"Results, with a seal and gull audience"
The salt air is crisp and clear in the early morning at the Waterfront, the gulls shout their greetings above the harbour, before the hustle and bustle of the visitors starts.
It was December 1992 and I had just finished school up country and come to stay with my sister to work and make some money before I headed off to university. I got myself a job waitressing at the Waterfront, handing out pizza slices to hungry, happy holiday makers.
That day, though, I arrived early, before the shops opened, and way before my shift started. I had something important to do. I waited impatiently outside CNA, seeing the staff arriving and getting ready for the crowds from outside the closed door. At 9 am they opened and I rushed to get my hands on a copy of The Star.
I paid, and hurried outside, to sit on one of the wooden benches next to the harbour, watched over by Table Mountain through her tablecloth, my gull friends wheeling above me excitedly. I opened the paper up, my eyes scanning frantically along the lines of names, until I reached mine. I’d passed matric!
A seal popped its nose out of the water in the harbour and I swear I saw him flash a congratulatory smile.