Twenty minutes later we’re all standing in the breakfast queue. Breakfast is the only meal of the day that doesn’t have table service.

I’m wearing ‘Long Island’ by Mac – which is really more of a lipgloss than a lipstick. Steph has chosen Ancient Amber, which is basically orange, and Kealiboga has gone for Madam Roselle, which is a sort of pale pink.

If you ask me, Steph is really more of a Natural Rose girl, and Kealiboga would look awesome in Plum Crazy. But nobody asks me, so I keep my views to myself.

We are the only girls in the dining hall wearing lipstick.

Students don’t wear nearly as much makeup as I expected. It’s a pity really. I don’t know anyone who doesn’t look better with a little enhancement.

We collect our food and choose a table. Out of habit, I glance surreptitiously at my friends’ plates to see what they’re eating. The Non-Dieter of the Day award definitely goes to Kealiboga. She is polishing off an enormous bowl of porridge before tackling a full cooked breakfast and about six slices of toast. I’m making do with two Weetbix and a slice of marmalade toast. Steph is picking sadly at a pair of hardboiled eggs, trying to make them last as long as possible.

‘New diet?’ I say. It’s more of a statement than a question.

She nods miserably. ‘I’ve put on three kilos since the beginning of term. Three kilos! I weighed myself last night and nearly fainted. Best I get rid of them now before they become permanent.’

‘Atkins?’ I ask, sympathetically.

‘South Beach. I’m allowed fresh fruit and veggies as well as protein. Whoop-dee-doo. You’re so lucky, Trinity. You’re just about the only girl in res who hasn’t put on any weight yet. Except for Miss ‘I’m So Skinny and Gorgeous’ Tyler, of course. I don’t know how you do it.’

‘Just self-discipline, I guess.’

They have no idea. None.

I think about food all the time. Literally twenty-four hours a day. It’s like there’s this huge hungry lion inside me. He spends all day roaring for meat while I keep tossing him tic-tacs.

But anyway.

The main thing is – I haven’t put on any weight.

And when I think about what Lael is eating, I feel like a big, bloated pig. There she is surviving on fresh air and mineral water and I’m chowing down on 2 000 calories a day. I feel like King Henry the Whatsis. The one who used to eat fourteen roast chickens, twenty-five eggs, and a herd of cows for breakfast.

When we all move on to coffee, I tell Steph and Kealiboga about my dud baby-sitting phone call.

‘Is that the first response you’ve had to your ad?’ Steph asks.

‘No,’ I admit. ‘A number of people have called. Like maybe, five or six. They all seem to think my fee is some kind of joke. As if all they need to do is ask and I’m going to cut it in half.’

‘It is an awful lot of money, Trinity. Maybe you should think about reducing it a bit. This isn’t Joburg, you know.’

‘Ja, I know. But I’ve invested a lot in upgrading my skills. I had to fork out a fortune for all those first-aid and early-learning courses. It’s just not worth my while to work for less.’

‘But at the moment you’re not earning anything at all. Surely some money is better than none at all?’

‘No.’ I cross my arms defensively. ‘I’ve been baby-sitting since I was ten. I won’t sell myself short. I’m worth more than these people are offering to pay.’

‘Maybe she just couldn’t afford to pay what you’re asking,’ Kealiboga suggests.

‘Oh, she could afford it all right. She’s just not used to paying that kind of money for baby-sitting. And anyway, who wants to work for a woman who refers to her domestic worker as ‘the girl’?’

I catch Kealiboga’s eye and we start to giggle.

‘The girl!’ she snorts.

‘I simply can’t trust my children with the girl,’ I mimic.

Then we crack up completely. We laugh so much that some girls at the next table turn to look at us. Steph just sits there looking confused.

‘That’s awful,’ she says seriously. ‘I can’t believe there are still people who talk like that. I suppose she calls her gardener ‘the boy’ as well.’

Kealiboga glances at me and we go off into fresh wails of laughter. My ribs are starting to hurt.

‘What’s so funny?’ Steph demands. ‘It’s a horrible reminder of our colonial past, not something to laugh about.’

Kealiboga clamps her lips together firmly. ‘You’re right,’ she says nicely. ‘It wasn’t really funny. It was more the way she said it. I think you need to have … kind of … an African sense of humour to appreciate it.’

‘I’m as South African as you are,’ Steph says, looking miffed. ‘Who says there’s an ‘African’ sense of humour?’ She makes curly quote marks in the air with her fingers.

Kealiboga shrugs. ‘There just is. Half the time my white friends don’t know what I’m laughing about. Don’t you find that, Trinity?’

‘I’ve never really thought about it before.’

‘Oh, come on. You must have noticed that not everyone shares the same sense of humour.’

‘I suppose. I know my mom and dad laugh at different things. My mom is Afrikaans, you see. And my dad is Xhosa.’

‘We know who your parents are, Trinity,’ Kealiboga says patiently.

‘Okay. Well. I always thought that was just the way they were, but I guess there could be some kind of … I don’t know … cultural thing behind it.’

‘Like what?’ Steph demands, folding her arms across her chest. ‘What different things do they laugh at?’ She’s being all prickly and defensive. It’s like we’ve accused her of having no sense of humour or something.

‘I don’t know …’ I make an effort to cast my mind back. ‘Well, for example, my mom absolutely loves Monty Python. Like, adores them. She’s seen every skit about a million times. She walks around the house going, ‘This is a late parrot,’ and, ‘I want to be a lion-tamer,’ and pissing herself laughing. And my dad totally doesn’t get it. He thinks Monty Python is the lamest stuff he’s ever heard. When my mom puts it on, he actually has to leave the room.’

‘What does he like, then? What does he find funny?’

‘He doesn’t really go in for comedy as such. What makes him laugh is just random stuff that happens to come up. Like the other day we were at my granny’s house in Soweto and we were watching Supernanny on BBC Prime. My dad and my granny were killing themselves laughing at these little kids who were throwing tantrums and talking back to their parents. But my mom was completely shocked. She spent the whole time worrying about whether the kids had been emotionally abused. She didn’t see anything funny about it.’

‘But she’s right. It’s not funny at all!’ Steph looks more bewildered than ever. ‘When I see a kid having a tantrum, I want to give it a good klap, not laugh at it.’

‘It’s just a different way of looking at life.’ Kealiboga shrugs.

‘So what about you, Trinity?’ Steph asks. ‘Which sense of humour did you inherit?’

‘None?’ I suggest.

‘Oh, come on. That’s not true.’

‘It is! I always need to have jokes explained to me. And whenever I try to tell one myself, I can never remember the punch line. I’m hopeless!’

‘You are not! Seriously – answer the question.’

‘Okay. I think I inherited a bit of both. I can watch Monty Python and Fawlty Towers with my mom, and Supernanny with my dad. It’s like I can cross over between the two worlds.’

‘You’re so lucky,’ Steph says wistfully.

******

After breakfast, Steph and Kealiboga dash off to their dawnies. My first lecture is only at 9.15 so I make myself a mug of tea and potter through to the common room to check my mail.

I don’t want to boast or anything, but I get a lot of mail. Today is no exception. A fat little pile is waiting for me in my pigeonhole. I pick it up and start leafing through it as I sink into one of the comfy armchairs.

There are quite a few bills, which I put aside for immediate attention. Most students pay cash for everything, but I like operating on credit. I have opened accounts at a number of shops in High Street. It’s just what I’m used to. I prefer having all my expenses fall due at the end of the month.

I scan quickly through the totals and raise my eyebrows a little. This month is going to be tight. If I don’t start earning some money quickly, I’ll have to cut back on my spending.

Hmm.

Cutting back and I don’t exactly go together. I need to make money. Fast.

The rest of the mail consists of promotions and invitations. The promotions get a one-way ticket to the bin, but the invitations earn my personal attention. You never know – there might be something good hiding amongst all the dross.

There are three invitations to parties organised by drinking clubs. These definitely come under the heading of dross. I’ve learned to recognise them by now. I used to think I was being invited to an exclusive party at some smart private club.

Yeah, right. Not quite.

A sordid piss-fest at somebody’s sif digs is more like it.

I made the mistake of going to one of those a few weeks ago. Big oops. I left after five minutes when I realised I was just one Rohypnol away from a date-rape situation.

The drinking clubs join the adverts in the bin.

I keep flipping until I finally find what I’ve been hoping for since the beginning of term.

Yes! At last!

I clutch the precious card in my hand like Charlie Bucket holding the Golden Ticket to Mr Wonka’s chocolate factory.

Only it’s even better than a golden ticket. It’s an invitation to a reception at the Graduate Club in Beaufort Street.

The Graduate Club is this super-exclusive, off-campus organisation formed by the coolest graduate students at Rhodes. I’ve heard they have the best drinks, the best music, and the wittiest conversation in town. Every now and then a few lucky undergraduates get invited to their parties.

I’ve been craving one of these invitations every since I first heard about the club, and now I’ve finally got one. And the best part of all is that I’m allowed to bring a friend.

Steph and I are going to have the best time!

Tell us what you think: What do you think is going to happen to Trinity at the Graduate Club?