Arriving at the Wrong Gate

By Luke Turnbull

Waiting at the wrong gate, there’s no buzzer, there are dogs though, so I phone the woman who walks the 50meters from the patio to the other gate to greet let me in – there’s work required here and a friend has generously given my number out. I waved to the woman’s mother in law who sat inside doing needlepoint by the light of the bay window. We are standing in a garden in the leafy southern suburb of Rondebosch – an open cast mine for pet food companies. Sandpits, garden edging, grasses, plants and pavers are discussed. I am told what the husband wants done and after a good 10 minutes of pretending to know what I am talking about, I leave without being bitten.

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