It’s summer. It’s raining. It’s cold. In a word, it’s miserable. The Underground is wet, damp and humid. Forget about minding the gap – it is fellow travellers that you have to mind, for they do not mind you. The hustle and bustle comes to an abrupt halt, with fellow travellers acting as human air cushions.

I take swift evasive action, dodging travellers and, in what seems like a single motion, I button my raincoat, prepared to confront the rain. But outside, it is not the rain that abruptly interrupts my stride; rather, it is the brightly illuminated red man on the pedestrian crossing who is responsible. Not much to do but stop and adhere to the traffic rules – unless one has a desire to inspect the undercarriage of a car while it is in motion.

As the rain pours down with seemingly added vigour, I stare across the road. There, in big gold capital letters, on a green background, screams the world BLESSINGS. I can swear that it is illuminated by a rogue ray of sunshine, and I hear a choir singing. As I read the letters, I am reminded of my boyhood town. The way in which its name is written has changed. No, not the name. Not the spelling either. A letter has lost its capital standing to another. For no longer is the first letter a capital, which is reminiscent of the first born losing financial preference to the first-born male.

My thoughts turn to my grandmother, who resided in the very same town, staring out of her window across the ocean. She hated the oceans – possibly as much as staring into the distance. She was a lady of a great and able mind, which was confined to her brittle body by the selfish action of another individual, who had succeeded in his desire to have himself deprived of life. But, in doing so, he imposed an unjust external cost on my grandmother.

I recall the days back then when, in despair and blind to my grandmother’s own challenges, I berated and bemoaned my own ‘miserable life’. A teenager’s life is known to be one of persistent misery, not? (I am told that this is how teenagers speak nowadays. Okay, my bad! Before driving my own mother to utter despair with my evidently deteriorating English ability, I will, as she says, ‘move along, swiftly!)

As I gazed into my grandmother’s attentive and engaging eyes, she would shuffle in her reclining chair, saying simply: “Tell me of your blessings.” She said blessings, not blessing. Yes, there is a difference, a big difference.

As the rain pours down with even greater vigour, I think of my blessings, recalling that 1897 biblical song, Count your blessings; Name them one by one . . .”

In my thoughts, I acknowledge that there are certain things that I have to accept, which are out of my control. The country where I was born. Had no choice in that. My physical appearance. No choice in that either. However, if I was superficially inclined, I could change my physical appearance. I could even forsake my mother tongue for another – another superficial change! As for being on this planet, that too was not through my own choice.

Although we celebrate our birthdays, we had very little to do with our birth. Rather than celebrate our birthdays, we should celebrate our mothers on the day. We were all free riders. Yes, we all began as such, but some just continue perpetuating that state of affairs. I nearly included the lack of choice regarding one’s sex, but this is no longer true. You are able to transcend. The now paper mâché newspaper which I still carry bears the story of an individual who expressed regret. Yes, even nature affords the opportunity to transcend only once. Think of the butterfly. The headlined individual was transcending for a fourth time. The individual’s regret? The first transition.

As for religion, here, too, you have a choice. You might well not have such a choice initially, but ultimately you do.

Contemplating my blessings . . . I am blessed to live in a country where my physical appearance does not define me or enhance or distract from my ability to make an economic contribution. It is a country where people are not motivated, or have the desire, to deprive me of my life through an activity that is seemingly attributable to their own lack of ability to value their own life or to acquire my possession, for which they lack the inclination to legitimately acquire. It is a country where mail is delivered within 48 hours of being posted – it is considered a national tragedy if this does not happen. No, it is not email; it is what you know as snail mail.

The snails here are faster and we have no Sasol filling stations. I am blessed to live in a country where the pass rate for subjects is, at the very least, 50%. A mark of less than 59% is considered average. The country’s leader is focused on, and works tirelessly towards, improving the wellbeing of all the people she leads, not just blood relations or others close to her. She is a leader intent on improving her country, not her bottom line or waistline.

As the rain persists, I recall my grandmother’s favourite actor, who was well known for these lyrics: “I’m singing, singing, singing, in the rain . . . , I’m Elvis Astaire,” No, wait, the last verse is not from The Soft Shoes’ song (whatever happened to them).

I arrive at my front door and step inside. “Riaan has left the building, good day, South Africa.” I smile to myself. “Elvis has left the building” is a phrase that was often used by public address announcers at the conclusion of Elvis Presley’s concerts in order to disperse audience members lingering on in the hope of an encore.