As part of the (ongoing) office snazzing up, I sold my desperately uncomfortable chair on the internet. The woman who bought it turned out to be a location scout and admired sofacasa’s “high ceilings, shiny wooden floors and generous proportions”. I loved seeing my home through her eyes. “Would you be interested in offering your house as a filming location?” she asked. “We have a Pamper’s commercial coming up – and they’re looking for a family home like this. The going rate is about R15 000 ($1 500) per day.”
I thought it would be rude to refuse. Besides, the kitchen cupboards could do with a refurb. It takes an intricate set of maneuvers just to get them closed these days. And the shiny red that seemed such an excellent idea a few years ago has palled. There might even be some change left over for new bar stools at the eat-up counter. I hate the ones we have now, they conspire against me daily.
The film crew showed up early to inspect the premises: a limp handshake of a Belgian director in head-to-toe Dirk Bikkemberg, his Kupie Doll assistant director/boyfriend and a militant looking producer in jackboots and monobrow. The latter shushed me when I dared address the Director: “I will talk with you about that IF you are selected,” she said firmly; “For now, let us just look. OK?”
Schooled by a 30-year-old. In my own home. Oh, the insults life hurls at the aged. I slunk back to my office and stayed there until they left.
The poor location scout had stepped in a mound of dog poop at the previous location, and brought it along for the ride. She spent the brief visit at the outdoor tap with sofabrother, as he helped her clean off the muck. She called me the next day to apologise for the whole event: “Not the happiest bunch of people”, she said “no-one could agree on what they wanted. Bit mean actually. They’ve chosen a giant house in Constantia. I’ll keep you in mind for next time”.
I felt snubbed: how dare those hipsters reject my house. Hadn’t they noticed the proportions? Had they noticed the blown plaster in my bedroom, the crumbling mosaics in a bathroom and the chocolate stains on the sofa? Was that what it was, that made them turn away from us? Made them love another?
Or was it me? Was the poop an omen, a message from universe – chiding me for whoring out our house? For selling its integrity for a bag of gold and some new kitchen units? For displacing the healthy chi that comes from a happy home by introducing avarice?
“There’s an outside chance that you could be over thinking this”, said sofabrother drily. “It wasn’t right for them. Nothing personal against you. You just got your hopes up.”
And there it was: life in a nutshell.