I’m very grateful to the faithful readers of this almost-daily contribution to conversations about relationships and family and whatever else strikes my fancy.

Besides the readers of the printed daily newspaper where this column appears, more than 1.5 million people in about 180 countries have read my articles.

Here’s how you can assist me: promote the idea of subscription to others and “share” the content with others.

Some readers ask for calls to talk about something specific and I usually can accommodate – through WhatsApp and other convenient channels.

Let me know if you’d like to talk.

I base my charges on the country of the call’s origination and take payment via several online options.

Please don’t let costs put you off. I’d rather hear from you than not.

Rod

On a trip within Jamaica the heat got to me and so I searched for a good cup of tea. 

I ventured off a busy street into a tea-room, which was a very crowded supply store with one table and chair hidden among unopened boxes stacked ceiling-high and placed my order. 

I got more than I bargained for, much more. 

With the little steel tea-pot and good china placed before me, I thought of my parents’ home

Then, lifting the lid of the little milk jug to see why it poured so slowly, I discovered it was sweetened condensed milk. Having not had sweetened condensed milk, with tea, for many years, in fact, not since I was a child, I was ecstatic. 

Sipping tea in Jamaica I could taste and feel my parent’s home. 

With the warm cup in both hands I was transported to my childhood bed, my back propped against the wooden headboard. My head flooded with minute details, and, as I smelled and tasted the tea I was once again a child. 

For brief moments I was not an adult exploring the beautiful Jamaica but a child home from school, sipping tea in the privacy of his South African boyhood bedroom.