10:07am

I walked from a friend's house down to Long Street, which is the central strip of clubs/cafes/bars/shops (in the everything you want/nothing you need category).

I spent 10 years walking up and down here. The Purple Turtle is still there but it's no longer a goth club and so on Friday nights, the street is now devoid of witches, demons and teenage monsters. Mr Pickwicks makes the best Oreo milkshakes. That's a good place to start, then you slowly work your way along the long, hard street, club to bar to club until you find yourself somewhere at 5am, sleep, wake up and head out to Mr Pickwicks to start again. That gets harder as you get older and less important over time but I'm pretty sure I remember feeling a sense of importance and superiority for being there when I was younger. Like it mattered. Like everything mattered, that simply by throwing secret new years parties in forgotten castles by the side of the sea, we were part of some kind of revolution that the world had never seen before (against all evidence to the contrary).

And I stop for coffee at the incredibly trendy portugese place. And I get some strange looks because no one should have a black leather jacket anywhere near them in this weather, even on the back of the chair.

I carry on walking down Long Street, seeing what's changed and what hasn't. A group of girls behind me take up the entire sidewalk, laughing and talking. I turn up a side street to let them pass.

I realise that I've subconsciously been heading towards the taxi rank and I find one and I am the first passenger of his day and he is the first driver of mine. He's from Zimbabwe. His sisters are in Lesotho, the UK and Johannesburg. He left a year ago. He says he likes it here but he also agrees with me that people from Johannesburg are friendlier than people from Cape Town.

And I find myself at home, typing this.

10:05am.