Opening Night

You wish thespians good luck by telling them to break a leg. My favourite version of the origin of the saying is this one: In traditional curtains, the legs of the curtain were constructed from long wooden rods. In the case of many encores, curtains would be lifted and dropped numerous times causing them to ‘break’.

“I wish you much shit” is the Italian version:

In days of yore, patrons arrived at the theatre in horse-drawn carriages. A side effect of horses is, well…shit. So a large audience would result in large piles of shit outside the theatre.

I like.

Shoot me Now

I’ve done it. I’ve signed up for Nano.

This means I MUST write a 50,000 word novel in November.  Doesn’t matter if it’s good, bad or ugly.  It must just be 50,000 words or more.

What on earth for?

Well, I’ve done three writing courses this year, joined three writing groups* , and joined a book club.  With all this groundwork, the only thing left to do is, well…write.

And as the Doyenne of Procrastination, I can do nothing without a deadline, (I especially relish the sound of it whooshing past).

So.  Anyone else keen? 

 

*I’m on the verge of starting another one for scriptwriting.

Tulbagh Earthquake – 40 Years on

Forty years ago my dad woke me up and said I must go outside because there were elephants under my bed.

Tsk. 

South Africa had just experienced its worst earthquake:   6.3 on the Richter scale.  We were 90km away, and it was felt as far away as Durban (1175km). 

Mr Muffin remembers he was watching a cowboy movie in the old Alhambra Theatre. 

To commemorate the 40^th anniversary, the Tulbagh Hotel is hosting a ‘Tulbagh Rocks” party.  Your R75.00 includes a cocktail, a burger and a Rock ‘n Roll Party.  Cool hey? 

What were you doing on 29 September 1969?

The Flip Side

I went to a rehearsal at 19h30 last night, and traffic cops prevented me from going onto Wynberg Hill, which had been the scene of a horrific accident. I stopped and asked for details, expecting to be shooed away. But the officer was very polite and told me that a truck had overturned, and both lanes of the M3 had been closed. They’d been redirecting traffic since 16.30, and didn’t know when the road would be opened.

When I returned at 22.30, they were still there, in the rain, diverting traffic. Instead of just feeling sorry for them, I converted Mr Muffin’s car into a mobile café bar for the next few hours, as I dispensed about 50 cups of coffee and tea to the traffic officers, firemen and City of Cape Town emergency workers.

Apart from the feel-goodness from a random act of kindness, I got a rare glimpse into the life of our much-criticised civil servants. And I have a new respect for these people. There was not one word of complaint that they’d had to give up their evenings, cancel plans, and report for work the next morning. This was all part of the job, and it just had to be done.

As the tea lady, I got to hear conversations Joe Public wouldn’t normally hear. And guess what – these guys are normal. They’re just like us. They bragged about their kids, wondered when they’d be able to take leave, and complained about queues in banks.

I also learned why the road takes so long to clear: About 20 tons of manure was on that truck (which weighed about 15 tons). And because there had been a death, the cargo had to be reloaded onto the same truck, for the forensics. This means that a grader had to clear the manure from the road, wait for the truck to be righted by a crane, and then put all the manure back onto the truck. Only then could the truck and its cargo be towed away. Not a speedy process.

Some of the personnel at the scene expressed a regret that the grader had taken so long to arrive. They knew that today’s radio and press would be inundated with complaints of incompetence from people complaining about how they’d been stuck in traffic for two hours.

But they were very grateful for the coffee. I just wish I’d had rusks with me, as by the time I left at 1am, most of them still hadn’t had supper.

Speechless Saturday

Young men are rare in Cape Town, and even more so in amateur theatre.

The play I’m in calls for some hard-to-find items: a Jose Feliciano LP, 1970’s ashtrays and furniture, Pomagne, and, you guessed it, a young man.

I listed these on the front of my script, to remind me to look for them when I get a moment.

This morning I found my script in the kitchen. Under the entry ‘Find Young Man’, a certain Mr Muffin had appended, ‘You should be so lucky’

Does he really think the ‘xxx’ below those words are going to save him?

Slow Children Crossing: Sê Weer?

I’ve been exploring the interior of Mr Muffin’s not-so-new-any-more car.

It’s very clean. We believe no child has ever contaminated the interior. I mean, what 7-year old car still has the protective plastic on the running board?

The sunvisor has a flap over the mirror. When you open the flap a light comes on, so you can touch up your make-up, squeeze a spot or check for spinach any time of day or night. Cool.

This warning notice on the rear of the sunvisor confirms my suspicions:

“Secure children in the rear seats if your vehicle is equipped with them”

Touché

In Muffin Manor, I cook supper and Mr Muffin makes lunch.

But a long weekend usually throws out the grocery shopping routine, so this week’s been somewhat improvisational.

Last night, I’d forgotten about an early meeting, so rushed out of the house leaving a note next to half a box of chocolates: Hello Hunnee, Good news – we got a present. Bad news – it’s your supper.

This morning there was a note on the kitchen table: Hello Hunnee, Sorry, the cupboard is a bit bare at the mo. Here’s R10 for the tuckshop at lunch.

Mr Muffin: 1
Dusty Muffin: 0

Ioannis NK Sugar Spill: The End is Nigh

Superstition has it that if you spill sugar, you will get a visitor.

Ioannis NK sank off our coastline last week, spilling 22 500 tons of sugar. So just how big is our visitor going to be? Common sense leads to the conclusion that this is the final sign that the Second Coming is imminent. Sinners, this may be your last chance to repent.

(If you’re still not convinced, please know that we’re all going to die of starvation anyway. Fishermen are complaining that all this sweetness has given the fish a massive sugar rush, making them impossible to catch.)

Speechless Sunday

Mr Muffin usually waits in the car when I pop into Woolies, but this time he decided to come with me.
I picked up the milk and headed for the checkout, followed by a 56-year-old toddler:
”Can we get Chuckles for pudding?”
“No, we’re too fat.”
“What about these chips, they’re kettle-fried?”
“Too much salt.”
“And these sweets with added Vitamin C? They’re healthy.”
By now we’ve reached the till and I’ve stopped responding. Mr Muffin offers to pay.
The cashier asks him if he’d like a bag.
”No thanks,” he replies, thumbing in my direction, “I’ve already got one.”

Armstrong Fever

So which one did you think of? Neil or Lance?
 

Both of these men have had massive media coverage in the last few days: for Tour la Lune and Tour de France.
 

Forty years ago, Neil and his mates were toasting their successful return from the moon landing. Springbok Radio captured the moment. Colin Cullis played the clip on Cape Talk’s Hard Drive on yesterday afternoon.
 

I’m ashamed to admit that I sometimes wonder if the moon landing was a hoax. The conspiracy theorists can be quite convincing in their arguments, particularly the ones about the psychological advantage of winning the
Space Race against Russia. And Hollywood was big enough back then to have been in on one of the biggest scams in history.
 

And it doesn’t help that NASA admitted that they no longer have the original tape of the landing. “We must have taped over it,” a spokesman said. Hollywood to the rescue…
 

But I digress. Cullis played this clip as an introduction to Google Moon, which provides even more proof that the moon landing was not faked.
 

Cullis said that the lack of technology in 1969 forced the world take America’s word back then. Even so, it would have been one hell of a stunt to pull off. But now Google Moon is the ultimate argument settler. Just like Wikipedia, right?
 

So, says Cullis, with all this new technology, providing all this irrefutable evidence, how on earth can anyone not believe that Lance Armstrong walked on the moon?
 

‘strues Bob. That’s what he said.

Coming Home

A car stands deserted next to the road.  Arthur slows down as he passes, squinting through the rivulets on the windscreen of his twenty-year-old Corolla.  The pelting July rain intensifies the darkness.  No movement from inside the other car.

The crumpled front fender gives the BMW’s headlight a manic frown.  Red paint bleeds across the rock face.  There’s no sign of the driver.  Is he concussed?  Has he stumbled over the edge?  Is he dead?

Arthur’s brain fumbles.  Is it my problem?  Must I take responsibility for this bastard?  All I did was answer my cellphone.  He didn’t need to overreact like that.  I had to take the call.  Louise was already stressing that I wasn’t home yet.

Arthur leans forward, the staccato rhythm of the wipers mimics his heartbeat.  How had he got into this mess?

It had started when Louise booked theatre tickets.  She knew that the weekly meetings often ran late, so why had she booked seats for a Monday?  Taking the kids out on a school night was bad enough, but why on the day when she knew he probably be late?

Then:  “Hey Arthur, will you take the minutes?”

“Sure boss, just need to call home to say I’ll be late.”

“Ja, whatever.”

Whatever.  Sure boss.  Ask Arthur, he’ll take on all the crappy jobs.  The little grey man who always gets passed over for promotion.  Eighteen years, and they don’t even know my wife’s name.

Louise.  Louise, whom I’ve loved since I was sixteen and she was fourteen.  We’ll have been married nineteen years this November.

Arthur smiled.  She never complained about the long hours, but he sensed her patience was wearing thin, especially when she had to cancel engagements because of him.

“ …even though there are green shoots, the current economic climate means that we must continue to level the playing fields for the man on the ground…”

It doesn’t make sense.  I’m working these extra hours to make a better life for my family; but all it’s doing is making everyone unhappy.

Arthur stopped writing and looked up.

“Sorry boss, I’ve got to go.  Someone else will have to carry on with the minutes.”

Without waiting for a reply, he pushed his chair back, picked up his briefcase, closed the door on the stunned meeting and walked out into the cold rain.

As he reached his car, his cellphone shrilled at him.

“Are you going to be much longer?”

“I’m sorry darling, I’m just leaving the office now.  I won’t be too long.”

He tucked the cellphone between his ear and his shoulder as he creaked open the car door, threw his briefcase onto the back seat and slid in behind the steering wheel.

“You’d better hurry.  If we’re late they won’t let us in till interval.”  He could hear her voice cracking.  Oh God, I hate it when she cries.

“I’m pulling out of the car park right now.  Oh shit, I just cut in front of a BMW.  He looks really pissed off.”  Arthur raised his hand in mute apology.  “Look Louise, I must go.  I’ll be there as soon as I can, OK?”

He pushed the red button on his phone and tossed it onto the passenger seat.

He sighed, turned right at the traffic lights and looked in his rear view mirror.  Bloody BMW driver, right up my arse.  Arthur forced a smile and waved a ‘Sorry’ at the angry face in the car behind him.  He indicated and turned left onto the mountain pass.  The BMW followed and drew up beside him.  The driver leaned over the passenger seat, gesticulating and mouthing obscenities.  Even through the rain-spattered glass Arthur could see the artery pulsing on the guy’s temple, the tightness of the tendons in his neck.  His face was puce with rage.

Startled, Arthur veered to the left, his pulse quickening.  He almost overcorrected, but continued up the road, passing the gum trees and ‘For Sale’ signs, towards the corner which marked the start of the steep ascent.  Visibility was poor.  His headlights forged through the downpour and bounced off the shining tar, which had been smoothed by the rain to a black lake.  He dropped back to let the BMW pass, but it slowed down too, moving closer to Arthur, as though it were trying to push him off the road.  Arthur frowned as he rounded the bend and geared down for the ascent.  He moved onto the narrow shoulder, close to the barrier.

Knuckles white on the steering wheel, Arthur floored the accelerator of his 1300cc Toyota.  Come on, come on, urged Arthur, leaning forward.  We’ve got to lose this maniac.  C’mon old girl, you can do it...  He glanced to his right and saw that he’d gained about a metre on the BMW.  The driver grinned at Arthur, but it looked more like a ghoulish grimace.  His teeth told of hours spent in the dentist’s chair: Godzilla with a Colgate smile.  This bastard’s a bully – he’s enjoying this!  Pitting his dream machine against my jalopy.

He slowed down and focused on the steep road ahead.  Despite the cold, he had to wipe sweat from his eyes.  He dried his hands on his faded corduroys and gripped the wheel with clammy hands. Don’t make eye contact. But now what?  There are five kilometres of bends ahead.  Nowhere I can pull in and get help.  What if this guy’s trying to kill me?

Arthur knew the road well.  He’d travelled it both ways for almost two decades, to and from  work.  Eighteen years of crappy holidays and eating out at the Spur.  Eighteen years of saving for the day he could move his family into a decent-sized home in a security village.  The kids would have their own rooms; Louise would have a garden and he would have a workshop.  His family would be safe.  Safe.  Safe from sicko’s like this.  Now this one guy was close to ruining it. No. No rich bastard is taking it away from me.

He steeled himself and prepared for the hairpin bend just ahead.  Out of the corner of his eye he saw the BMW was inching slowly ahead of him.  What’s the bastard up to now?  Is he going to swerve left and ram me from the front, forcing me over the edge? Arthur looked in his rear view mirror.  No cars behind.  He slammed on the brakes, ready to pull up the handbrake at the first sign of a skid.  As the BMW shot past him, he saw the driver frown.  He could almost see the cogs turning in the guy’s brain as he tried to work out what to do next.

The BMW braked.  Its taillights turned the rain to rubies, bathing Arthur in a ruddy glow.  He watched it spin, a macabre pirouette.  Arthur’s brain captured the ballet frame by frame.  He watched mesmerised as the car met the mountainside sideways on, the wheels on the near side lifting and juddering back to earth.  Then nothing.

Serves him right.  Arthur took a deep breath and moved forward.  Past his nemesis.  The rain was heavier now, and Arthur knew he would have to concentrate really hard for the next few kilometres.  Blind corners, no streetlights, no hard shoulder.  Only the white line to help him get home to his family, in time for the theatre.

His breathing slowed and his brain took over where his instincts left off.

What if he’s injured? What if another car goes into him?  What if someone else is killed by that moron? Who will call the paramedics?

Arthur sighed.  Too many what ifs. I can’t do nothing.  I’d better go back.  Just in case. He turned his car around and made his way back through the darkness.

A dark shape looms ahead. Is that it?  Yes, there it is.

A car stands deserted next to the road.  Arthur slows down as he passes.  He cranes his neck, looking for a sign of life.

All he can hear is the rain.

He reaches for his cellphone and dials.

A moment.

“Hi darling.  There’s been a bit of an accident on the pass.  Nothing too serious.  I’m coming home.”

State of the Nation: Education

Sometime last century I did a degree through Unisa. We only had two lectures a year, so we formed study groups and scrounged old exam papers. We worked hard and were proud when we got a distinction.

This week I wrote two Theory of Literature papers. There have been no lectures and only one video conference with Pretoria. As usual we asked the professors what we could expect in exams. The reply was standard – just concentrate on your second assignment. We asked if there were any other areas we should focus on, and were told that they are not allowed to examine us on anything new.

I’m a bit thick, and this didn’t sink in. I went home and diligently revised the entire syllabus.

In the first exam over half the paper was taken directly from the assignment. So I know I did well.

But blow me down with a paper cut, the second paper was a direct crib of the assignment. I had a rant and was told by a fellow student that it’s been this way for a few years (her dad used to mark for Unisa).

So 120 ToL students are going into the wide world thinking they are Brilliant. And the professors? There’s no way they can feel a sense of accomplishment. They’re probably paging through the ‘Employment Offered’ section.

Retro Ray-Bans

I have endured much flak about my sunglasses. No matter how many times I’ve sat on them, dropped them or misplaced them, they just keep going. They’re so old, they’ve come back into fashion.
Mr Muffin was horrified when he saw them in Occhiali yesterday. Then he saw the price tag and had to sit down. He reckons the only reason they’re priced at R4,250 is that they really, really don’t want anyone to buy them.

55 Pilot Whales beached at Kommetjie

Started at 7.30 this morning.

No survivors.

Story and some pics here and here.

In other news, North Korea says it has carried out its second ever nuclear test.

“As with all marine mammals pilot whales are very sensitive to seismic disturbance” (Source: indymedia)

Are there any dots to join in this picture?

Just asking.

I’ve met the Black Dog.

The one that gnaws at my stomach, reminding me to worry: I’ve forgotten something; hurt someone with a thoughtless word; I’ll never complete what I’ve set out to do. It walks in my shadow all day, telling me there’s no point to it all, so why bother?

Sometimes it sleeps, releasing me into a place of laughter and escape. When I leave that sanctuary I turn and trip over it, bruising again.

I’ve found some pretty yellow pills that keep this hound at bay for a few hours. But he’s watching. Patient. Welcoming that yellow as his best friend, knowing they’re insidious traitors offering temporary, false relief from his attention.

The dog watches, lying in a corner with its head on its paws as I tackle new projects and meet new people to avoid its orange stare. It knows I’ll see it again when the novelty wears off, and I’m not surrounded by noise and friends and things to do. It’ll keep me company in the quiet of the pre-dawn, breathing its foul breath until I can sleep no more.

I see now that it’s always been there. I realise my mum had chained it up in a kennel out back, keeping me safe.

Do you think the SPCA will take it away if I ask very nicely?