I had a lovely little bout of road rage in rush
hour traffic on my way to collect the docci crew from the airport. The
testosterone is flying around my body at a rate of knots. Do Capetonians think
that observing indicators are optional? I am indicating to get into another
lane and this asshole actually speeds up to close the gap. Ahhgghhh. Do any of
these people actually possess a driving license? The irony is lost on me that I
actually did drive around without one for a year and took my brand new car out
for a spin when I didn’t know how to operate a stick shift.
When I went home for my father’s funeral there was a beautiful red Honda
ballade waiting for me in the driveway. The only problem was I didn’t know how
to drive a manual car, so I sat in the driveway listening to the radio, until
Bridie decided this was a total waste of a Saturday night and convinced me to
drive us into town. Bridie yelled “go!” I pushed the clutch in and she changed
the gear. How we got to the Dolls House in Hilbrow I could never begin to speculate,
but we did. We parked the car in fits of giggles while the unimpressed waiter
on roller-skates tried to take our order. We scoffed down double hamburgers and
milkshakes, still on a high from our reckless drive into town. What we didn’t
anticipate was getting out of the place. We approached the steepest hill in JHB
with gusto but our joy ride came to an abrupt halt when we didn’t change down
to 2nd or 1st gear. We tried for half an hour. Our
hysterical laughter turned to complete disbelief when each attempt to
pull the car off lurched us into the dashboard. To my relief a jogger
appeared in my rearview mirror and as he began to tackle the hill Bridie and I
catapulted out of the car and in a flurry of words and anxious tugs to his
sweaty t-shirt managed to convince the baffled jogger to assist us. In
retrospect Bridie and I were bloody lucky he didn’t decide to drive home
instead of jog.
After settling the docci crew into their hotel we had a drink in the
dingy bar to discuss their shooting schedule and all the characters I was about
to introduce them to. A quick scan of the director’s wedding ring finger
revealed that his Lindt chocolate voice was spoken for - damn. That done I
ventured to the other side of the mountain with Ciggy. The party was in the
up-market suburb Constantia where I had the fortune of chatting to the only
single male. He said that he enjoyed painting in his free time as it helped him
relax. I imagined him on the stock exchange floor in an expensive suit, his tie
loosened after a hectic day of trading, yelling out orders, and waving his arms
about. This chaotic scene in my head came to an abrupt halt when he informed me
he was actually a bodyguard in Iraq. I immediately lowered my voice thinking
this is probably classified information he was giving me. But he seemed okay
telling a complete stranger that he escorted journalists, and other mad people,
through the hot zones in Kabul. Realising that he was not going to be around
much longer I stopped fantasizing about our future together. Then it occurred
to me that our meeting might not be such a waste, maybe we could use him in the
documentary so I asked him for his number.
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