Alexander McCall Smith counts Donald Rumsfeld and The Red Hot Chili Peppers among his fans, and has a very cool cat. Mary Wakefield talks to him about Africa and ‘reality’
Alexander McCall Smith wants to show me his cat. ‘I think he’s asleep in the spare bedroom,’ says Edna, his cleaning lady, putting down a mug of coffee. ‘I’ll go and get him.’
‘No, no, no!’ McCall Smith leaps into the hallway ahead of her. For a big man, he is surprisingly light on his feet. ‘He’ll come, he will! He’ll come if I call him.’
His teenage daughter appears in the study doorway. Edna looks out from the kitchen. I find myself holding on to a small wooden pig carved into the banister rail. Centre stage stands McCall Smith, feet together, arms at his sides. He lifts his chin and pauses, then lets out a mellifluous yodel: ‘GordyGordyGordyGordy.’ Silence. We stare hopefully at the stairs leading down from the spare bedroom.
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