MY WIFE spent the last two weeks trying to fix an old radio. She opened it up and jiggled it and fiddled with things, and she tried my patented repair-technique of giving it a few hard shakes and then blowing vaguely but with intent in the general direction of the circuitry. She took it to four different repair places but this is Cape Town, where the providers of professional services are unstinting and unyielding in their efforts to avoid doing anything for which they might accidentally be paid, so three of them sent her away, saying, “That radio is too old.”Finally she found a guy in a shop on Main Road behind a green door, a place so small we‘re not sure it has a name, where Quincy gravely accepted the responsibility of the radio. She collected it this morning and now when I open the door the house is annoyingly filled with music and cheer.The radio is shaped like a large old-time lunchbox stood on its side, with a handle to carry it and a knob for “Tuning” and another for “Fine ...

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