I have a roommate where I'm staying in Cape Town. He is, give or take, 40 years younger than me - six months old to the day when we arrive in Cape Town. Zach is a very, very good baby. He seems very chilled out and laughs with ease. He has not quite got the hang of crawling yet and makes quite impressive progress backwards, much to his frustration. He is also vociferous, but not quite chatty yet. There is that moment with babies when they start to tell you things, things you are too stupid to understand, obviously, but they tell you anyway, in the hope that, one day, you might get it. My roommate is not at at that point yet. He's still at the... making-sounds-in-what-appears-to-be-a-random-fashion stage. Part of this involves quite often yelling at one cat or the other, but neither cat seems to give a toss about what he has to say, or they're very good at feigning indifference.
And, ultimately, I think there may be a Learning Point here for me. In fact, I start to fear that the show will come across, here in South Africa, as someone yelling at the audience in a random fashion and I am concerned they will feel like one or other of the cats. I am feeling nervous just a couple of days away from our opening show in Cape Town on Tuesday... but it is the weekend... in Cape Town, in February, for goodness sake. I need not to waste any time feeling anything but lucky and delighted and, well, a bit sweaty. The news is full of snow in the UK, it's half way through January, and they are having plenty of winter action over there.
I take Sunday off and end up at Kirstenbosch with this young friend of mine who I managed not to see for his birthday on Friday night - we didn't stand a chance, without mobiles we were lost... We wander around the beautiful gardens and get to hear a concert which is taking place there for free. It's Jimmy Gluglu, a big South African star, and it's good stuff. As we meander around the beautiful gardens at the foot of Table Mountain I find myself buried in all kinds of my past, and, well, anxiety about it, telling Jesse stories about my exploits, failures, weird times. I try to explain how nervous I am about the show. I also find myself trying to describe how I miss my sister.... but I fear I just come across as someone who's yelling at the cat. I have to remember that he is a writer and any story, no matter how filled with failure and tedium - and incomprehensible yelling - may come in useful for him one day. He, in return, tells me exciting stories about being on a massive tour, about what he'll be up to next, about being him. Obviously we come back into Cape Town that evening and have a Mexican meal, we are in Africa, after all. Then we have a drink with my hosts and Martin and Jacques back at the flat.
As I creep to bed so's not wake the baby I reflect on how darn odd it is to have planned to meet up with this relatively new chum from London, who has now met these key characters from my life, heard some stories from that 'life' (whether he liked it or not) and been with me on some the hallowed ground which carries so much... meaning for me. I also decide I need to yell at more cats.
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