Stuck in the middle of this space cadet bum fuck dump of a suburb, I am forced via creative inclination (a meeting with my writing partner) to put up with these ridiculously uninteresting unwashed surfer scum pseudo hiptards. I might just be in a bad mood, but I’ll go out on a limb here and say fuck Muizenberg.
The first coffee shop I went to, I had an hour and a half to kill before my meeting, is called Blue Bird. After sitting there unattended for ten minutes I called someone over to order a coffee. She said she could only do booze- as they were closing up soon. I asked her when the shop would be closing and she said it was at her own discretion. What a shitty answer to a simple question, so reeling in the swamp of her unhelpfulness I repeated what I thought was a simple question. Then transpired a diatribe filled with every irrelevant sentiment I’ve ever seen a waitress come manager be burdened with. Needless to say I left there soon afterwards, mumbling to myself like a madman.
My to do list was simple, shelter, food, wifi and preparation for Monday night’s gig at the Cape Town Club. My first corporate, cue panicky strain. Add to that getting the pilot on its way while all the while staying commercially viable. There just isn’t enough time to negotiate irrelevant power tripping barristers who have been given the all powerful keys to the cake and tea empire.
SOOO I went to a place called Closer, having freaked out long and hard at the thought of having to do more walking because some under educated attitude problem had exercised her discretion I was now in the mood for a beer. Fuck coffee, I thought- time had come to join the anaesthetised post week masses in dulling the pain most of us associate with existence. Closer doesn’t serve any beer. My heart sank, the world spun and I began the muttering again. It would be the worst day of my life, I had decided. Mercifully they sold wine, which though a little week in the finish did the job just as well. The ciabatta with avo, cucumber and tomato pesto was delicious. The presentation did look like an early down syndrome Jackson Pollock assembled in the dark but the olive oil was grassy and the pesto bursting with flavour. There’s something about fresh bread that soothes the most disturbed parts of my soul, sometimes. Given I was eating it in full view of what looked liked the poorest person I have ever seen made it somewhat less enjoyable. Street coffee shop culture doesn’t work amidst abject poverty, well not for the sensitive.
With my stomach filled and the wine flowing I scribbled on into the early part of the evening, shaping a myriad of observations and ideas into what I hope will become a stellar sitcom.
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