On 3/27/13, on a hot, still Citybowl day, Marcus Low wrote:
Here the wind has left us
Gone on holiday … or hunger strike
No one really cares
We’re hardened by abandonment
These old streets are empty as death
Don’t you finger that flag, don’t you dare tempt us by fluttering those
leaves
We done miss your fatherly hand in our hair
We are free now.

Knowing how fast that can change, Joanne replied:
Wind sloped out of the City Bowl at 4.35am that morning (mumbling something about a pack of cigarettes or a carton of soya milk, depends who was listening) just before it went silent.

Somewhere between Woodstock and Rondebosch he shed his fatherly disguise, and started humming and whistling through his Halloween scales.

By the time he rode into Newlands on the back of morning traffic, no-one in the City Bowl even remembered him. But, as Claremont started its day, he was there: Wind was working their streets like an acrobat on too much coffee and bad news – swirling, whirling, menacing…