Stella's birthday or, selling my soul for Freshlyground

Saturday night in London, and I could either go to N's birthday in Soho, or Stella's birthday in Putney. Of course, I wanted to do it all, but didn't feel like spending half my evening travelling across London. I'd already seen N for my own birthday celebrations, so figured I'd go to Stella's do. Also, she happened to be in possession of the latest Freshlyground CD, which ABJ had left with her for me.

So, off I went to Putney. Walkabout in Putney. KR had warned me not to sully my soul by entering this den of iniquity, but I really wanted that CD.

It was lovely to celebrate with Stella, but the rest of the evening was a shocker. I mean, it never ocurred to me that I would ever find myself inside a Walkabout, so I was ill-prepared for the many drunken Ozzies and Kiwis, Saffers and Brits. They were all wearing T-shirts featuring slogans such as: "My drinking team has a rugby problem." Well, that was the polite version.

Up until now, I'd been happily oblivious to the fact that the rugby world cup was taking place. Liechtenstein does in fact have a rugby club, but it's not exactly the national sport. Thankfully, I was able to ignore the first half of the actual match as it took that long to get to the front of the queue at the bar and procure a beer. England were doing well, and all I remember of the second half was the repeated refrain of "Swing low, sweet chariot". No one seemed to know the rest of the lyrics, so it soon became rather tedious.

At the end of the match everyone was in high spirits due to an English victory, but I didn't fancy spending another 40 minutes getting a drink, so I left pretty sharply, clutching my new CD to my chest. Big thanks to Stella for sending P home to fetch it!

A night at the theatre

Back to my time in London. My friend (like I said, I don´t do acquaintances), Martin McCutcheon (that´s Martin, not Martine) was appearing in a play at the Pacific Playhouse while I was in town, so naturally I said I´d go along.

Cut to my birthday celebrations in London. My friend Warwick and I were making plans to see each other again. "I´m busy tomorrow," he said. "Going to a play." "What play?" I asked, curious. Turned out we were both going to see Martin´s play, and London was starting to feel as small as Cape Town.

It was ages since I´d seen any theatre, and Kikia Te Poa was just the ticket. Boers, Kiwis and rugby, not my usual style, but it worked. Aaron Hapuku was outstanding as the half-Maori/half Irish soldier, and Martin held his own as a boer commando, although I did tease him about his Afrikaans accent (more than passable to an English ear, but may not have cut it in Pretoria).

However, I was somewhat distracted by the conviction that the people sitting opposite us in the small theatre were none other than JM and Dot. Considering the man has written about rugby, and that it was a play with a South African connection, this hypothesis seemed not inconceivable. I asked Warwick for his opinion. "You would know," he said. But in the absence of my glasses (a story for another post), I didn´t.

So, after the play, I covertly followed the couple out of the theatre to see if I could garner any further clues. A few metres down the road, I realised this was supremely stalkerish behaviour, and decided a couple of drinks and post-performance shmoozing was the more dignified option... The "night I saw JM and Dot at the theatre" still makes for a pretty good story; who cares if it´s "true" or not?