Do you know who I am?

People say that as soon as I left Cape Town, the wind subsided drastically. Apparently it was all the sighing about lockdown and not being able to walk on the prom and go out for soosh and vino with the girls. Not to mention the time I had a secret lockdown dinner, and Cyril ruined my famous Boeuf Bourguignon by not allowing me to buy red wine. It was hell. Genuine. 

The infamous South Easterly in Cape Town is called the Cape Doctor, which is apt because I have my PhD don’t you know. Some say that the Cape Doctor is a manifestation of sighs. Sighs collected from the Woolies checkout queues. 

Everyone who shops at Woolies knows that once you’re in the queue you HAVE to have your cards ready – things move quickly. But there’s always some complete nincompoop scrappling through her handbag trying to hunt down the elusive My School or Woolies card. Of course people are going to sigh at you. Time is money, and we have better things to do than wait for some clown acting like they’ve never shopped at Woolworths before, while our book club canapés stare at us from our basket trolleys.  

Anyway I decided to hot-foot it back to Hilton because there were rumours that the sourdough crisis hadn’t arrived here yet. All those poor Capetonians swapping their modelling careers for artisanal bread. The writing was on the wall. Carbs were back and I wasn’t going to sit back and accept that. 

Adios! Sayonara! Goodbye!     

But I’m not here to moan about sourdough being the death knell to banting… 

My latest gripe is all the new street art in Hilton. Seriously, have you noticed? You must have. 

Personally, I believe that art belongs in galleries, where people can enjoy it and muse about what the artist is thinking.

In silence.

And sure, I don’t like a lot of the art in these fancy galleries, but I’m discerning, so I know what’s a good investment. I know what’s good.

This graffiti wall stuff is just a load of old nonsense cooked up by that Banksy wally. The nerve of that guy. I’d like to give Banksy a piece of my mind. 

So if you’re wondering what I’m thinking in this artwork… Well my K-Way puffer jacket is an explosion of black and white… the trail of debris is the last vestiges of my scarf that erupted in anger. A trail of white tears hidden behind a collection of sighs and moans… and broad, bold strokes to get to the front of the queue to talk to whoever the hell is in charge. 

Who is the manager of Hilton?