Thursday, December 3, 2015
The Trousers
"No! Please tell me no!” I screamed, somewhat like a girl, admittedly, but this was life or death….. well… almost.
“I'm afraid it's true,” said Mrs Ed “I tried to convince them otherwise, but they wouldn't listen. It's a done deal.” Her efforts to sound sympathetic were just like the last two thirds of that word – pathetic.
“But I can't. I just can't!” I wailed, pulling tufts of hair out of my head, “Don't you remember February 2007? I swear I died at that hotel…. If it hadn't been for that waitress reviving me with that jug of cold water, you'd have lost me forever!”
“Hmmmmm…” said Mrs Ed. Rather too uncommittedly I thought.
Alas, she was right. A few frantic phone calls later I realised - There was no going back. I couldn't even feign illness and pull out of the function, because in a moment of beer-fortified weakness a week or two before I had agreed to be the Master of Ceremonies. And now I learned, with only two days to go, that it was 'Black Tie'….
Which meant one darned, cursed thing. I would have to wear….The Trousers.
The Trousers.
Many men in the Garden Route will sympathise, I'm sure. In fact I might even be so bold as to say that many of you will own a pair of The Trousers. But for the benefit of those who don't, let me explain.
So rare is it that we Garden Route Coastal Dwellers go to anything with a stricter dress-code than 'Please wear shoes, and at least ARRIVE in a shirt', that we are not equipped at all when a 'posh do' comes up. But don't think we are completely useless - shirts we can manage, and it's easy enough to buy a tie (black or otherwise) at the nearest Hospice shop…
But when it comes to the southern side of our bodies there is a problem. All we have to fall back on… or squeeze into… are 'The Trousers'.
That pair of black longs which were bought back when we were twenty five, for a wedding or a Christening or something equally glamorous. The same Trousers that were then left sulking in the wardrobe, where they lurked for the next seven years, planning our agony when the need finally arose to take them out again….. like some polyester cotton Gollum.
“We 's going to tightens rounds his tummies, and cuts off his bloodflow, my Precious!” they promise themselves in the darkness.
I think The Trousers shrink on purpose.
And it gets worse with each wearing, because, well, somehow we get a little larger around the midriff, don't we gents?
And we forget! How easily we forget the pain. Really, getting into The Trousers is just like child birth, except infinitely more painful, ask any man. Why? Because the agony of putting them on, and wearing them for any length of time, is all but wiped out by that awesome, euphoric bloodrush when you get to take them off again. Oh the joy, the button-popping paradise of finally being untrousered on the couch.
Indeed, once untrousered the nightmare of pain-memory doesn't come flooding back until years later, when you realise that you have to wear them again…..
The Trousers.
So, last weekend I sat on the bed and stared at them, hanging in the dark depths, leering at me. Them NASTY Trousers. Of course my jeans, my trusty, loving, fit-me-like-a-glove jeans lay in a faded blue heap on the floor, beckoning me to forget the foreign black trouser folly .
“C'mon, me ol' mate,” they silently intimated, in a warm and comfortable fashion, “Forget this black tie do. Put me on and we'll just walk down to the pub together. You and me. Like it always is….”
But I couldn't. Mrs Ed had already spent the best part of the day (best part meaning the time I was in my jeans) trying on everything in the house, garden, garage and shed before deciding on an outfit, and there was only an hour left for me to get ready.
I leapt to my feet and snatched the offending trews off the rail. It really couldn't be that hard could it? They were only trousers for goodness sake. And I had somehow managed to get them on for my niece's wedding four or five years ago.... hadn't I?
Thirty five minutes later they were almost over my knees.
“Perhaps we should putting more butter on your legs?” suggested Mrs Ed. I had recruited her after the eighth solo attempt had resulted in blood on the bedspread from a nasty cut on my ear – I should have thought to turn the ceiling fan off before trying to put on The Trousers. She was already out of breath after her planned method of standing me on my head then dragging the offending garment down my legs towards my torso had literally back-fired (don't ask).
Eventually we won. It was a real family effort which included Mrs Ed, our son The REE (Resident Expert on Everything), various parts of the family home fittings such as the stairs, bedroom door and the toilet brush, and a well timed bite from the family dog which I believe finally sealed the deal, because that is what caused Mrs Ed to lose her footing on the chest of drawers and land on top of me.
Suddenly The Trousers were on.
We had to get The REE to drive us to the function, so that I could lie spread-eagled on the back seat and Mrs Ed could maintain pressure on my midriff – just until everything equalised of course. By the time we had got there all seemed to have settled into place, my blood had started reaching the tips of my fingers again (obviously I can't speak for my toes) and my face had lost some of its beetroot colouring…. Though that could have been down to the nosebleed.
Just as long as I didn't eat or drink anything, and made no sudden moves, everything would be just fine. It always is, once The Trousers are on.
But it wasn't a 'no sudden moves' and 'don't eat or drink anything' sort of evening…. And I wonder how many of the revellers realised that a potential weapon of mass destruction was sitting amongst them.
Fortunately it was quite late in the evening when The Button finally went. And the fact that I was on the dance floor treating everyone with the visual blessing of my highly acclaimed John Travolta 'Night Fever' moves (people do tend to stand back when I am doing this, possibly in awe) meant that there were no other casualties other than the unfortunate soul who got hit in the cheek by the flying high-velocity plastic disc (“I've been shot! I've been shot!” the silly woman kept screaming).
Having been waiting in trepidation for this moment, Mrs Ed stepped in and fireman-lifted me off the dance floor (to tumultuous applause – probably for afore-mentioned moves). The sudden equalisation of blood flow must have caused intense dizziness in my brain because the next thing I remember I was back at home, sitting on the couch, totally (and blissfully) trouserless.
“So, can I put these in the bin now, for once and for all?” asked Mrs Ed, holding aloft the offending trews.
“Don't be silly,” I answered, not quite believing the wastefulness of the woman, “I've only worn them … what… about six times….? Let's keep them for the next special occasion.”
“So… you want me to put them back in the cupboard….. Really?”
“Of course! They have plenty of wear in them yet. And we have two kids, both of whom are surely going to have a wedding anytime in the next ten years or so…"
Thursday, November 5, 2015
Phone sales people - they just don't understand....
.
“Hello, T'Ed residence, may I help you?”
“Good day Sir, how are you this fine day?”
“Well, now that you ask I'm actually a bit….'
“So nice to hear that Sir, and I'm fine too..”
“Oh…. So… Is there someone in particular you would like to sp…”
“You Sir!”
“I beg yo…”
“You Sir, I would like to speak to you. Just one question I would like you to answer. Would you say you are a decision-maker?”
“A what?”
“Decision-maker. Are you a decision maker Sir?”
“Well yes. I think so. Um….. hang on (Honey, would you say that I'm a decision maker? Uhuh… some guy on the phone wants to know if I'm a decision maker. What can I tell him? Yes? May I really? Oh good. Thanks) Yes! I am a decision maker.”
“Oh good Sir, I thought you sounded like just such a person. I'm very glad you said yes because I have got very good news for you!”
“Good news? Oh brilliant. It's time we had some of that, what with the geyser and the washing mach….. Haaaangggg on. Are you selling something? Because if you are I am really not….”
“No Sir! Absolutely not! I would never dream of approaching someone like yourself with any sort of sales gimmick call.”
“Good, because, for a moment I thought…”
“Aaah – you see Sir, it is such a pleasure to speak to a thinking man, who is also a decision maker.”
“Oh well, er… thank you… I think..”
<b>“So Sir, as the decision maker of your family I would like to put something to you.”
“Of the family? Ummm, I'm not sure if I'm the …. Hang on (Honey, now he says I'm the decision maker OF THE FAMILY…. And it…. Am I really? Are you sure? Oh wow!) Yes, I am our family's decision maker…. apparently.”
“I had no doubt whatsoever Sir. So what I would like to put to you, Sir, is this. Would Sir's family, of which Sir is obviously the head, be needing supplementary income?”
“Head of the family? My word, that's pushing it a bit, but I'll go along with it at the moment, (just don't say it too loudly. She's in the next room.) Now - what was the rest of it again?”
“Would Sir's family be needing extra money at the end of the month?”
“Waidaminnit. Is this Joe from the bottlestore? Look mate I told you that I would only be able to pay you by…”
“No sir. I am not from a bottle store. I just would like to know if your family is comfortable. Financially I mean.”
“Have you been talking to my bank manager? Because he has no right to release….”
“No Sir. Definitely not. We are not affiliated to any financial institution. Perhaps I should put it another way. How would Sir like to earn extra money every month … without actually working for it?”
“Earn extra money? Without working? This has got to be a prank call. Hey, is that you bro? I thought I recognised the….”
“You see Sir, I know of the perfect way in which a leader such as yourself, a dedicated, intelligent family man, who is obviously the sort of person who would like to maximise the time spent with his loved ones, can do just that. Tell me, does Sir have children?”
“Er yes… two. But if you are thinking of putting them to work, well, I wish you all the luck in the world….. because I seriously don't think….”
“Two children? Oh that is wonderful. Actually I could tell by Sir's voice. That's why I referred to Sir as a 'Family Man' earlier. Tell me Sir, these children, whom I'm sure you love dearly, does Sir want the best for them? Are they at school?”
“Actually they have finished school, one due to start studying next year…. Again…. and the other is… well…. In between contracts?”
“That is wonderful. Might I first congratulate Sir on getting them both through school?”
“Oh, thanks… very kind of you. Though I must say it certainly wasn't easy. Especially when The REE wanted to….”
“Yes sir, and may I also point out that now is when the REAL outlay comes, isn't it?”
“Are you sure you haven't been speaking to my bank manager….?”
“They will be wanting cars, rental deposits for a flat, books, extra tuition, college fees….. Am I right Sir?”
“(Sigh)”
“…Not to mention money for food and entertainment whilst they are living way from Sir's home…”
“Yes. You don't have to tell me. Sometimes I think they are eating Caviar every night. They must certainly be living better than us because the amount of money that…..”
“Which is why Sir has to enter the stock market.”
“The…. Stock ….. Market?”
“Yes indeed Sir. You have heard of the Johannesburg Stock Exchange, I'm sure?”
“Er yes… of course. But wha…”
“And though some people, people obviously without the leadership qualities and decision-making ability that Sir has, may find the JSE a little daunting, we have got the perfect product for Sir, to make his JSE experience, well - a walk in the park.”
“But doesn't it take mo….”
“And the best thing is, Sir, our product is GUARANTEED.”
“But…”
“Absolutely Sir. Because you are on our shortlist, we want you to try our state-of-the-art computer program, that stock market experts have been designing and testing over the last five years. Isn't that good news Sir? Imagine, you will be on the forefront of technology which, to put it simply, will show you EXACTLY when to buy and when to sell. Technology which will double, no TREBLE your initial investment in less than a year. How would Sir like to be able to pay of Sir's debt?”
“Well obviously I…”
“And Sir would probably be keen on going on an overseas holiday, now the kids are out the house?”
“Yes, but…”
“You know Sir, it is such a pleasure speaking to someone who knows what he wants. That is a rare quality these days. I must say Sir, you certainly do tick all the boxes and I am really excited to be working with you on this.”
“Can you just back up a bit. Did you say overseas holiday?”
“Ha ha, yes Sir, you are talking my language. And it really is so simple, Sir. Once we have captured all your details we will have you up and trading in a matter of days.”
“Are you sure about this…. An OVERSEAS HOLIDAY…. WITHOUT THE CHILDREN?”
“Indeed sir, indeed. Wherever you want. Right, now if I can just have Sir's details. You know, so that we can set the program up and running. The quicker we do this, the closer you'll be to booking that ticket to Europe. Let's start with full name, address, ID number and Credit Card details.”
“My full name is…… hang on – did you say Credit Card details?”
“Yes sir. Just for the cost of the program – which you will definitely earn back within your first two months of trading. And of course for the initial investment amount which goes from R45 000 upwards, depending on whether Sir would like to have Gold, Platinum or Diamond status”
“But we don't have a credit card. We used to but, well the bank manager cut …. HANG ON - HOW MUCH DID YOU SAY?”
"The entry level amount is only R45 000, but I'm sure someone of Sir's high standing would prefer to join at a higher level… May I suggest that Sir looks at the advantages of Diamond status? For only a kick off investment of R500 000 Sir will get the full on adv….. Sir? Sir? Why is Sir laughing?”
“R45 000? (Ha ha ha ha ha ha)”
“Sir, I am starting to think that Sir might not be taking me seriously?”
“R500 000? (Ha ha ha ha hahahahahahah)”
“Is Sir telling me that perhaps he is NOT the decision-maker of the family?”
“Di…. Di….. Diamond Status? (HAHAHAHAHAH),”
“Sir I think I am left with no choice but to end this call, if you aren't going to take….”
“Hahahaha NO PLEASE, don't go. Don't stop now. (Hehehehehe) Please just do me a favour – will you tell my wife the whole deal? Please!”
“Is SHE the decision-maker in the family?”
“No. .Yes. Actually I'm not sure. It's just that she's a bit down at the moment because she's doing the accounts and trying to decide which bills to pay. So if you could share the details of your proposal…. Especially the (gnmmmph) bit about the (mmmmphfff) minimum investment (MPHWAAHAHAHA) .”
“Very well then. Could you put her on the line?”
“Absolutely! .... “I'd be MA-(HAHAHAH)-AD if I didn't!”
“Hello, T'Ed residence, may I help you?”
“Good day Sir, how are you this fine day?”
“Well, now that you ask I'm actually a bit….'
“So nice to hear that Sir, and I'm fine too..”
“Oh…. So… Is there someone in particular you would like to sp…”
“You Sir!”
“I beg yo…”
“You Sir, I would like to speak to you. Just one question I would like you to answer. Would you say you are a decision-maker?”
“A what?”
“Decision-maker. Are you a decision maker Sir?”
“Well yes. I think so. Um….. hang on (Honey, would you say that I'm a decision maker? Uhuh… some guy on the phone wants to know if I'm a decision maker. What can I tell him? Yes? May I really? Oh good. Thanks) Yes! I am a decision maker.”
“Oh good Sir, I thought you sounded like just such a person. I'm very glad you said yes because I have got very good news for you!”
“Good news? Oh brilliant. It's time we had some of that, what with the geyser and the washing mach….. Haaaangggg on. Are you selling something? Because if you are I am really not….”
“No Sir! Absolutely not! I would never dream of approaching someone like yourself with any sort of sales gimmick call.”
“Good, because, for a moment I thought…”
“Aaah – you see Sir, it is such a pleasure to speak to a thinking man, who is also a decision maker.”
“Oh well, er… thank you… I think..”
<b>“So Sir, as the decision maker of your family I would like to put something to you.”
“Of the family? Ummm, I'm not sure if I'm the …. Hang on (Honey, now he says I'm the decision maker OF THE FAMILY…. And it…. Am I really? Are you sure? Oh wow!) Yes, I am our family's decision maker…. apparently.”
“I had no doubt whatsoever Sir. So what I would like to put to you, Sir, is this. Would Sir's family, of which Sir is obviously the head, be needing supplementary income?”
“Head of the family? My word, that's pushing it a bit, but I'll go along with it at the moment, (just don't say it too loudly. She's in the next room.) Now - what was the rest of it again?”
“Would Sir's family be needing extra money at the end of the month?”
“Waidaminnit. Is this Joe from the bottlestore? Look mate I told you that I would only be able to pay you by…”
“No sir. I am not from a bottle store. I just would like to know if your family is comfortable. Financially I mean.”
“Have you been talking to my bank manager? Because he has no right to release….”
“No Sir. Definitely not. We are not affiliated to any financial institution. Perhaps I should put it another way. How would Sir like to earn extra money every month … without actually working for it?”
“Earn extra money? Without working? This has got to be a prank call. Hey, is that you bro? I thought I recognised the….”
“You see Sir, I know of the perfect way in which a leader such as yourself, a dedicated, intelligent family man, who is obviously the sort of person who would like to maximise the time spent with his loved ones, can do just that. Tell me, does Sir have children?”
“Er yes… two. But if you are thinking of putting them to work, well, I wish you all the luck in the world….. because I seriously don't think….”
“Two children? Oh that is wonderful. Actually I could tell by Sir's voice. That's why I referred to Sir as a 'Family Man' earlier. Tell me Sir, these children, whom I'm sure you love dearly, does Sir want the best for them? Are they at school?”
“Actually they have finished school, one due to start studying next year…. Again…. and the other is… well…. In between contracts?”
“That is wonderful. Might I first congratulate Sir on getting them both through school?”
“Oh, thanks… very kind of you. Though I must say it certainly wasn't easy. Especially when The REE wanted to….”
“Yes sir, and may I also point out that now is when the REAL outlay comes, isn't it?”
“Are you sure you haven't been speaking to my bank manager….?”
“They will be wanting cars, rental deposits for a flat, books, extra tuition, college fees….. Am I right Sir?”
“(Sigh)”
“…Not to mention money for food and entertainment whilst they are living way from Sir's home…”
“Yes. You don't have to tell me. Sometimes I think they are eating Caviar every night. They must certainly be living better than us because the amount of money that…..”
“Which is why Sir has to enter the stock market.”
“The…. Stock ….. Market?”
“Yes indeed Sir. You have heard of the Johannesburg Stock Exchange, I'm sure?”
“Er yes… of course. But wha…”
“And though some people, people obviously without the leadership qualities and decision-making ability that Sir has, may find the JSE a little daunting, we have got the perfect product for Sir, to make his JSE experience, well - a walk in the park.”
“But doesn't it take mo….”
“And the best thing is, Sir, our product is GUARANTEED.”
“But…”
“Absolutely Sir. Because you are on our shortlist, we want you to try our state-of-the-art computer program, that stock market experts have been designing and testing over the last five years. Isn't that good news Sir? Imagine, you will be on the forefront of technology which, to put it simply, will show you EXACTLY when to buy and when to sell. Technology which will double, no TREBLE your initial investment in less than a year. How would Sir like to be able to pay of Sir's debt?”
“Well obviously I…”
“And Sir would probably be keen on going on an overseas holiday, now the kids are out the house?”
“Yes, but…”
“You know Sir, it is such a pleasure speaking to someone who knows what he wants. That is a rare quality these days. I must say Sir, you certainly do tick all the boxes and I am really excited to be working with you on this.”
“Can you just back up a bit. Did you say overseas holiday?”
“Ha ha, yes Sir, you are talking my language. And it really is so simple, Sir. Once we have captured all your details we will have you up and trading in a matter of days.”
“Are you sure about this…. An OVERSEAS HOLIDAY…. WITHOUT THE CHILDREN?”
“Indeed sir, indeed. Wherever you want. Right, now if I can just have Sir's details. You know, so that we can set the program up and running. The quicker we do this, the closer you'll be to booking that ticket to Europe. Let's start with full name, address, ID number and Credit Card details.”
“My full name is…… hang on – did you say Credit Card details?”
“Yes sir. Just for the cost of the program – which you will definitely earn back within your first two months of trading. And of course for the initial investment amount which goes from R45 000 upwards, depending on whether Sir would like to have Gold, Platinum or Diamond status”
“But we don't have a credit card. We used to but, well the bank manager cut …. HANG ON - HOW MUCH DID YOU SAY?”
"The entry level amount is only R45 000, but I'm sure someone of Sir's high standing would prefer to join at a higher level… May I suggest that Sir looks at the advantages of Diamond status? For only a kick off investment of R500 000 Sir will get the full on adv….. Sir? Sir? Why is Sir laughing?”
“R45 000? (Ha ha ha ha ha ha)”
“Sir, I am starting to think that Sir might not be taking me seriously?”
“R500 000? (Ha ha ha ha hahahahahahah)”
“Is Sir telling me that perhaps he is NOT the decision-maker of the family?”
“Di…. Di….. Diamond Status? (HAHAHAHAHAH),”
“Sir I think I am left with no choice but to end this call, if you aren't going to take….”
“Hahahaha NO PLEASE, don't go. Don't stop now. (Hehehehehe) Please just do me a favour – will you tell my wife the whole deal? Please!”
“Is SHE the decision-maker in the family?”
“No. .Yes. Actually I'm not sure. It's just that she's a bit down at the moment because she's doing the accounts and trying to decide which bills to pay. So if you could share the details of your proposal…. Especially the (gnmmmph) bit about the (mmmmphfff) minimum investment (MPHWAAHAHAHA) .”
“Very well then. Could you put her on the line?”
“Absolutely! .... “I'd be MA-(HAHAHAH)-AD if I didn't!”
Tuesday, October 13, 2015
Losing Winter Weight .... I wish I was a bear
.
I wish I was a bear.
Look I know you'll probably try and shoot me down, because bears aren't indigenous to the Garden Route…. or anywhere in South Africa, I suppose, – but I can cope with that because I'm not exactly 100% indigenous myself. (I didn't quite know how exotic I was until Saturday, when I mentioned, under my breath I thought, that it might be nice if England won their Rugby match like the Springboks had. Apparently that is the equivalent to pledging one's allegiance to the EFF in some circles).
But let's get back to the bear facts (heh heh).
Why do I crave to be a bear? A good question - because I'm really not partial to standing in icy rivers eating raw fish. Nor am I prone to walking on all fours, growling, salivating and sniffing the air for signs of a small victim upon which to pounce and rip into bite-size chunks (there's already one person too many doing that in our household).
But that's not all a bear does. Bears get to do other things, the best of which is, of course, sleeping all through Winter….. and waking up thin.
Can you imagine that? That's why I REALLY want to be a bear. I can't think of anything I would like to do more than climbing into bed around mid-April, after a few months of constant quaffing of meat pies, Bosun's bitter and other highly nutritional, organic foods, staying there fast asleep until September the first (or was it the second this year?) AND WAKING UP THIN!
You see I don't like Winter. Not one little bit. And as I am not a bear, and my family insists that I cannot stay under my duvet until Spring, it seems the only way I can survive the cold is to eat. Continuously.
And that's what I do.
In Winter I'm like a whale, storing blubber for central heating in the Arctic Circle. It is a no-holds-barred, high-fat, high-carb, high-protein, high-calorie, high GI, Hi waiter!, gluttony fest. I cannot control myself.
Of course I know this isn't healthy, and sometimes in those long months I feel so guilty I even think about exercise, but there simply aren't enough daylight hours in a day are there? What with the early morning snack, the pre-breakfast sandwich, breakfast cereal, breakfast bacon'n eggs, breakfast toast top up, ten o'clock tea 'n biscuits (ok, cakes), elevenses, pre-lunch crackers 'n cheese, lunch, more lunch, two o'clock doughnuts, afternoon tea 'n biscuits, meat-pie munchies for the road home, the after-work three-tier dagwood snackwich, dinner, pudding, supper, rusks 'n coffee, popcorn, then some cheese before bedtime, normally between two healthily generous slices of Sasko's finest white.
And as you can imagine, after four or so months of this omnivorous carnage and sincere lack of movement (apparently butter-spreading doesn't burn as many calories as I assumed), Spring burps me out like an obese ball of lard, and my family reads me the riot act about losing weight.
Why? Because they love me and care deeply about my wellbeing.
Actually no. It's because the shower leaks. Badly.
Perhaps I should explain, because I am sure that one or two of you out there might not make the connection. And the connection is where the problem lies really. It all goes back to when I built our house, and the building budget being somewhat tight (apparently I hugely overspent on the figure allowed for 'Bottled Stress Reliever'). So I decided to save money…… by not employing a plumber.
At the time I thought it was a stroke of pure genius:- doing all the plumbing myself, with the kind assistance of both my brother in law and a case of the afore-mentioned Bottled Stress Reliever. Why not? I mean plumbing isn't exactly rocket science is it?
Actually it is.
So…. To cut a long story (and, as it turned out, a vital length of copper piping) short, for the last fourteen years we have had a shower upstairs which leaks. Actually that is not the entire truth – it doesn't ALWAYS leak. Just in the second half of Winter, and then only when I am the one showering.
Of course I tried to reason that this is pure coincidence, but apparently Mrs Ed called a so-called 'expert' in, who signed an affidavit laying the blame totally on my shoulders…. And my waist…. And my stomach….. Something about excess weight on the fibre-glass shower tray pressing down on the pipe leading to the hot tap which puts undue pressure on a connection hidden somewhere in the dry (or not so dry) walling.
This same fellow says we should be able to fix it without a problem, just as soon as we win the European lottery, or the Nigerian prince sends me the money he promised.
Of course this leak would be okay, if the water quietly ran down the wall, gathered itself into a polite pool somewhere behind a cupboard, and was content with causing a small case of rising damp. But it doesn't. It pours through the ceiling boards and, as if auditioning for the part of Victoria Falls, crashes down into the kitchen, wreaking wet havoc with anything in a two metre radius underneath.
Of course this is just hearsay. I have never witnessed the phenomenon myself because, well I am usually showering at the time, but my family certainly give me no reason to believe that they are happy with the resultant mayhem.
“Dad! I was making one of my awesome, award winning sandwiches!” bellows my somewhat annoyed son, The REE (Resident Expert on Everything), when his multi-layer cheese, peanut butter, ham, lettuce, Bovril and bacon sarmie (You have learned well, Grasshopper,) has been reduced to a sogginess of mush proportions.
“Daddy can't you hurry?” Fear Factor, my daughter, shout-whispers through the bathroom door, “I'm trying to make breakfast for me and my friends, and whenever the water hits the toaster it sparks blue flames. It's, like, REALLY embarrassing!”
I suppose even I have been affected by it in an indirect way. The other evening I was eating dinner and I actually complimented Mrs Ed on her cooking. “Mmmmmm, this stew is surprisingly nice!” I said to her, “Is there perhaps something extra you added to your recipe?”
“Shower water?” she responded, nonplussed.
So where does this leave me? Well though it's nice that you should ask, I can't say I am in a happy place at all. In fact I'm probably as miserable as an English Rugby coach. It's all the deceit you see, it's playing on my conscience, but I swear it's not my fault:- Mrs Ed is the one who is insistent that I start jogging - to lose weight of course. And though I always intend to, it's just so hard to get going in the mornings, especially after a late night's rugby watching.
So what I normally do when the alarm clock goes off is take a quick shower to wake myself up….. and that's when the still-half-asleep Mrs Ed shouts “You may as well get back into bed, you can't run in this weather, you'll get soaked.”
I keep meaning to tell her that what she's hearing is the pitter-patter of shower-drops falling on the kitchen floor, and one day I will….. just not tomorrow, or the next day. In fact I'll keep it to myself just for one more week….. or maybe until the World Cup is over…..
....
I wish I was a bear.
Look I know you'll probably try and shoot me down, because bears aren't indigenous to the Garden Route…. or anywhere in South Africa, I suppose, – but I can cope with that because I'm not exactly 100% indigenous myself. (I didn't quite know how exotic I was until Saturday, when I mentioned, under my breath I thought, that it might be nice if England won their Rugby match like the Springboks had. Apparently that is the equivalent to pledging one's allegiance to the EFF in some circles).
But let's get back to the bear facts (heh heh).
Why do I crave to be a bear? A good question - because I'm really not partial to standing in icy rivers eating raw fish. Nor am I prone to walking on all fours, growling, salivating and sniffing the air for signs of a small victim upon which to pounce and rip into bite-size chunks (there's already one person too many doing that in our household).
But that's not all a bear does. Bears get to do other things, the best of which is, of course, sleeping all through Winter….. and waking up thin.
Can you imagine that? That's why I REALLY want to be a bear. I can't think of anything I would like to do more than climbing into bed around mid-April, after a few months of constant quaffing of meat pies, Bosun's bitter and other highly nutritional, organic foods, staying there fast asleep until September the first (or was it the second this year?) AND WAKING UP THIN!
You see I don't like Winter. Not one little bit. And as I am not a bear, and my family insists that I cannot stay under my duvet until Spring, it seems the only way I can survive the cold is to eat. Continuously.
And that's what I do.
In Winter I'm like a whale, storing blubber for central heating in the Arctic Circle. It is a no-holds-barred, high-fat, high-carb, high-protein, high-calorie, high GI, Hi waiter!, gluttony fest. I cannot control myself.
Of course I know this isn't healthy, and sometimes in those long months I feel so guilty I even think about exercise, but there simply aren't enough daylight hours in a day are there? What with the early morning snack, the pre-breakfast sandwich, breakfast cereal, breakfast bacon'n eggs, breakfast toast top up, ten o'clock tea 'n biscuits (ok, cakes), elevenses, pre-lunch crackers 'n cheese, lunch, more lunch, two o'clock doughnuts, afternoon tea 'n biscuits, meat-pie munchies for the road home, the after-work three-tier dagwood snackwich, dinner, pudding, supper, rusks 'n coffee, popcorn, then some cheese before bedtime, normally between two healthily generous slices of Sasko's finest white.
And as you can imagine, after four or so months of this omnivorous carnage and sincere lack of movement (apparently butter-spreading doesn't burn as many calories as I assumed), Spring burps me out like an obese ball of lard, and my family reads me the riot act about losing weight.
Why? Because they love me and care deeply about my wellbeing.
Actually no. It's because the shower leaks. Badly.
Perhaps I should explain, because I am sure that one or two of you out there might not make the connection. And the connection is where the problem lies really. It all goes back to when I built our house, and the building budget being somewhat tight (apparently I hugely overspent on the figure allowed for 'Bottled Stress Reliever'). So I decided to save money…… by not employing a plumber.
At the time I thought it was a stroke of pure genius:- doing all the plumbing myself, with the kind assistance of both my brother in law and a case of the afore-mentioned Bottled Stress Reliever. Why not? I mean plumbing isn't exactly rocket science is it?
Actually it is.
So…. To cut a long story (and, as it turned out, a vital length of copper piping) short, for the last fourteen years we have had a shower upstairs which leaks. Actually that is not the entire truth – it doesn't ALWAYS leak. Just in the second half of Winter, and then only when I am the one showering.
Of course I tried to reason that this is pure coincidence, but apparently Mrs Ed called a so-called 'expert' in, who signed an affidavit laying the blame totally on my shoulders…. And my waist…. And my stomach….. Something about excess weight on the fibre-glass shower tray pressing down on the pipe leading to the hot tap which puts undue pressure on a connection hidden somewhere in the dry (or not so dry) walling.
This same fellow says we should be able to fix it without a problem, just as soon as we win the European lottery, or the Nigerian prince sends me the money he promised.
Of course this leak would be okay, if the water quietly ran down the wall, gathered itself into a polite pool somewhere behind a cupboard, and was content with causing a small case of rising damp. But it doesn't. It pours through the ceiling boards and, as if auditioning for the part of Victoria Falls, crashes down into the kitchen, wreaking wet havoc with anything in a two metre radius underneath.
Of course this is just hearsay. I have never witnessed the phenomenon myself because, well I am usually showering at the time, but my family certainly give me no reason to believe that they are happy with the resultant mayhem.
“Dad! I was making one of my awesome, award winning sandwiches!” bellows my somewhat annoyed son, The REE (Resident Expert on Everything), when his multi-layer cheese, peanut butter, ham, lettuce, Bovril and bacon sarmie (You have learned well, Grasshopper,) has been reduced to a sogginess of mush proportions.
“Daddy can't you hurry?” Fear Factor, my daughter, shout-whispers through the bathroom door, “I'm trying to make breakfast for me and my friends, and whenever the water hits the toaster it sparks blue flames. It's, like, REALLY embarrassing!”
I suppose even I have been affected by it in an indirect way. The other evening I was eating dinner and I actually complimented Mrs Ed on her cooking. “Mmmmmm, this stew is surprisingly nice!” I said to her, “Is there perhaps something extra you added to your recipe?”
“Shower water?” she responded, nonplussed.
So where does this leave me? Well though it's nice that you should ask, I can't say I am in a happy place at all. In fact I'm probably as miserable as an English Rugby coach. It's all the deceit you see, it's playing on my conscience, but I swear it's not my fault:- Mrs Ed is the one who is insistent that I start jogging - to lose weight of course. And though I always intend to, it's just so hard to get going in the mornings, especially after a late night's rugby watching.
So what I normally do when the alarm clock goes off is take a quick shower to wake myself up….. and that's when the still-half-asleep Mrs Ed shouts “You may as well get back into bed, you can't run in this weather, you'll get soaked.”
I keep meaning to tell her that what she's hearing is the pitter-patter of shower-drops falling on the kitchen floor, and one day I will….. just not tomorrow, or the next day. In fact I'll keep it to myself just for one more week….. or maybe until the World Cup is over…..
....
Thursday, August 27, 2015
If Noah lived in the Garden Route today....
.
And so The Lord found Noah retired in Sedgefield and spaketh unto him.
“Noah, I am tired of the evil ways of the people of the Earth. In one year I am going to maketh it rain for forty days and forty nights and, lo, shall the whole world be covered in water until all flesh is destroyed.
"But harken this, Noah, I needeth thee to save the righteous people, and two of every kind of living thing that roameth on and flyeth above the Earth. Therefore I am commanding thee to build an ark.”
In a flash of lightening God delivered the specifications for the ark and, trembling in fear, Noah took up those measurements and vowed to commence the process.
“Remember,” spaketh the Lord, “Thou must complete the task in one year, upon which time I shall return.”
And verily, one year did pass. And, as the storm clouds didst gather above the Earth, God called upon Sedgefield to find Noah.
But lo and behold, there was no ark in site.
“Noah! Where is the ark?” boomed the voice of The Lord from on high.
Noah looked downcast and spaketh unto the Lord.
“ I'm afraid there isn't one. You see it isn't that simple. Making an ark I mean. Believe me Lord, I have tried and tried but….. Perhaps I should explain.
“I mentioned to a neighbour that I might need to borrow his saw for a project, and he asked me what it was. Foolishly I told him about the ark and next thing I knew I had a letter from him and the neighbours on the other side, stating that I had to submit plans to the municipality for a structure that size. So I submitted the plans you gave me but I’m sorry to say they were rejected. Apparently a cubit isn't a recognised measurement.
So then I got a draughtsman to redraw the plans and resubmitted.
“ Of course because I was then seen as a boat builder, it meant my garden had to be rezoned by the municipality as 'Light Industrial' and both neighbours objected. I asked what the problem was and they said the structure would block the sunlight. I told them they wouldn't have to be worried about the sunlight once the rain started – but this didn't help my case.
“Meanwhile I was having HUGE problems trying to source Gopher wood. It had been deemed an illegal alien so no-one would grow it. I tried to harvest some Gum trees locally but the Egrets were nesting again, so Cape Nature said I had to hold back until the chicks were big enough to fly. Then the Sedgefield Tree Committee refused permission anyway.
“When I finally did locate a source of timber (Sorry Lord but it is SA Pine) and started the process of cutting it into planks, Eskom started loadshedding, so I had to send all the carpenters home. The power was back on the next day but by then the carpenters had formed a union and went on strike. Whilst negotiating I employed some foreign nationals, but that only lasted until the Mossel Bay immigration officials came to Sedgefield and arrested them.
“Then the Sedgefield Flood Committee sent me an angry letter saying that instead of building an ark I should be campaigning to SANParks for the Swartvlei Rivermouth to be opened earlier because then there wouldn't be a flood. Then SANParks sent a ranger round to tell me I couldn't launch the ark until the estuary level had reached two metres.
Furthermore they said that according to their new tariffs a craft the size I was attempting to build would cost R4 000 000 to license, and that I would need at least 300 life jackets and 228 fire extinguishers on board.
“I started rounding up the animals but even that became a real circus. The entrance to my property was barricaded by protest groups who insisted it was wrong to keep animals in captivity for ANY length of time, and how did I know if I was taking the correct two of each species with me. It didn’t help matters when some American dentist shot one of my lions - that was all over Sedgefield Locals facebook page and soon there was an anti-ark petition started.
“By then the Department of Environmental Affairs had set the 'Green Scorpions' on me because they had got wind of what they called my ‘Proposed Flood’. They gave me a court order demanding I conduct an Environmental Impact Assessment so that Interested and Affected Parties could have the opportunity to object to the Proposed Flood if they felt so inclined.
“I employed an environmental consultant and, on her advice, a series of public meetings was held. It's probably a good thing you didn't attend any of them Lord, because chances are you might well have smote at least a dozen people there and then.
"They refused to accept that, as Creator of the Universe, you had total jurisdiction, and they demanded that, even if it did rain for forty days and forty nights, they would still have the right to walk their dogs on the beach.
“Obviously I couldn't give them any such guarantee, so they insisted the Municipality's Town Planning Department get involved again. I was asked to submit a detailed plan of the proposed new flood plain, so I gave them a globe. This did not go down well, Lord - apparently it should have been in at least three of South Africa's 11 national languages.
“As if this was not enough, the Ratepayers asked for written proof that the flood would not lower the market value of any properties; Tourism insisted that I put everything on hold until a marketing campaign be initiated to launch the brand 'KnysFlood'; and attorneys from both the DA and the ANC accused me of initiating a flood campaign to swing the demarcation process in favour of the other party (I must say I'm finding it very hard to cope with this).
“Furthermore SAARP asked for a 10% discount for any of their members wishing to buy what they called a 'cruise' ticket, and when I pointed out that it was only my family and their spouses who could come aboard, someone leaked it to the Sports Commission who demanded I implement a quota system so that the people saved would be a true reflection of South Africa's rainbow demography.
“And then someone started a Whatsapp group called Ark Lark and suddenly a huge argument broke out between some of the members and….”
“STOP!” Commanded The Lord. “I am losing my patience. Ist thou telling me that The Ark is not even complete?”
Noah sighed.
“Actually, Lord, I did manage to finish it last week but, well, I’m afraid that before I could get any of the animals on board…. something happened,”
“WHAT?” asked The Lord, and the whole world did shake with his frustration.
“One of the George taxi associations saw it as ‘passenger carrying competition, and, well, they held a protest march and burnt the ark."
“I think I am going to lie down,” said The Lord.
.
And so The Lord found Noah retired in Sedgefield and spaketh unto him.
“Noah, I am tired of the evil ways of the people of the Earth. In one year I am going to maketh it rain for forty days and forty nights and, lo, shall the whole world be covered in water until all flesh is destroyed.
"But harken this, Noah, I needeth thee to save the righteous people, and two of every kind of living thing that roameth on and flyeth above the Earth. Therefore I am commanding thee to build an ark.”
In a flash of lightening God delivered the specifications for the ark and, trembling in fear, Noah took up those measurements and vowed to commence the process.
“Remember,” spaketh the Lord, “Thou must complete the task in one year, upon which time I shall return.”
And verily, one year did pass. And, as the storm clouds didst gather above the Earth, God called upon Sedgefield to find Noah.
But lo and behold, there was no ark in site.
“Noah! Where is the ark?” boomed the voice of The Lord from on high.
Noah looked downcast and spaketh unto the Lord.
“ I'm afraid there isn't one. You see it isn't that simple. Making an ark I mean. Believe me Lord, I have tried and tried but….. Perhaps I should explain.
“I mentioned to a neighbour that I might need to borrow his saw for a project, and he asked me what it was. Foolishly I told him about the ark and next thing I knew I had a letter from him and the neighbours on the other side, stating that I had to submit plans to the municipality for a structure that size. So I submitted the plans you gave me but I’m sorry to say they were rejected. Apparently a cubit isn't a recognised measurement.
So then I got a draughtsman to redraw the plans and resubmitted.
“ Of course because I was then seen as a boat builder, it meant my garden had to be rezoned by the municipality as 'Light Industrial' and both neighbours objected. I asked what the problem was and they said the structure would block the sunlight. I told them they wouldn't have to be worried about the sunlight once the rain started – but this didn't help my case.
“Meanwhile I was having HUGE problems trying to source Gopher wood. It had been deemed an illegal alien so no-one would grow it. I tried to harvest some Gum trees locally but the Egrets were nesting again, so Cape Nature said I had to hold back until the chicks were big enough to fly. Then the Sedgefield Tree Committee refused permission anyway.
“When I finally did locate a source of timber (Sorry Lord but it is SA Pine) and started the process of cutting it into planks, Eskom started loadshedding, so I had to send all the carpenters home. The power was back on the next day but by then the carpenters had formed a union and went on strike. Whilst negotiating I employed some foreign nationals, but that only lasted until the Mossel Bay immigration officials came to Sedgefield and arrested them.
“Then the Sedgefield Flood Committee sent me an angry letter saying that instead of building an ark I should be campaigning to SANParks for the Swartvlei Rivermouth to be opened earlier because then there wouldn't be a flood. Then SANParks sent a ranger round to tell me I couldn't launch the ark until the estuary level had reached two metres.
Furthermore they said that according to their new tariffs a craft the size I was attempting to build would cost R4 000 000 to license, and that I would need at least 300 life jackets and 228 fire extinguishers on board.
“I started rounding up the animals but even that became a real circus. The entrance to my property was barricaded by protest groups who insisted it was wrong to keep animals in captivity for ANY length of time, and how did I know if I was taking the correct two of each species with me. It didn’t help matters when some American dentist shot one of my lions - that was all over Sedgefield Locals facebook page and soon there was an anti-ark petition started.
“By then the Department of Environmental Affairs had set the 'Green Scorpions' on me because they had got wind of what they called my ‘Proposed Flood’. They gave me a court order demanding I conduct an Environmental Impact Assessment so that Interested and Affected Parties could have the opportunity to object to the Proposed Flood if they felt so inclined.
“I employed an environmental consultant and, on her advice, a series of public meetings was held. It's probably a good thing you didn't attend any of them Lord, because chances are you might well have smote at least a dozen people there and then.
"They refused to accept that, as Creator of the Universe, you had total jurisdiction, and they demanded that, even if it did rain for forty days and forty nights, they would still have the right to walk their dogs on the beach.
“Obviously I couldn't give them any such guarantee, so they insisted the Municipality's Town Planning Department get involved again. I was asked to submit a detailed plan of the proposed new flood plain, so I gave them a globe. This did not go down well, Lord - apparently it should have been in at least three of South Africa's 11 national languages.
“As if this was not enough, the Ratepayers asked for written proof that the flood would not lower the market value of any properties; Tourism insisted that I put everything on hold until a marketing campaign be initiated to launch the brand 'KnysFlood'; and attorneys from both the DA and the ANC accused me of initiating a flood campaign to swing the demarcation process in favour of the other party (I must say I'm finding it very hard to cope with this).
“Furthermore SAARP asked for a 10% discount for any of their members wishing to buy what they called a 'cruise' ticket, and when I pointed out that it was only my family and their spouses who could come aboard, someone leaked it to the Sports Commission who demanded I implement a quota system so that the people saved would be a true reflection of South Africa's rainbow demography.
“And then someone started a Whatsapp group called Ark Lark and suddenly a huge argument broke out between some of the members and….”
“STOP!” Commanded The Lord. “I am losing my patience. Ist thou telling me that The Ark is not even complete?”
Noah sighed.
“Actually, Lord, I did manage to finish it last week but, well, I’m afraid that before I could get any of the animals on board…. something happened,”
“WHAT?” asked The Lord, and the whole world did shake with his frustration.
“One of the George taxi associations saw it as ‘passenger carrying competition, and, well, they held a protest march and burnt the ark."
“I think I am going to lie down,” said The Lord.
.
Thursday, August 13, 2015
Leaving home
So she has gone. Our youngest child. Our baby. She has flown the coop. Left the nest. Spread her wings and taken to the skies.
I can't believe it! Imagine someone so young (it seems it was only yesterday she started at Sedge Primary) getting on a plane all by herself, and jetting off to see the world?
Actually it's probably a good thing that 'spreading her wings' is just a metaphor, because the amount of clothing she packed in her suitcase - or ‘The Bag’ as it became known - would have necessitated the pectoral muscles of a pre-historic dragon. I do hope British Airways has the common sense to stow The Bag in the exact centre of the plane's underside storage.
Leading up to her departure has been highly emotional to say the least. There has been numerous times that I have sat cringing downstairs, with hands over ears, trying to block out the heartbreaking wails and sobs emanating from her bedroom. Mrs Ed is braver than I – she actually sat upstairs, clutching our daughter to her ample bosom in an attempt to somehow ease the agonising pain the girl had to go through each time she realised that ANOTHER pair of shoes would have to stay behind.
Not that we are a jet-setting sort of family (for years I had my kids convinced that driving over the White Bridge to Knysna was 'going overseas') but I do know that if you are travelling by plane, fitting everything into your luggage is quite stressful at the best of times, especially when the trip is a six-month long working holiday.
And that stress can be multiplied by 400 for our daughter, who had only one bag. One VERY BIG bag. The Bag.
You see, as I may have mentioned before, Fear Factor (that's a nickname we have given her since she started learning to drive) (it comes from the look on other drivers' and pedestrians' and cyclists' and dogs' faces as she drives past, putting on her mascara, drinking coffee, answering her cell phone and taking a selfie as she goes) is not just fond of her clothes, she's not just attached to them…
She IS them.
And they are her.
Seriously, at twenty years old, Fear Factor has never, ever thrown out a piece of clothing. Why? Because she considers her clothes an all important, life-giving part of her soul. And you can't just casually throw away your soul, can you?
That would be like… like… going on holiday without it....
“No Mom! Not this shirt. You can't ask me to leave this shirt behind – it's my Grade 8 school shirt. It's what I wore for my FIRST YEAR IN HIGH SCHOOL MOM!”
So we finally got The Bag closed with minutes to spare. It wasn't easy, and eventually we had to ask Mrs Ed to sit on it WITH HER DINNER PLATE, just so we could close the zip and fasten the buckles. I'm not claiming to have ever seen what a puff adder looks like after it has just consumed a Brahman Bull, but I imagine it would be something similar.
Even then another pair of shoes and some extra clothes were stuffed into the side pouches, just in case.
Fortunately seventeen of Fear Factor's friends had come to say good bye, so with their help along with a rather nifty pulley system and the steel elastic from Mrs Ed's drawers, we could swing The Bag out the window and lower it down into the unsuspecting car's boot. (I swear I heard it say “Ow! My back!” in fluent Toyota.)
Then, after waiting until we would be predictably late, we sped off for the airport with the poor car's front wheels only intermittently making contact with the tar. It looked like the old Camry was attempting to take to the skies herself.
Swinging into the car park with seconds to spare, we had to pull up and consider our methodology of getting The Bag onto the plane. Obviously we didn't want to pay for excess luggage, so we couldn't use a forklift or camel to carry it in from the car because that would surely give the game away to the eagle eyed checker-inners. (Apart from that, I thought they were both splendid options, and certainly not worth the disdainful glare I got from Mrs Ed's good eye when I had the wisdom to suggest them).
And the security officers swiftly kyboshed my attempts to reverse the car through the automatic sliding doors. (I did think diving onto my bonnet with a tazer pointed towards my forehead and shouting 'FREEZE! AIRPORT SECURITY' was a bit melodramatic) .
So, we had to grit out teeth and let Mrs Ed carry the thing.
Hoping that by some miracle, the young check-in man would look the other way when The Bag went onto the scale, I suggested that Fear Factor bat her eyelashes and flash a smile at him as she handed over her ticket. She did this particularly well, (if I hadn't known better I might have thought she had done it before) , and in her most husky, little girl voice she offered.
“I'm afraid I'm a little overweight.”
In knee-jerk reaction I added “I think she looks just fine, don't you?” (One never knows when one may be looking at a potential spouse for one's child… and apparently airport staff get discounted flights for the whole family!).
I don't know who kicked which shin the hardest, but I have no doubt that Mrs Ed has been giving Fear Factor lessons on the quiet. Eventually the pain subsided enough to get back on my feet whilst Mrs Ed and Fear Factor, under instruction from the non-plussed check-in man, emptied the side pouches of The Bag, just to make it a little lighter.
And so, a few minutes later, as our darling daughter strode through the departure gate, she stopped, turned around and gave a final wave good bye.
And then something strange happened. It was as if, in that moment, she’d had a sudden realisation.
“I love you. Both of you,” she mewed, seemingly avoiding eye contact so we wouldn't see the tears welling up. My heart warmed and, with my own eyes wet and a lump in my throat, I turned around to share this special moment with her mother….
And then I realised.
Fear Factor wasn't talking to us at all.
In fact she was looking directly at the shoes Mrs Ed was holding, the pair she had taken from the side pouch in an effort to lighten The Bag.
“I'll miss you guys,” Fear Factor sobbed at them. Then she turned around and was gone.
I think I'm going to rent out her bedroom sooner rather than later.
I can't believe it! Imagine someone so young (it seems it was only yesterday she started at Sedge Primary) getting on a plane all by herself, and jetting off to see the world?
Actually it's probably a good thing that 'spreading her wings' is just a metaphor, because the amount of clothing she packed in her suitcase - or ‘The Bag’ as it became known - would have necessitated the pectoral muscles of a pre-historic dragon. I do hope British Airways has the common sense to stow The Bag in the exact centre of the plane's underside storage.
Leading up to her departure has been highly emotional to say the least. There has been numerous times that I have sat cringing downstairs, with hands over ears, trying to block out the heartbreaking wails and sobs emanating from her bedroom. Mrs Ed is braver than I – she actually sat upstairs, clutching our daughter to her ample bosom in an attempt to somehow ease the agonising pain the girl had to go through each time she realised that ANOTHER pair of shoes would have to stay behind.
Not that we are a jet-setting sort of family (for years I had my kids convinced that driving over the White Bridge to Knysna was 'going overseas') but I do know that if you are travelling by plane, fitting everything into your luggage is quite stressful at the best of times, especially when the trip is a six-month long working holiday.
And that stress can be multiplied by 400 for our daughter, who had only one bag. One VERY BIG bag. The Bag.
You see, as I may have mentioned before, Fear Factor (that's a nickname we have given her since she started learning to drive) (it comes from the look on other drivers' and pedestrians' and cyclists' and dogs' faces as she drives past, putting on her mascara, drinking coffee, answering her cell phone and taking a selfie as she goes) is not just fond of her clothes, she's not just attached to them…
She IS them.
And they are her.
Seriously, at twenty years old, Fear Factor has never, ever thrown out a piece of clothing. Why? Because she considers her clothes an all important, life-giving part of her soul. And you can't just casually throw away your soul, can you?
That would be like… like… going on holiday without it....
“No Mom! Not this shirt. You can't ask me to leave this shirt behind – it's my Grade 8 school shirt. It's what I wore for my FIRST YEAR IN HIGH SCHOOL MOM!”
So we finally got The Bag closed with minutes to spare. It wasn't easy, and eventually we had to ask Mrs Ed to sit on it WITH HER DINNER PLATE, just so we could close the zip and fasten the buckles. I'm not claiming to have ever seen what a puff adder looks like after it has just consumed a Brahman Bull, but I imagine it would be something similar.
Even then another pair of shoes and some extra clothes were stuffed into the side pouches, just in case.
Fortunately seventeen of Fear Factor's friends had come to say good bye, so with their help along with a rather nifty pulley system and the steel elastic from Mrs Ed's drawers, we could swing The Bag out the window and lower it down into the unsuspecting car's boot. (I swear I heard it say “Ow! My back!” in fluent Toyota.)
Then, after waiting until we would be predictably late, we sped off for the airport with the poor car's front wheels only intermittently making contact with the tar. It looked like the old Camry was attempting to take to the skies herself.
Swinging into the car park with seconds to spare, we had to pull up and consider our methodology of getting The Bag onto the plane. Obviously we didn't want to pay for excess luggage, so we couldn't use a forklift or camel to carry it in from the car because that would surely give the game away to the eagle eyed checker-inners. (Apart from that, I thought they were both splendid options, and certainly not worth the disdainful glare I got from Mrs Ed's good eye when I had the wisdom to suggest them).
And the security officers swiftly kyboshed my attempts to reverse the car through the automatic sliding doors. (I did think diving onto my bonnet with a tazer pointed towards my forehead and shouting 'FREEZE! AIRPORT SECURITY' was a bit melodramatic) .
So, we had to grit out teeth and let Mrs Ed carry the thing.
Hoping that by some miracle, the young check-in man would look the other way when The Bag went onto the scale, I suggested that Fear Factor bat her eyelashes and flash a smile at him as she handed over her ticket. She did this particularly well, (if I hadn't known better I might have thought she had done it before) , and in her most husky, little girl voice she offered.
“I'm afraid I'm a little overweight.”
In knee-jerk reaction I added “I think she looks just fine, don't you?” (One never knows when one may be looking at a potential spouse for one's child… and apparently airport staff get discounted flights for the whole family!).
I don't know who kicked which shin the hardest, but I have no doubt that Mrs Ed has been giving Fear Factor lessons on the quiet. Eventually the pain subsided enough to get back on my feet whilst Mrs Ed and Fear Factor, under instruction from the non-plussed check-in man, emptied the side pouches of The Bag, just to make it a little lighter.
And so, a few minutes later, as our darling daughter strode through the departure gate, she stopped, turned around and gave a final wave good bye.
And then something strange happened. It was as if, in that moment, she’d had a sudden realisation.
“I love you. Both of you,” she mewed, seemingly avoiding eye contact so we wouldn't see the tears welling up. My heart warmed and, with my own eyes wet and a lump in my throat, I turned around to share this special moment with her mother….
And then I realised.
Fear Factor wasn't talking to us at all.
In fact she was looking directly at the shoes Mrs Ed was holding, the pair she had taken from the side pouch in an effort to lighten The Bag.
“I'll miss you guys,” Fear Factor sobbed at them. Then she turned around and was gone.
I think I'm going to rent out her bedroom sooner rather than later.
Thursday, July 2, 2015
I would like to announce that, as of August, Sedgefield's roads may be declared officially 97.5% safer, as our daughter, AKA Fear Factor, (because she is still learning to drive) is heading off for a five month soirée to the United Kingdom.
Fortunately for the rest of Africa she is going by plane, not driving.
We have notified the Disaster Management division of Scotland Yard, plus the Metropolitan Police, but, just in case, we would be grateful if those of you with family or friends living in London, Manchester or Northern Grimsby could warn them to stay off the roads wherever possible.
Of course since the decision to embark on this epic trip was made earlier this year, the poor lass has been doing as much as possible to raise funds to pay for the air ticket, spending money, and of course the most important, her farewell parties.
Yes I do realise that she is only going for less than half a year, but I must tell you that Fear Factor and her friends specialise in 'Farewell Parties' or 'Farewell Gatherings' or 'Farewell Braais' … they hold them practically every week.
I think the fault is ours – of course it is. I think we once told her that she shouldn't just party for the sake of it – there should always be a reason…. So that's what she and her friends do – they have farewells.
“Mom? I'm just going to So-and-so's for the farewell braai – she's going to Varsity next month….”
“Dad, can you give me a lift to Thingy's house? - We're having a farewell dinner for him because he's going to PE for a camp for a whole week….”
“Dear Mom n Dad, hope work was ok. You'll see I haven't tidied my room yet. Sorry but there was an emergency - I had to rush round to the Whoojamaflip's for the going away party because they are leaving with their parents on Friday for a weekend in Oudtshoorn.”
“Hi Dad – sorry to call you at work – but can I use the car to Go For Coffee with the girls? They are having a shopping day in George with their aunt so I wanted to catch them before they go to say goodbye…”
“Mom, Pls can I take this money from the envelope marked 'Electricity' on top of the fridge? I have to buy a goodbye gift for Whatsisname – he's got a bad cold and we are all going round there for a farewell bowl of chicken soup, just in case he might have to go to hospital sometime soon….”
What? Me exaggerate? No, never!
So…..Fear Factor's impending trip to Mud Island will no doubt necessitate countless gigs of the 'cheery-bye' kind, even if she is only going for ALMOST five months.
“You never know, Dad,” she keeps reminding me, “I may meet a handsome guy over there with millions of pounds, and decide to stay!” I doubt this will happen, but just in case she does meet such a man I have ordered her 17 t-shirts with my bank account details emblazoned on the front.
There are other things that need sorting as well, like her 'travelling gear'. When she first announced her travelling plans I was very excited for the simple reason that 'Ol Betsy' would be put to use again. Indeed I could hardly quell my enthusiasm as I rushed to the cupboard-behind-the-cupboard (that's where I store all the valuable things that Mrs Ed throws out) to fetch the old girl.
Perhaps I should explain, lest you start spreading rumours that I have an aging aunt kept in captivity. 'Ol Betsy is, in fact, my wonderful travelling back-pack, which I used when Mrs Ed and I did our DINKY* 'World Travels' of 1990 (*Double Income No Kids Yet).
Ol Betsy is BEAUTIFUL, in an old dame-ish kind of way, and I always knew that one day one of my children would have the honour of using her....
Admittedly she isn't small, and her somewhat rusted metal frame certainly isn't made from that new-fangled, carbon-based lightweight material that the world- wandering-wimps of today have been spoiled with.
Likewise her military green canvas has faded to a sort of bread-mould hue, and there is a patch or three, and a section where I foolishly pushed a dozen or so fish-hooks through – thinking I would be able to retrieve them when I finally got to the Yangtze Kiang. But I didn't for one moment think that any of this would interfere with the joy my daughter would have in being able to take with her part of my own personal history, nay, a piece of my very soul.
It was all I could do to hold back the tears as I ceremoniously presented her with 'Ol Betsy'.
“Look after her,” I sniffed, “She still smells of that bus trip through Chang Mai.”
“But…. That….. ?” whimpered Fear Factor (I somehow knew she was going to break into floods of emotional tears,)
“Mom! Please don't make me take that old thing! It's horrible and heavy and huge and … and…. Look there's a mouse still living in it! AND , OH GROSS, A DIRTY PAIR OF....... DAD!!”
Mrs Ed was totally unsympathetic to my cause. In fact before I could even remind her that 'that old thing' had been on MY back carrying HER sleeping mat, her HER wellington boots, HER handpainted 2metre (when closed) Thai-crafted fan with the painting of an old villager smoking an opium pipe on it AND HER autographed Village People sweatshirt, through Thailand AND right down the East coast of Australia, she turned on me, quite viciously I thought. I don't know whatever happened to the notion of parents providing a united front.
“I threw that out fourteen years ago!” she boomed, spittle flying into her 11 o’clock stubble.
"Yes," I retorted (which was odd, because I can't remember ever torting in the first place),"But you also chucked out my old dart board with the wire missing, my original 'Welcome to Harare' roadsign AND my Best Baywatch Characters Duvet set, and I've still got all of them in the back of the cupboard behind the......."
Fortunately in the ensuing sprint I got the better of her with a particularly well-aimed ankle tap as she was halfway up the stairs, so was able to position myself with my back flat against the cupboard door and fend off any marauding attacks....
Now it’s 11pm, and she's sitting on the bed facing me, determined to gain access to my treasure trove, but I'm sure she will eventually fall asleep so I can nip out and fetch a padlock.... Quite important considering she doesn't even know about the two metre high Brandy Brewing Apparatus (inherited from my dad) that I smuggled through when we moved down...
Fortunately for the rest of Africa she is going by plane, not driving.
We have notified the Disaster Management division of Scotland Yard, plus the Metropolitan Police, but, just in case, we would be grateful if those of you with family or friends living in London, Manchester or Northern Grimsby could warn them to stay off the roads wherever possible.
Of course since the decision to embark on this epic trip was made earlier this year, the poor lass has been doing as much as possible to raise funds to pay for the air ticket, spending money, and of course the most important, her farewell parties.
Yes I do realise that she is only going for less than half a year, but I must tell you that Fear Factor and her friends specialise in 'Farewell Parties' or 'Farewell Gatherings' or 'Farewell Braais' … they hold them practically every week.
I think the fault is ours – of course it is. I think we once told her that she shouldn't just party for the sake of it – there should always be a reason…. So that's what she and her friends do – they have farewells.
“Mom? I'm just going to So-and-so's for the farewell braai – she's going to Varsity next month….”
“Dad, can you give me a lift to Thingy's house? - We're having a farewell dinner for him because he's going to PE for a camp for a whole week….”
“Dear Mom n Dad, hope work was ok. You'll see I haven't tidied my room yet. Sorry but there was an emergency - I had to rush round to the Whoojamaflip's for the going away party because they are leaving with their parents on Friday for a weekend in Oudtshoorn.”
“Hi Dad – sorry to call you at work – but can I use the car to Go For Coffee with the girls? They are having a shopping day in George with their aunt so I wanted to catch them before they go to say goodbye…”
“Mom, Pls can I take this money from the envelope marked 'Electricity' on top of the fridge? I have to buy a goodbye gift for Whatsisname – he's got a bad cold and we are all going round there for a farewell bowl of chicken soup, just in case he might have to go to hospital sometime soon….”
What? Me exaggerate? No, never!
So…..Fear Factor's impending trip to Mud Island will no doubt necessitate countless gigs of the 'cheery-bye' kind, even if she is only going for ALMOST five months.
“You never know, Dad,” she keeps reminding me, “I may meet a handsome guy over there with millions of pounds, and decide to stay!” I doubt this will happen, but just in case she does meet such a man I have ordered her 17 t-shirts with my bank account details emblazoned on the front.
There are other things that need sorting as well, like her 'travelling gear'. When she first announced her travelling plans I was very excited for the simple reason that 'Ol Betsy' would be put to use again. Indeed I could hardly quell my enthusiasm as I rushed to the cupboard-behind-the-cupboard (that's where I store all the valuable things that Mrs Ed throws out) to fetch the old girl.
Perhaps I should explain, lest you start spreading rumours that I have an aging aunt kept in captivity. 'Ol Betsy is, in fact, my wonderful travelling back-pack, which I used when Mrs Ed and I did our DINKY* 'World Travels' of 1990 (*Double Income No Kids Yet).
Ol Betsy is BEAUTIFUL, in an old dame-ish kind of way, and I always knew that one day one of my children would have the honour of using her....
Admittedly she isn't small, and her somewhat rusted metal frame certainly isn't made from that new-fangled, carbon-based lightweight material that the world- wandering-wimps of today have been spoiled with.
Likewise her military green canvas has faded to a sort of bread-mould hue, and there is a patch or three, and a section where I foolishly pushed a dozen or so fish-hooks through – thinking I would be able to retrieve them when I finally got to the Yangtze Kiang. But I didn't for one moment think that any of this would interfere with the joy my daughter would have in being able to take with her part of my own personal history, nay, a piece of my very soul.
It was all I could do to hold back the tears as I ceremoniously presented her with 'Ol Betsy'.
“Look after her,” I sniffed, “She still smells of that bus trip through Chang Mai.”
“But…. That….. ?” whimpered Fear Factor (I somehow knew she was going to break into floods of emotional tears,)
“Mom! Please don't make me take that old thing! It's horrible and heavy and huge and … and…. Look there's a mouse still living in it! AND , OH GROSS, A DIRTY PAIR OF....... DAD!!”
Mrs Ed was totally unsympathetic to my cause. In fact before I could even remind her that 'that old thing' had been on MY back carrying HER sleeping mat, her HER wellington boots, HER handpainted 2metre (when closed) Thai-crafted fan with the painting of an old villager smoking an opium pipe on it AND HER autographed Village People sweatshirt, through Thailand AND right down the East coast of Australia, she turned on me, quite viciously I thought. I don't know whatever happened to the notion of parents providing a united front.
“I threw that out fourteen years ago!” she boomed, spittle flying into her 11 o’clock stubble.
"Yes," I retorted (which was odd, because I can't remember ever torting in the first place),"But you also chucked out my old dart board with the wire missing, my original 'Welcome to Harare' roadsign AND my Best Baywatch Characters Duvet set, and I've still got all of them in the back of the cupboard behind the......."
Fortunately in the ensuing sprint I got the better of her with a particularly well-aimed ankle tap as she was halfway up the stairs, so was able to position myself with my back flat against the cupboard door and fend off any marauding attacks....
Now it’s 11pm, and she's sitting on the bed facing me, determined to gain access to my treasure trove, but I'm sure she will eventually fall asleep so I can nip out and fetch a padlock.... Quite important considering she doesn't even know about the two metre high Brandy Brewing Apparatus (inherited from my dad) that I smuggled through when we moved down...
Thursday, June 4, 2015
.
“So, I want to chat about our retirement,” said Mrs Ed, out of the blue. I almost choked on my pie and the hot spillings of coffee scalded my leg so badly I almost swerved across the road. Worse yet, I couldn't even cry out in agony – Mrs Ed has always insisted it's dangerous to eat and drink whilst cycling, and there is nothing more scary than one of her 'I Told You So,' looks – which have been known to fell century-old yellowwoods.
“Retirement?” I gasped, stopping my bike and dropping the pie back into the packet balanced on the handlebars, saying a quick silent prayer that it wouldn't contaminate the doughnuts.
“I'm only twenty nine-ish – how can I think of retirement now?”
Shaking her head like an oversized, wet Boerbul she gruffly tsked at me and pedalled on ahead, so as to avoid colliding with the octogenarian gentleman screaming towards us in the red car at about 50kph (who knows what speed he might reach when he found second gear). Slipping into her ample slip-stream, I reflected to myself (it's safer that way) that the conversation would definitely not be over, so for the rest of the mammoth ride to the bottle-store I stayed behind her (though it was much darker there) and pretended I didn't hear what she was ranting on about. Eventually she gave up, but the conversation restarted once we had got home, just as I had adopted the recovery position in my hammock.
“We have to make plans sooner, rather than later,” Mrs Ed insisted rather profoundly. This of course didn't make sense to me. I am the man who put the professional 'pro' in procrastinator. I got my cum laude in procrastination, and plan to do a thesis on the subject … one day….
Yes. I must admit, my version of 'planning for our future' is making sure there's a pack of bacon in the freezer for Sunday. I think life is far less stressful that way, but Mrs Ed tends to disagree. In fact, ever since we tied the noose, er… knot, she has regularly asked for confirmation that I have sufficient finances in place for when we retire – and my answer has always been the same.
“Of course I have. What sort of a cretin do you think I am?” I say, “ There is DEFINITELY enough money put away for when that day comes.” It was only more recently when I quietly added “I just don't know what we are going to do the NEXT day,” that she started panicking… I can't think why. We have bacon.
But the long and the short of it is that Mrs Ed now feels that she has to come up with a cunning plan for our retirement. Perhaps it's the fact that our kids are sort of moving out (I say 'sort of' because they seem to be taunting us with some sort of home-stay relay – the first one moves out, then, just when the second one is leaving, the first comes back….for a few months, until the second one returns… so the first one can leave again….. Good grief. I don't mean to be funny but I am so grateful I only have two children, otherwise we would have to replace the front door with a turnstile!)
So what is her latest cunning plan? Wait for it….
She wants to open a B&B…..
For those of you who don't know Mrs Ed – give me a moment and I will explain why this is, perhaps, Not Such a Brilliant Idea. For those of you who DO know Mrs Ed, yes – you heard right. I DID say she wants to open a B&B. (You'll find that if you pinch your nose between your thumb and your forefinger and dig your nails in deep enough it will help control the laughter….)
You see Mrs Ed is not really a morning person. At all. Actually that is quite an understatement. A bit like saying Atilla the Hun wasn't really a compassionate person…. In fact, whilst we are on the subject of bloodlusting barbarians, you could say that, first thing in the morning at least, Mrs Ed is probably very similar to Mrs Hun, the hen-pecking wife who used to drive him mad enough to go out and do his barbarianistic bit. In fact I have always believed that if we can make sure World War 3 happens anytime before 11am, then I could hire Mrs Ed out as a mercenary to the highest bidder. It would all be over so quickly the troops would be home for lunch, never mind Christmas.
Now I may be being pedantic here, but in my ever-so-humble opinion when a weary traveller sees the motif 'B&B' , he or she would probably expect a nice spot to rest his or her head, with crisp, clean sheets, followed by (at say, somewhere between 7.30 and 10.30am) the welcome vision of a hot plate of bacon and eggs and a nice fresh cup of coffee,…..
……not a haphazardly curlered ogre in a crumpled, pre-Boer War, battle stained dressing gown, with freshly sharpened incisor teeth peering threateningly from under a morning moustache of such magnitude that even Magnum would have thought it magnificent, shouting blue murder about how the weatherman should be lashed and why doesn't anyone have the intelligence to hang up a towel when they are done with it and what does a woman have to do to get something as simple as a cup of coffee to drink with her first cigarette ….
Of course I see what is happening in this Mrs Ed Master Plan. There is Method in her Madness. I have absolutely no doubt that Muggins here (that's me folks) would end up doing absolutely EVERYTHING, just so that I could prevent anything dangerous happening to an unsuspecting guest, and the inevitable lawsuit that would follow, not to mention the visitation by the SAICF (Sedgefield Alien Invasion Conspiracy Forum).
So, as my own special service to the tourism industry, I am going to put any 'retirement plans' (especially those involving a B&B) on hold until such time as I am well and truly ready to start living the 'South African Dream'. You know the one – it involves giving up the hard slog of the normal working life, relocating to a small coastal village, perhaps setting up a small family business – like a community newspaper, exchanging the suit and tie for a crumpled pair of jeans and t-shirt, spending every second morning in a coffee shop and every third evening in a tavern….
Now THAT's what I call a retirement plan…
“So, I want to chat about our retirement,” said Mrs Ed, out of the blue. I almost choked on my pie and the hot spillings of coffee scalded my leg so badly I almost swerved across the road. Worse yet, I couldn't even cry out in agony – Mrs Ed has always insisted it's dangerous to eat and drink whilst cycling, and there is nothing more scary than one of her 'I Told You So,' looks – which have been known to fell century-old yellowwoods.
“Retirement?” I gasped, stopping my bike and dropping the pie back into the packet balanced on the handlebars, saying a quick silent prayer that it wouldn't contaminate the doughnuts.
“I'm only twenty nine-ish – how can I think of retirement now?”
Shaking her head like an oversized, wet Boerbul she gruffly tsked at me and pedalled on ahead, so as to avoid colliding with the octogenarian gentleman screaming towards us in the red car at about 50kph (who knows what speed he might reach when he found second gear). Slipping into her ample slip-stream, I reflected to myself (it's safer that way) that the conversation would definitely not be over, so for the rest of the mammoth ride to the bottle-store I stayed behind her (though it was much darker there) and pretended I didn't hear what she was ranting on about. Eventually she gave up, but the conversation restarted once we had got home, just as I had adopted the recovery position in my hammock.
“We have to make plans sooner, rather than later,” Mrs Ed insisted rather profoundly. This of course didn't make sense to me. I am the man who put the professional 'pro' in procrastinator. I got my cum laude in procrastination, and plan to do a thesis on the subject … one day….
Yes. I must admit, my version of 'planning for our future' is making sure there's a pack of bacon in the freezer for Sunday. I think life is far less stressful that way, but Mrs Ed tends to disagree. In fact, ever since we tied the noose, er… knot, she has regularly asked for confirmation that I have sufficient finances in place for when we retire – and my answer has always been the same.
“Of course I have. What sort of a cretin do you think I am?” I say, “ There is DEFINITELY enough money put away for when that day comes.” It was only more recently when I quietly added “I just don't know what we are going to do the NEXT day,” that she started panicking… I can't think why. We have bacon.
But the long and the short of it is that Mrs Ed now feels that she has to come up with a cunning plan for our retirement. Perhaps it's the fact that our kids are sort of moving out (I say 'sort of' because they seem to be taunting us with some sort of home-stay relay – the first one moves out, then, just when the second one is leaving, the first comes back….for a few months, until the second one returns… so the first one can leave again….. Good grief. I don't mean to be funny but I am so grateful I only have two children, otherwise we would have to replace the front door with a turnstile!)
So what is her latest cunning plan? Wait for it….
She wants to open a B&B…..
For those of you who don't know Mrs Ed – give me a moment and I will explain why this is, perhaps, Not Such a Brilliant Idea. For those of you who DO know Mrs Ed, yes – you heard right. I DID say she wants to open a B&B. (You'll find that if you pinch your nose between your thumb and your forefinger and dig your nails in deep enough it will help control the laughter….)
You see Mrs Ed is not really a morning person. At all. Actually that is quite an understatement. A bit like saying Atilla the Hun wasn't really a compassionate person…. In fact, whilst we are on the subject of bloodlusting barbarians, you could say that, first thing in the morning at least, Mrs Ed is probably very similar to Mrs Hun, the hen-pecking wife who used to drive him mad enough to go out and do his barbarianistic bit. In fact I have always believed that if we can make sure World War 3 happens anytime before 11am, then I could hire Mrs Ed out as a mercenary to the highest bidder. It would all be over so quickly the troops would be home for lunch, never mind Christmas.
Now I may be being pedantic here, but in my ever-so-humble opinion when a weary traveller sees the motif 'B&B' , he or she would probably expect a nice spot to rest his or her head, with crisp, clean sheets, followed by (at say, somewhere between 7.30 and 10.30am) the welcome vision of a hot plate of bacon and eggs and a nice fresh cup of coffee,…..
……not a haphazardly curlered ogre in a crumpled, pre-Boer War, battle stained dressing gown, with freshly sharpened incisor teeth peering threateningly from under a morning moustache of such magnitude that even Magnum would have thought it magnificent, shouting blue murder about how the weatherman should be lashed and why doesn't anyone have the intelligence to hang up a towel when they are done with it and what does a woman have to do to get something as simple as a cup of coffee to drink with her first cigarette ….
Of course I see what is happening in this Mrs Ed Master Plan. There is Method in her Madness. I have absolutely no doubt that Muggins here (that's me folks) would end up doing absolutely EVERYTHING, just so that I could prevent anything dangerous happening to an unsuspecting guest, and the inevitable lawsuit that would follow, not to mention the visitation by the SAICF (Sedgefield Alien Invasion Conspiracy Forum).
So, as my own special service to the tourism industry, I am going to put any 'retirement plans' (especially those involving a B&B) on hold until such time as I am well and truly ready to start living the 'South African Dream'. You know the one – it involves giving up the hard slog of the normal working life, relocating to a small coastal village, perhaps setting up a small family business – like a community newspaper, exchanging the suit and tie for a crumpled pair of jeans and t-shirt, spending every second morning in a coffee shop and every third evening in a tavern….
Now THAT's what I call a retirement plan…
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