On Saturday, the Democratic Alliance gathered its new (and old) candidates at a Rosebank hotel, in order to show off their skill sets. This is the army they will take to battle. Good luck with that.
Notes from the elections that may eat us all:
Strangely--or perhaps not so strangely--every time I encounter Helen Zille in a room, my mind flashes to a Braveheart style montage: the Democratic Alliance's stalwart leader, head shaved, face smeared with blood and war paint, guiding 10,000 troops forward into battle. It's just a flash, but it happens every time, and it makes me a little scared and uncomfortable--this sense that if Zille ever did become president of this country, a role she most certainly covets, I would be conscripted into service for the invasion of Zimbabwe or Mozambique or some other nearby candidate for regime change, urged to war by the howling President herself.
I can't figure out if this is just a boilerplate Freudian reaction to a Strong Woman, a mother figure who is uncompromising and ambitious and cunning, and whom could have my balls for Sunday lunch hors d'oeuvres before I realised they were missing. But I don't feel...