The real fiction

I read a book this weekend. That's not really news I guess, seeing as it's something I do fairly regularly. Read, that is. It's just that it was one of those books you can't put down. Or, at least, I couldn't put down.

Whiplash, by Tracey Farren. It's a gritty story set in Muizenberg about a painkiller-addicted prostitute. So, no, it's not my normal fluffy 'chick-lit' kind of book but it's the kind of book that I love - set in a familiar place, with real characters. It's not an easy read, it is sad and violent and scary and, well, gritty. That really is the best word for it. But, overwhelmingingly, it is filled with the human spirit and beautiful, fragile, but firm relationships between people.

In one breath it made me wonder at the cruelty of the society we live in and, in the next, rejoice in the silver thread of love that runs through us all, regardless of our circumstances. Essentially, in comparison to the (very real) circumstances in which this book is set, I am a spoilt little rich kid, and I always find myself thankful that people write books like this so that I can open my eyes too. That makes me sound like I walk around blind to the world, I don't really, I sometimes think I take too much in, but that's another story.

Coincidentally I found myself in Muizenberg for dinner on Saturday with some friends. I was in another world though, my head still in the book, that I had left on my bed. As we drove through the dark streets, I saw her shadows dancing down by the beachfront, the salt air blowing through her hair, as I watched a deal go down in the car in the parking lot over the tracks.

I think I may be blurring my fiction with reality. Or is it my reality blurring with fiction?