But the stadium's something else  

I had been sick in bed for two days, my voice reduced to a whisper. I think this thrilled my husband. In fact, I suspect he got a bang out of yelling to me from the other side of the house, knowing I would be lying propped up by dogs and pillows, unable to respond, my mouth opening and closing like a guppy.

"Do you want tea?" he would holler from the kitchen. Yes please, yes please, I telepathically panted.

But no matter how much phlegm was sloshing around my sinuses, no matter how much I rattled with antibiotics, and no matter how clammy I became with the effort of merely blinking, I wouldn't miss it.

I was going to the stadium.

I've been in two minds about Cape Town's new soccer venue. Half of me says a ridiculous amount of money had been spent on something that looked like one of those plastic cones dogs wear to stop them gnawing their stitches.

The other half gazes at its gauzy skin with admiration. In certain lights it resembled a Chinese lantern, as ubiquitous in student communes as incense, Samuel Beckett and toast.

I had to end this schizophrenia.

So, on Saturday afternoon, we headed for the rugby match. Catching one of the shuttle buses from town, we were like children on a youth camp. Officials in neon bibs had guided us into neat queues, and the whole process had gone smoothly. So far, so good.

A quick stroll through landscaped gardens stinky with manure and under a low bridge which, like weird disciples, everyone touched, we thronged our way towards the front gates, craning our necks to admire the curves, the ribs, the scuds of cloud whisping across blue.

A US couple posed for a photo in socks and sandals. A backpacked couple took a self-timer: portrait of red arms with white background.

Once past the security check, the neat paving opened out, with cordoned off smoking areas decorated in funky red and black. Here, even puffers were made to feel special.

Inside, the view was astounding. With its rim of cuttlefish glass and its oval mouth a portal to the sky, it felt as though we had been dropped into a glittering undersea world. Just before kick-off, the crowd became a waving anemone as a wave rippled, vienna-pink arms rising up like vibrating cilia.

"There's Bryan Habana," yelled the small boy behind me, finding number 25 as the Stormers took to the field in their new jerseys. I couldn't help but identify with the strip: while the design on the shirt comprises fans' signatures, from afar it looks as though a giant Corenza C has dissolved across the shoulders. I sniffed, blew like a walrus and pulled a face at my husband as I popped a probiotic while he sipped a pint.

And so began my first live rugby match. And it couldn't have been anywhere better. While the Cape doctor had spewed leaves all over our garden that morning and gusts of dust had coated our car, here a clean breeze caressed our faces. Down below, shadows made waffle shapes on the lush grass. Up above, a trio of gulls drifted.

Halfway through the first half, the blonde woman next to me sighed. "Dis so boring," she whispered to her husband. True, without the commentary and slow-motion replays, live rugby is a subdued affair, as quiet as an art auction with bursts of applause.

But, most of us were there just to be there; to know how it will be. Now we could imagine the throngs of soccer fans, the swarming vuvuzelas, the tide of a 68 000-people wave.

When we were kids, my sister and I used to rate the bathrooms we visited. The Golden Egg in Maritzburg was a four out of 10, while Rawdon's Hotel in the Midlands, with its dried flower arrangement and plush carpets, scored eight. My sister would have approved of the loos. I gave them a seven.

When the match was over, we filed out behind children perched on shoulders and couples holding hands. There was some confusion about the bus pick-up point, and cars swerved as crowds clogged the pavements and spilled out onto the road.

We walked back to the car, me happily barking and snotting my way through Green Point, too exhilarated to feel ill.

"So what did you think?" hollered my husband over his shoulder as he hurried ahead.

I let out one of those sounds dogs make when they've lost their voice. But, glancing back at the hovering other-world, the stadium seemed perfect. Not a stitch out of place.