that many of the British people who come here do so for possibly even less palatable reasons than those which see their southern brethren flocking to London. Of those I’ve met it’s always something to do with Table Mountain, the oceans, vast housing complexes for relatively little money, revoltingly exploitative cheap domestic labour (though they don’t put it quite in those terms) and sunshine. Cape Town in particular is packed with revoltingly reactionary Brits not at all dissimilar from Mark Thatcher living in huge houses with huge gardens earning the US dollar and the UK pound and pushing up the price of local housing. They don’t even pretend to be running from anything – such as crime, a vaguely valid excuse – other than taxes. We live in a cruel and greedy world.
Escape these bitter thoughts, I would, by reading this, the twentieth tale of Joseph Rabie, who has I believe finally finished writing for Barbara Campbell’s 1001 nights which will also be coming to their inevitable end very very soon. How we will miss her and how we will miss those headlines and deadlines. Make sure you read the final story on, I think, the 16th March, a day in my own way I am dreading.