Lights. Camera. RCNM.

It was one of those perfect English autumnal days which occur more frequently in dreams than in this reality called life when I landed there. Yes, I like to call it autumn. Not the 'fall'. Yes, I've been an Anglophile all my life. I've grown up with the sole belief that books were my best friends. They could understand me and excite me, fascinate me and make me wonder, like nothing or nobody else on the entire planet. My first rhyme was 'London Bridge', my first novel was 'Secret Seven' by Enid Blyton. Famous five, and Rudyard Kipling's children's stories and what not. And I, like many others have picked up J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter series, and loved it more than most material things. London, to me, meant the origin of this art we call literature. When English is close to your heart, how could London not be so? All those stories describing Hyde Park at dusk, those double decker red buses that Sherlock took rides in, 221B Bak...

I must say it's quite hard to remember and jot down a travel experience when relaxing and enjoying and working 10-12 hrs a day on week days and doing absolutely nothing on weekends feels so damn good! Between work time, posts, chill time ad going to the beach, I did manage to find a hidden treasure near Woodstock, Western Cape. In one of my more exhilarating Saturday mornings,(no lazing around in fleecy PJ's with a cuppa and WhatsApp), I got to dash around this Amazing neighborhood! Woodstock is fascinating - not just because every international travel magazine has been watching the gentrification and transformations closely, but because its a huge packet of contradictions, rough and smooth edges, rich and poor opulence and crumbling buildings in need of TLC squished side by side. Most importantly, under the horrific apartheid regime, a system of racial segregation, Woodstock was probably the only suburb in Cape Town that was a grey area. It's a...