- smelling baby with a malodorous nappy. Shame.
What is shocking about summer is shedding all jerseys and coats, to find your body has doubled in size. It is so depressing.
While we bemoaned our shapelessness in loud voices, the taxi driver, a man, raised the volume of the radio. The song playing was Motho mang le mang atle.
He said he could not concentrate on the road because of the noise. He began speeding as we got near Fordsburg.
We were shocked and began screaming: "Please slow down. We want to live for our children. Please, this is not the Gautrain."
He slowed down with the comment that he could not understand how women could follow several conversations at once.
We shut up when we heard the words of the hymn Motho mang le mang atle because we were not ready to go home to Jesus.