TABLE FOR ONE

As a woman with limited responsibilities beyond maintaining my own existence, I often feel pressured to make the most of my delayed freedom, having finally moved out of my family home at a more advanced age than is commonly expected. Yet each time I choose to stay indoors and savour the comfort and solitude of my own space, the shrieking duo that is my Conscience and my Past Self demands that I make this beautiful city my mussel (I hate oysters). I had always vowed that once I made it out, I would tear through my city with such alarming vigour that it would necessitate the intervention of an ankle bracelet. When I finally was able to afford to move out – at the ripe old age of 33 – I found a home in the famous Obs.

At first I tried to be more outgoing.

I stopped by the Times Market in the V&A Waterfront and the Mojo Market at Sea Point. I watched the sunset at the promenade, took a day trip to Camps Bay, I became a regular at The Labia. One sunny Saturday, I decided to shake things up by taking an Uber to Noordhoek just to see the other side of the city. I also considered attending events just to engage in something beyond sightseeing. On one startling instance, I was browsing potential activities on Quicket when I happened upon an enticing event title:

Forest Worship.

Thrilled at the idea of muddling through a forest, worshipping trees with complete strangers, I clicked on the event – only to find the supporting blurb:

An evening to set our gaze on Jesus together!

Fuck. I thought it was a pagan cult.

Through all my meandering, I quickly discovered that none of those experiences could compete with being in my bed, wrapped in woollens, and drinking tea. Outdoors, vaunted by the average person as a necessary pleasure to pursue – the most average being my Past Self – is brimming with noise, the guaranteed consequence of being perceived, and, most diabolically, a lack of immediate access to a toilet.

I admittedly enjoyed every excursion and indulged in delicious food and air that doesn’t smell like Nivea and leftovers. But ultimately, my home far surpasses all the merits of sightseeing by simply being mine.

It has been months since I decided on an impromptu outing or even grocery trip, especially when the alternative is so much more inviting. An afternoon at home reading, writing, streaming and listening to a delectable radio drama while I sip my tea makes even a trip to a coffee shop sound like an invitation to be slowly impaled.

As much as I enjoy the peerless comfort of sitting cross-legged in my woollens, with pizza and my laptop as my bedmates, and being tipsy on Roberton’s Chapel Sweet Red on a Friday night, I owe a great debt to my younger self, who, only a year ago, longed to be trawling the streets of Cape Town, instead of being cooped up in her bedroom, far from the city, endlessly rewatching House MD.

This blog is dedicated to my monthly lunge across the city as I attempt to find entertainment, make discoveries and make the most of my new life – before retreating into the ready and reliable comfort of my own space.

That being said, as I type this, my Conscience and my Past Self have now launched into a screeching crescendo of defiance, their sharp notes shattering every atom of my indolence. Hang on, let me just get my-

Bang!
Bang!

Ahh. That’s better.