Archive for August, 2009

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?


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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”

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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

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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.)

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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.”

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