boerewors. And sometimes, in posh restaurants, there is the occasional fusion dish - not the common merger of east and west, but north and south: marinated ostrich carpaccio at Sage in Pretoria, oxtail ravioli with saffron cream sauce at Bartholomeus Klip in Hermon on the Cape west coast, even Tandoori crocodile at the Pavilion in the Marine hotel in Hermanus. There is crocodile on the menu and kudu, impala, even warthog at a number of restaurants that offer game. But there won't be seagull, mercifully, or penguin. Both were staple foods for the strandlopers (or beachcombers) - a community of Khoi who lived on the Cape shore - and the Dutch and Portuguese sailors who made landfall there. It was the search for food that shaped modern South Africa: spices drew the Dutch East India Company to Java in the mid-1600s, and the need for a half-way refreshment stop for its ships rounding the Cape impelled the Company to plant a farm at the tip of Africa
regardless of what you mated it to. Baker seemed increasingly unstable; she distributed photos of herself amidst a hundred dead kittens that she claimed were killed by rival breeders who broke into her home. Disturbed cat fanciers were certain she had killed them as part of a publicity bid and tried to figure how to get other cats safely away from her (I recall the pleas for information circulating on mailing lists at the time). Perhaps mercifully for the cats, Baker died in 1997. Her IRCA organisation limped along for a few years, but many breeders quit or defected to conventional registries (which had cat shows) and the IRCA trademark on Ragdolls lapsed in 2005. Former IRCA Ragdolls, Honey Bears (IRCA's version of the Persian) and Miracle Ragdolls, not being accepted by other registries, were merged and renamed RagaMuffins and registered under that name. Although bred with the Ragdoll to begin with, the modern RagaMuffin has a
curious to see what he had to say when afforded more than five minutes of my time. He was buzzed through the security door so quickly there was no need for him to break stride. The pretty redhead at the reception desk pushed hastily to her feet, about to impart some information until he shook his head impatiently. Her mouth snapped shut and she stared at me as we passed at a brisk pace, her eyes wide. The walk to Cross's office was mercifully short. His secretary stood when he saw his boss's approach, but remained silent when he noted that Cross wasn't alone. "Hold my calls, Scott," Cross said, steering me into his office through the open glass double doors. Despite my irritation, I couldn't help but be impressed with Gideon Cross's spacious command center. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city on two sides, while a wall of glass faced the rest of the office space
He turned without a word and strode quickly away from me. I walked into the gym, lightheaded and wobbly. I drifted to the locker room, changing in a trancelike state, only vaguely aware that there were other people surrounding me. Reality didn't fully set in until I was handed a racket. It wasn't heavy, yet it felt very unsafe in my hand. I could see a few of the other kids in class eyeing me furtively. Coach Clapp ordered us to pair up into teams. Mercifully, some vestiges of Mike's chivalry still survived; he came to stand beside me. "Do you want to be a team?" "Thanks, Mike -- you don't have to do this, you know." I grimaced apologetically. "Don't worry, I'll keep out of your way." He grinned. Sometimes it was so easy to like Mike. It didn't go smoothly. I somehow managed to hit myself in the head with my racket and clip Mike's shoulder on the same swing. I spent the rest of the hour in the back corner of the court, the racket held
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