I had the most interesting, refreshing meeting with Lynne Brown last week. Interesting because, though I know Ms Brown for the longest time, I’d never sat face-to-face with her (alone) in an official “meeting” situation. Refreshing because I really enjoyed her naturalness, her trust in me, I almost want to say.

And in the 30 minutes or so we really got through many things – from the state of the arts to a bit of skinder about specific people in the arts, and from the projects we wish to tackle to budgets, budgets, money, money and money.

We had a good laugh in between all of this, ended with a warm hug, and I left her office feeling like I had just been on a relaxed, revitalizing walk in the forest where the sun shone ever so faintly and there was just the slightest little breeze.

How I got to the meeting point with Lynne was that I bumped into her at the DVD store in Rondebosch two weeks ago and every time we did see each other for the longest time we say the usual “we really must get together sometime to chat”.
Actually I would be the one saying that more than she would, but there it is! This time we knew the meeting was definitely going to happen.

I am doing this, that and the other – mostly to do with the arts and Lynne wanted to bounce an idea or two off of me. And, I wanted to chat to her about a project or two. So, just a few days post the video store perchance meeting, we were set for our long-anticipated one on Wednesday of last week at 11am.

I arrived around 10.50am. The entrance is dark. The reception is non-existent. What I mean is this: as one walks into the building in Wale Street there is about a metre between the door and this huge old desk that housed two policemen. One was on the phone most of the time while the other saw to the people (like me) who were entering the building. “I am here for a meeting with Lynne Brown at 11. She said on the fourth floor,” say I animatedly.

“U-Lin” says the policeman. “U-Lin ne? Brrrown” he repeats to himself while looking in those hideous files that have those plastic sleeves with tons of names and telephone extensions on them. “U-Lin” he keeps repeating while looking. “U-Lin Brrrown...ne?” He asks again.

I am just a tad irate, no perhaps shocked that he didn’t know who she was. “That’s right,” I say trying to stay composed until I hear him saying: “Fourth floor. L Brrrown. I have an L Brrrown on the fourth floor.”

“That must be it then,” I exclaim with a hint of relief in my voice. Sign in...why, I don’t know. A call goes up to her secretary who apparently says she’ll be down to fetch me. It is now 11am. I wait, in the dark “foyer” with a few others who are also waiting to be fetched...Marguerite (?) arrives. I go through the security check where a new policewoman has joined the already full (I mentioned how dark it is right?) “reception area”.

New policewoman puts my little black bag into one of those plastic trays that they also have at the airport – the ones that house the cell phones, wallets, belts, bra’s – that sort of thing.

As I put it into the plastic tray the policeman who helped me shouts at her. “No”, he shouts as if I had just committed murder or declared the end of civilization as we know it. “That must go through the “matcheen””, he continues. She got such a fright that she let my bag drop to the ground, tray and all.

She looks at me as though it was my fault, and refuses to pick it up. So I do, put it through the matcheen and make my way to the fourth floor with Marguerite (?)...it is now 11.08...back to top of page...

rafiek@mweb.co.za