Today it’s warm and sunny in Cape Town despite being winter. Damn. The weather is taunting me, a flirtatious woman on her balcony blowing kisses at soldiers marching to war. It is going to be cold in Grahamstown, the sun today reminds me of the 11 days of wearing two pairs of pants that I have to look forward to, starting tomorrow. The Bosnian and I will be loading up the Fish Tank well before dawn. I’ll be blurry eyed while he strides around as if sleep is an occupation of whores and junkies, a vice he niether needs nor wants. It’s a drive of roughly 9 hours in the shuddering beast I’ll be driving – fortunately I have mix tapes excavated from boxes labelled “Things I’ll never need again. Ever”

But despite the wretchedly long lists of  ‘to do’ that need to be worked through, I’m eager to get to Grahamstown, to see new shows, good and bad and interesting. The festival is a creative slap in the face – the kind you take then say, “thanks, I needed that”