On Natalie du Toit

Natalie came 16th out of 24 swimmers in the 10km swim at the Olympics yesterday. Only 1 minute 22.2 seconds behind the winner.

Imagine being the person responsible for knocking Natalie off her scooter in 2001. The accident itself is dreadful enough; but imagine having it rubbed in every day: in the newspapers, on the radio and television.

As far as I’m aware, the name of the driver of the vehicle has not been disclosed. I’m sure it would be quite easy to find out; but for once, the media have shown some respect.

Let’s hope it stays that way.

Technology and my Crack

I went for an x-ray yesterday, thinking I would have to carry the film from the radiologist to the doctor, who would then say, “Hmm,” and charge me R200 for the privilege.

I got the second part right.

The first part? Totally wrong. It’s all electronic now, and any doctor anywhere in the country can log into some fancy software and see my bits. And in case the doctor forgets his password, he gets given a CD, which displays the x-ray on any old pc.

I have mixed feelings. Brilliantly convenient, but disturbingly un-private. Big Brother is getting very close.

I Think I’m in Lust

Now that life is back to ‘normal’, I thought it would be a good idea to switch on that dusty thing in the corner of the lounge.

Oh my golly gosh goodness.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Men’s Synchronised Diving must be the most pointless sport in the world. After golf that is. But it’s so very pretty to watch. It’s a long time since my ovaries have done flickflacks in unison. Sorry Hun. Looks like I don’t need testosterone supplements after all.

Oh, and Hun, much as I think you are just fabulous, this isn’t your licence to don a Speedo this summer, OK?

The Show’s Over But This Fat Lady Ain’t Singing Just Yet

We had the last two shows on Saturday. The matinee was marred by the rugby. And I’m not even talking about the score.

Fifteen audience members and one of the cast got caught in rugby traffic, delaying the start by ten minutes. No, it wasn’t his Royal Tardiness this time. He saved his grand finale for the 6.15 show. He had invited six people, but had told them it started at 6.45pm. And they arrived late.

.o0o.

We almost reached my ultimate goal: a standing ovation.

Then I looked a bit closer. And remembered that standing ovations from parents don’t count.

On Being Nervous

Can you remember the last time you really wanted to impress your parents?

I saw it in a 30-year old last night.

One of the actors was beside himself because his parents were coming to see the show. First time they’ve seen him on stage.

He comes from a non-theatrical family who find all this thespian stuff a bit strange. Despite his nerves, his performance was wonderful. Even more wonderful were the smiles on his parents’ faces afterwards. And the way they said, “That’s our son!” to everyone in earshot.

I’m so glad to have been a part of it.

A QWERTY Experiment

In a paragraph where the letters of the words are jumbled, except for the first and the last letters, the paragraph is still comprehensible.

Now, in my leftly-disabled state, I wanted to find out what happens if I use only the letters that would ordinarily be typed with my right hand.

- - - - - i - - - - - - - in l - - - y - - - - - - bl - - h - - - oul - - - - - - lu - - -.

Or using only my left hand:

There is a certa - - - eaf - vegeta - - e t - at w - - - d be exc - - ded.

There must be a perfectly logical explanation why the most commonly used letters are typed with the left hand – traditionally the weaker hand.

On Teamwork

In theatre, the director is not allowed backstage once the show opens. I was glad of this last night, because I didn’t want the cast to worry about my blotches.

What I didn’t know was that 45 minutes before curtain up, the lead had not arrived. When the stage manager phoned him, he claimed not to have known there was a performance. The cast decided not to tell me, because they didn’t want me to worry!

Good grief! I wasn’t the one due to perform in front of 150 people. But I love it that they cared. What a team!

Missing the Point

The City of Cape Town is in the process of passing a Bylaw banning barbed wire.

Apparently it poses a danger to passersby who may snag themselves. And there have been some complaints that it is ugly.

The City understands that barbed wire is installed to protect against criminals which the City cannot apprehend. The City also understands that there will be objections, and that the Bylaw will probably not be passed anyway. But we must understand that if we complain about unsightly security, we only have ourselves to blame. Because they tried to do something about it, didn’t they?

NOW What?

I’ve had the most delightful day slouching around the house with only the dogs for company.

Sifted through countless emails single-handedly, blogged a bit and took a few phone calls.

At seven o’clock I realised I’d better get ready for tonight’s meeting, so sat down to apply my warpaint. A face full of red blotches stared back at me. I lifted my shirt - more blotches. Ditto back and legs.

Upon returning home, instead of the required sympathy, I was greeted with, “You’re sleeping in the spare room tonight. That body is not sleeping in the same bed as me.”

On Praise

I lost my temper last night.

An actor berated me for being hard on him; constantly criticising, never praising. So I said shouted, “It’s not ALL about YOU! Bloody Prima Donna.”

He always asks me what he did wrong during a rehearsal. So I always tell him. I also tell him the things he does well, but he never hears those words.

Then I realised that I’ve been there myself. So desperate for a director’s approval, that no praise is high enough, and the slightest suggestion for improvement cuts deep.

I’m afraid it will be the same next time too.

One More Sleep

Three very important things are happening tomorrow: one good, one bad and one indifferent.

Firstly, it’s opening night of the play that has consumed my life for the last two months. I will be banished to the foyer, where I will bite my nails and smile bravely while the cast and crew get on with entertaining the masses.

Secondly, it’s officially the last day of the 100-words-a-day challenge. Tomorrow will be the 41st day. I’m ambivalent about continuing on my own. With one hand. Maybe I’ll start reading my birthday presents.

Finally, it’s the start of the Beijing Olympics. Whoopee.

Auction of Abandoned Vehicles

The City of Cape Town is auctioning 75 abandoned vehicles on 27 August. From trailers and trucks to motorbikes and Mercs. There’s even a Jag. And a Leyland Morris. Most with registration numbers.

So many questions…

Why have they been abandoned? Have they been reported as stolen and nobody’s joined the dots? Have they been impounded and the owner can’t afford the release fee?

What if I buy one and later discover that I’ve bought a stolen car? Will the city refund me, or will I forfeit the cash?

Oh sod it. I’ll just stick with my trusty old tjorrie.

One-armed bandit

I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours living life single-handedly.

I dinged my left arm yesterday afternoon, and because I’m full of it, I refused to go to the doctor until after rehearsal. At 11.30pm.

Turns out I have an oblique fracture of my ulna. In English, this means my left arm is in a cast for the next six weeks. This also means that I am typing this with only my right hand.

The doctor thought he was a comedian. He said, “I thought that in theatre you are supposed to break a leg, not an arm.”

Ha bloody ha.

Room to Let: Cape Town

Taiwanese exercise-junkies have included clapping as part of their early-morning regimen, as they believe it improves circulation.

The local gangsters get to bed at 3am after a hard night’s looting; only to woken by a bunch of happy clappers a few hours later. They are threatening to klap the clappers if they do not cease and desist.

This made me wonder if the crepuscular barking of the neighbour’s dog would provoke the same reaction in said gangsters.

I am willing to offer a month’s free board and lodging to the applicant who can find the ‘Mute’ button on said dog.

Memory and Memories

I’ve been having flashbacks to the family home in Johannesburg. We moved away just after my fourth birthday, but I still remember the layout of the house and garden; colours of floors and walls; the jumping seat my dad made for me out of green canvas; and cutting my foot on a piece of glass in the driveway.

I checked the layout of that house with my mum yesterday, and found I had been surprisingly accurate.

Wouldn’t it be great if that clarity of recall stayed with us for the important things?

Like remembering where I left my car keys.