Like all the best stories, this begins with a knock at the door. I was sure it was Martin or Jacques coming down from upstairs, so as I shout "Je viens!" (we are so, like, multi-lingual), I pull what is something between a hand towel and a slightly larger hand towel around my nakedness and head for the front door. It was just me and my eight-month-old roommate hanging out that day, you see, so neither of us had yet bothered to get dressed. Well, one of us was wearing our nappy, but I shan't say which.
I open the door and it's the guy from Telcom. Hoorah! He is a bit surprised and I pretend it's only because I tell him I do not have the key for upstairs, where he is due to do some work today. He was expecting me to be a man called Mark. A dressed man called Mark, I'm guessing. I put some clothes on, grab the baby and the keys and we all go upstairs. After an eternity of ever loudening knocking, finally I rouse Jacques and my roommate and I are able to go back downstairs.
A little later in the day there is another knock at the door. I don't fall for it again: I've elected to put some clothes on but I cannot call out as I am brushing my teeth; I open the door and there are two of THE hottest police officers I have ever seen, and I am a police role actor and assessor and so I've seen a considerable chunk of police officerdom in my time. I lean seductively against the door and say, through my toothbrush,
"E-o"
"Hi, miss. Is Mr Gooding here?"
"No, I air-ibi soway, ee at ork."
"I see."
"E wa men oo ee ere, ut a oo o oo ork. Ca I ewlp?"
He opens his notebook.
"Is this still Mr Gooding's number."
I take the opportunity to lean closer.
"Es, is. Ca I arse wa i abou?"
"It's the opening of Parliament and we usually have snipers here."
"Oh, es! I owe ore abou at! On't ee a oblem!
This would have been the ideal moment to invite these beautiful young men in for something hot, but I glance up at Officer Notebook's companion and notice.... is it a rye smile? Or is it, in fact, an out-and-out smirk? The brush droops in my mouth, the moment passes, and for now they slip through my fingertips. For now.
"I'll give Mr Gooding a call, then."
"Oh, oo!" I semi-shout, just the smallest amount of toothepaste-ridden spittle issuing from my mouth, thinking that Mark will be very pleased to hear from these chaps, very pleased indeed.
We get to watch and hear lots of rehearsals for the opening of Parliament from our 12th floor eerie, which is taking place opposite the flat. Of course, rather than seeing if the sniper is as hot as his colleagues and, oh yeah, watching the opening of parliament actually happen from the flat, we go and do a matinee for a group of drama school students.
At the end of the performance (it was compulsory for them to write a review of it) one young man is overheard to comment that he thinks it's not okay to make money out of your own sister's murder. HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Making money. Oh, hahahahaha! Yeah, right. I wish I'd heard him, told him how much we've sunk into this tour, and then advised him that if he wants to make money he should get some proper training for a proper job. So I'm glad I didn't hear him - the students didn't get to see me pull back my skin and reveal the desperate, bitter performer/writer I could be if I just relaxed the clench on my soul.
The Q&A with the students lasts a long time and is so interesting. When the last one leaves we realise we only really have time to pop to a restaurant, grab some food and head back to do the evening show. It sells out, and the next day and the next day.
Our week at Theatre Arts Admin Collective culminates in a wild end-of-run party, which consists of Martin, Jacques and I wandering up and down Long Street - the main party street here in Cape Town - trying to find somewhere where the music is quiet enough on a Saturday night for us to sit and have something to eat in our old age. We settle outside an only slightly pounding restaurant and watch the young beautiful people walk past. Martin points out a woman and says her hair is beautiful. Jacques and I start wondering whether it is a wig or a weave and Martin asks what we are talking about. Well, we say, we are wondering... whether it was a wig or a weave, obviously. And, we discover, much to our delight, that Martin knows nothing, really, nothing, about the choices open to black women for their hairdos. Seriously, he knows less than a guy with a shaved head and a long pony tail and the laziest woman in history, who washes her hair when something new moves into it. We laugh at Martin, Martin laughs at Martin, we play spot the weave - Martin loses - and we leave Long Street in good time for an early-ish night.
And we are surprised to find that our two Cape Town runs are over: it is unbelievable. I am reeling from the generosity of the people we have met, their stories, and I am preparing for about five weeks in Cape Town before we leave for Johannesburg. What on earth am I going to do with myself?
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