Frankie Fredericks à Maurice

-Que pensez-vous du choix de Stéphan Buckland d’être resté au pays pour poursuivre sa carrière ?

– C’est un excellent choix ! Quand je suis rentré pour poursuivre ma carrière, j’étais immediatement plus heureux et mieux dans ma peau. Cela s’explique par le fait que tes proches sont à tes côtés. Quand tu te réveilles chaque matin, tu es heureux et c’est une joie de te rendre à l’entraînement. Alors qu’à l’étranger, tu te sens seul et triste. Je pense que Stéphan a fait ce choix pour les mêmes raisons… On est mieux chez soi.

Pour le reste de l'entrevue, cliquez ici.

°.•· neige .* •· º

I really don’t like sludge, when snow mixes with mud and turns the streets into giant slides. I hate it when you forget to wear boots and your foot sinks into apparently shallow snow to your ankle. I really hate it when I’ve just done my hair and left my umbrella home, and then it starts snowing gently enough to frizz and freeze it all up!

But I love snow… It’s the closest thing I’ve experienced to magic as an adult.

I like the flakes when they cover my coat and hat so that I look like a small Yeti. And I really like it when the snowflakes fall rapidly and swirl so that the whole world is spotted white. It’s absolutely lovely when I wake up early on a Sunday morning and feel the snow outside, because of the eerie light through my window. I know that when I go out, there’ll be a thin crust formed on top of the night-fallen snow, so that walking on it feels like digging into a vast crême brulée: tap crust, crunch in, dive into softness. How can you not be in awe of a multi-coloured world naturally processed to black and white?

Best of all are snowball fights, with projectiles made from clean snow swept off the roadsides. Did you know that being dunked head down into thick snow is like being dunked underwater in the sea? You get the same breathless feeling and you come out with the same determination for revenge!

I'm looking forward to a white white world :)

Ode To Tomatoes

by Pablo Neruda

The street
filled with tomatoes,
midday,
summer,
light is
halved
like
a
tomato,
its juice
runs
through the streets.
In December,
unabated,
the tomato
invades
the kitchen,
it enters at lunchtime,
takes
its ease
on countertops,
among glasses,
butter dishes,
blue saltcellars.
It sheds
its own light,
benign majesty.
Unfortunately, we must
murder it:
the knife
sinks
into living flesh,
red
viscera
a cool
sun,
profound,
inexhaustible,
populates the salads
of Chile,
happily, it is wed
to the clear onion,
and to celebrate the union
we
pour
oil,
essential
child of the olive,
onto its halved hemispheres,
pepper
adds
its fragrance,
salt, its magnetism;
it is the wedding
of the day,
parsley
hoists
its flag,
potatoes
bubble vigorously,
the aroma
of the roast
knocks
at the door,
it's time!
come on!
and, on
the table, at the midpoint
of summer,
the tomato,
star of earth, recurrent
and fertile
star,
displays
its convolutions,
its canals,
its remarkable amplitude
and abundance,
no pit,
no husk,
no leaves or thorns,
the tomato offers
its gift
of fiery color
and cool completeness.