I’m in the morning room at my boarding school in the Cape Town city centre – watching dust motes dancing in the sun pouring through the high sash-window, I’m so sadly angry to be stuck there on a Saturday when my family home is only 10 mins away in Rondebosch.
They’ve allowed me and other term-long inmates to put on the radio, and some DJ is chattering on about new songs.
He says that the next thing we’re going to hear is incredible, so we’re sort of paying attention when the first insistent notes of Gerry Rafferty’s “Baker Street” transform that tinny transistor radio into something else. By the time it gets to the second verse (because I’m a lyrics girl), I’m smitten:
“Way down the street there’s a light in his place, he opens the door, he’s got that look on his face, and he asks you where you’ve been, you tell him who you’ve seen, and you talk about anything.”
And that’s how it was.