Beg pardon, dear reader, slightly slow start, but herewith the Best Of Silber archive gets going, disclosing the secret of how Gus didn’t get a speeding ticket in Tzaneen.

We were just outside Tzaneen, on the R71 to Phalaborwa, a road that serves little purpose other than to cleave the mopani-veld in two and allow you to get to the Kruger National Park as quickly as possible.

Just how quickly, became apparent when a man in a smart brown uniform leaped onto the tarmac up ahead, waving his hand excitedly in the air.

This is a sight that always makes my heart sink to my knees, whether or not the person is wearing a uniform, and I just managed to steal a glance at my speedometer as I shifted my foot from the petrol to the brake. I was doing 90km/h, or thereabouts. Which wasn't a problem, since this was a 120 zone, right?

I drifted into the minibus taxi lane, took a deep breath, and cut the engine. In the back seat, the children were yanking their iPod buds out of their ears with looks of just-awoken confusion on their faces. We weren't there yet, and neither, from the look of it, were we at a Caltex One-Stop or an Ultra City.

In the passenger seat, my navigator gritted her teeth and asked me how fast I'd been going. I was hardly doing anything at all, I said, knowing full well that a more precise answer would follow shortly.

Then the man in uniform was leaning down and looking in the window. He was a burly man, brimming with official good cheer. "Good morning, good morning!" he said, "how are you?" I said I was fine, thanks, and established that he was fine too. Then he asked for my driver's license.

"Do you know how fast you were going?" he said. I shrugged. "About 70 or so?" He told me: "Ninety-four point seven. In a sixty zone."

I feebly said I hadn't seen the 60 sign, which was true, but not very useful. The traffic officer asked whether I would like to see the reading.

Done by Denis for BA’s magazine Horizons a coupla months ago. Snuck in here for relief from the D2 diet.

For Claire's wedding the in-laws came from Toronto and we made the usual jokes. "Were your friends horrified about you coming to Africa? Were they sure you'd be mugged before you left Arrivals, and eaten by lions and get Aids from a coffee cup?"

The in-laws smiled sweetly and dropped a brick: "Mainly they were horrified about us coming to Johannesburg. They said there must be a mistake. No-one would want to get married in Johannesburg, surely we meant Cape Town."
When our pulse-rates throttled back to Cruise, we poured the in-laws their champagne anyway. To show how big we are.

We can take put-down, we Joburgers. For more than a century we have lived with the mining-camp label, as if cities built around fish are somehow purer. We've been gentlepersons about this. We admit a shortage of beaches and mountain trails. We know our mine-dumps aren't as scenic as the spirit-levelled hill behind Cape Town, but hey, look, we made ours. They just occupied what geology had given them. We could do quite a bit of bragging if we wanted, but we zip our lips, in pure politeness.

Back to the, er, past . . . This month we've changed our name from The ColdType Reader back to the original, and simpler, title of ColdType. It's the third time we've changed our name: the first incarnation of ColdType was in tabloid printed format; then, after a long hiatus, it became ColdType2, an e-magazine inside ColdType.net. After a couple of issues, we switched to the less-confusing ColdType Reader. Now, with our 57th issue, we're back where we began: ColdType. – Tony Sutton, editor

People, part of the Grand Plan is to offer you a terrific read. That’s why we’ve been stealing James Greener’s terrific economics. Now we’re also stealing Gus Silber’s terrific everything-but-economics. The hidden aim is that while you visit them you catch up on the unfolding of D2. The unhidden aim is to breed a real magazine here, and a great one at that. You’re seeing the embryo. Watch this space. Meantime: welcome, Gus (see his Twitter Overflow Blog)! Whoo-hoo.(Drums, trumpets, balloons).

In London in 1989 South Africa’s conflict was big TV news. One channel had a pulsating flashpoint logo with the day’s death count. Every night showed flashing flames with a place name and a race scorecard. “Stilfontein - 1 White, 3 Blacks”; “Lusikisiki - 4 Blacks”.

Denis gets put off his breakfast by a bit of passing people-clubbing, a la seal-clubbing, and turns his mind to how D2 might impact on this quadrant of human affairs.

Dawn is rising over Wanderers Street and my OWJ lobe is in nostalgia mode. Nostalgia is the birthright of we Old White Joburgers; we’re world captains. Other cities have changed, I do not begrudge, but none like ours. Especially round Wanderers Street.

On Rapallo Corner I get déjà vu. 1960s, half-term dinner on pass-out from boarding house. Artificial grapes over artificial beams gave a Riviera flavour. The violinist did his best with Elvis and Lonesome Tonight, spoiling a boy on a special occasion. Afterwards we ambled quiet streets, mom in a hat, dad and I whoops-a-daisying my sister. Nostalgifest.