Update

One of the more misleading things about a blog - or a diary, I suppose, or any other sustained correspondence - is that a lapse in entries generally does not imply a lack of activity. Rather, it often implies exactly the opposite: the diarist unable to compose as shells fell in nearby quarters, or the blogger distracted by a sudden and unexpected romance.

I can't blame the three-day silence on anything quite so dramatic, but it has been an eventful few days. Partly due to a momentary rough patch: with L. away for five days, I happened to come down with a worsening flu and a 101-degree temperature, and watched in some awe as Cleo managed to wake up at 5:50, 5:30, and 4:50 on consecutive days. This morning was easily the weirdest : I awoke in the solemn dark to a toddler voice meekly imploring Daddy to come downstairs while finding concurrently that my tee shirt was thoroughly soaked in nightsweat. A combination of coffee, warm milk, and Curious George got us through until sunrise, a full three hours later. (You might think here of Wagner's claim that, after hearing a Beethoven symphony as a young man, he succumbed to a fever, and, when he recovered, found himself a musician. I heard a toddler's quotidian protests at bedtime, became feverish, and awoke to find myself... a father).

But it hasn't all been difficult. Not at all; over the past few days, we've found a good deal to keep us happily busy. The delightfully provincial commuter train that runs along the rocky coast of the Cape peninsula, from fishing town to fishing town, and above tide pools and small strands of sand. The display of clown fish in the aquarium, featuring a hollowed cylinder in the center into which small children can climb, and feel surrounded by the swimming riot of color. A pizzeria that offers both olives and a playground - two of Cleo's staples, at the moment -and a hard cider for Daddy. Slowly, together, we explore the city, wear each other out, and retreat home by 5:30, when the streets and beaches grow dim, and suddenly ominous, and reportedly dangerous.

Call it a fairy tale of sorts, then. If one obeys the weird local logic - home by a certain time, or the car turns into a pumpkin; stick to the main roads, or the car may be dismantled - it's remarkably beautiful. And, of course, it's temporary: the ball never lasts forever. But it's nice to feel healthy enough, again, to enjoy it while it lasts.