Matric exams

The REE (Resident Expert on Everything) is writing matric, and I am beginning to understand why some psychologists think exams are unfair.  The stress is just way too much to bear.  The fear of failure, the late night tears, the early morning panic attacks,  the soul searching silence on the way to school, the nail chewing, the short tempers, the horrific realization that there are those who pass and those who fail, the pulling out of hair….  And that's just me and Mrs Ed!

  And the underlying fear, the biggest, most fearsome thought of all….

What if he never leaves home?

I suppose Mrs Ed and I would be less on edge (excusing the pun) if The REE himself showed the tiniest, itsy-bitsiest sign of worry, or even moderate discomfort, about the fact that he is currently writing the most important exams in his life.  Yes. It would be nice if he boosted 'Writing Matric' up the list of  'Things Which May Affect My Future', just a bit, perhaps adjacent to ‘Getting An Earring’ , just below ‘Catching A Hectic Swell at Buffs’ and ‘Eating All The Cornflakes In The House’. 

But no, matric is more of a hindrance to him than anything else.  A bit like homework, or an embarrassingly positioned 'zit', or putting your knife and fork together after eating . 

I must admit, watching his cunning efforts to avoid-studying-at-all-costs made me realize that he is, without a doubt, a product of my loins. So much so that I have cancelled the DNA test booked for next week.  It is like a walk down memory lane!   I am amazed that though world has changed in so many ways, and technology has developed at an incredible rate since we wrote our school finals, (actually I think they invented the wheel since Mrs Ed wrote her O levels ) the art of 'Study Avoidance' has remained timeless.
“Ok, I'm going to study now,” he will announce to his mother, just in case there is the slightest chance she will fall at his feet, clutch his ankles and sob “No! Not studying! Please, please don't go!  It's dangerous in there.  We love you! Please stay here with us in No-Study-Land where it's nice and safe…” Of course she doesn't, so he will saunter over to me, at the 0.0005km/ hour speed that only teenagers can muster, and say “Dad.  I'm going to hit the books.  You know, for my matric.  I'm going now.  As in, now, today.  Ok?” Because somewhere in the back of his mind there is a fused jumble of grey matter which holds the micro-sized hope I will shout “DON'T YOU DARE, YOU UNGRATEFUL CHILD!  AFTER ALL THESE YEARS IS THIS WHAT YOU DO?  HOW YOU TREAT US? BY STUDYING? WELL NOT UNDER MY ROOF!  YOU GET YOUR LAZY BACKSIDE DOWN TO THE BEACH AND YOU START SURFING BOY! WHEN YOU'VE DONE AT LEAST SIX HOURS ON THAT BOARD THEN YOU CAN COME TO ME AND MAYBE I'LL LET YOU LOOK AT YOUR HISTORY BOOKS!” which of course, I don't either.

So then the ‘Justassoonas’ start.  Recognise the term?  If your children have done matric, you undoubtedly will.  ‘Justassoonas’ are normally followed by some arbitrary action that the average Matric writer  wouldn't dream of doing in normal life.
“Are you studying?”
“I'm gonna start justassoonas I've folded my clothes.”
“I'll get to it justassoonas I've put these dishes in the sink.”
“I will do it dad, justassoonas I finish making a thankyou card to old Aunt Edna for the lime green jersey with the reindeer motif she knitted for me last Christmas,”
I remember when I was 'studying' for O Levels how lonely a thing it was.  Spending all that time on my own used to drive me mad… Sometimes it was almost half an hour!  But now there is a new method of study which negates that problem….

The REE has 'study groups' on an almost nightly basis.  This is a wonderful way to take the loneliness out of studying, which works like this:- Four or five matric writers sit around the dining room table with their books open, discussing a particular subject with great enthusiasm. They exchange different ideas and correct one another, ask questions, give answers, sometimes even take notes....
Of course the subject of their discussion has nothing to do with school.  It's normally something far more important, such as 'surfing', or ‘why chicks prefer dudes with 'hectic cars'’ or  ‘the best place to have a tattoo’ (that's address AND body position). 

The real advantage of this for The REE is that, because there are guests  present, he gets to avoid the 'Deep Shout' that his old man (hey, less of the 'old', please. That's me you're talking about) tends to release when it is blatantly obvious no studying is going on.  When there's company around a tactic called Sarcasm is used.
“Hello boys, what's the next exam? Chick Entrapment 2?  Or perhaps it's Biology and you are calculating the Rate of Adsorption of Indian Ink When Applied to the Gluteus Maximus of the Average Homo Sapiens ?”
Fortunately there is, believe it or not, an upside to this.  You see since The REE entered 'Sloth Mode' some four years ago, it has been exceptionally difficult to get him to take part in any of the joyous household tasks which beset our family.  Even asking him to put a sock in the laundry basket is tantamount to requesting he sever his left leg, hop to Cairo and back carrying the bloody stump,  and then wade across the crocodile infested Limpopo with a large Rottweiler clinging to his tongue.  

But since two weeks before matric exams, when he KNOWS he should be studying, I can get him to do anything.  ANYTHING!
(SFX: MANIACLE CACKLING: “Hoo Hoo Hah hah hah HAH!”)
“Son, won’t you quickly run to the hardware store and get three bags of cement?  You'll probably need to take the wheel barrow  but watch that wonky wheel as you cross the N2,”
“Son, would you mind cleaning all the Hadedah how’dyoudo off our roof with a hose and scrubbing brush this afternoon?  Your mom hasn't managed to get up there for a couple of years since she hurt her back carrying those tiles,”
“Hey my boy, the main pipe inlet into the septic tank has blocked again and I need someone with a strong arm to reach in and pull out whatever's stuck there….”
“Oh Son? Won't you pop down to the bottle store and fetch your dad a case of  amber nectar?  You can use the money you earned waitering last night….”

And his answer is always the same. “Sure thing Pops, I'm supposed to have my head in my studies, but as you asked so nicely…
I'd be mad if I didn't!”

Welcome to The World of Smart Phone Technology

For those of the Tribe Technology out there who may feel they would like to throw us a 'Welcome Party' , Mrs Ed and I have finally taken the plunge and joined the new era  - we got ourselves smart phones! 

You see we've always had bricks…. er … phones, that have been, well, at the bottom of the communication food chain, I suppose, much to the mirth and then embarrassment of our two techno-savvi teenagers.
Not that it was our fault of course, no, the blame clearly lies with GAME. Why? Well they used to make a deal that when your contract was up for renewal, if you 'upgraded' to a pre Noah cell-phone you got  a thousand Rand or so in shopping vouchers! For Free! Of course if you went for a better phone, the voucher value dropped.  Hence for the past few years we have both opted for the Nofia Abacus 1.5 which had a choice of two ring tones and a pencil and slate strapped to the side instead of a camera.  Then of course we shopped 'til we dropped!

But this year, when our cell phone service provider said the time had come for upgrade -  we decided to take a bold step towards being technologically savvy…. Basically because the voucher offer was no longer on the table.

So last Thursday, after picking up The Resident Expert on Everything  (The REE) and The Money Consuming Machine (The MCM) from school, we stopped at Voodookom. I decided that I should handle the matter myself:-having recently mastered the dishwasher AND the DVD machine when Mrs Ed was away, I knew I was obviously a natural in the technological field.

We walked in and I informed a studious looking old gentleman in a white coat that I had come for our upgrades and that - presuming he was a professor of communications who had been flown in to handle our particular contract - we would probably wish to engage in in-depth discussion on the various pro's and con’s of different hand sets.
“Good luck to you,” he said, “I'm just here to deliver pies for the staff.”  I noticed The REE taking a few steps back to study a display case... as if he belonged to someone else. 
I walked to the desk where a young boy was sitting behind a computer  (“Probably visiting his father's workplace to do his homework,” I thought .)
He looked up at me and raised a pierced eyebrow.
“Is your dad here?” I asked.
“Er... no.  Should he be?” was the reply.
I felt a sharp pain as The MCM s school shoe connected with my shin. (“Da-aaad!”) she whispered sharply under her breath.
I glanced at the youngster, and saw that he was actually wearing a staff badge and so probably worked there.  I got to business, speaking slowly so he would understand the technical terms.
“We - need  to  up - grade  our Cell-u-lar Phones.   We - want - one - of - those - CLEVER - phones each,” I said assertively.
Another kick sent pain up my femur.
(“Smart, Dad.  It's a Smart phone!”)
“Oh yes.  A - smart - phone. Two - smart - phones.”
He barely changed his expression, but stared intently at his computer screen.  I could swear he was playing pinball or something on it because he clearly wasn't concentrating on me.  Then I presumed he relapsed back to his days serving at MacDonalds pudding counter.
“Apple or blackberry?'
“Listen,” I said, exasperated, “I'm not ordering a pie, or a jar of jam… Isn't there someone older I can talk to…?”

Sensing the security cameras may well be recording footage of the scene to play at their schools assembly the following day, The MCM grabbed my hand and dragged me outside whilst The REE took over negotiations.....

By the time we all got in the car for our return journey I was even more confused than before. The REE slipped behind the steering wheel (Yes I'm afraid he has his learner's license  but considering the Mayan Calendar says the world will come to an end in a week or so, I'm hoping there won't be enough time for him to cause too much mayhem on the roads)and muttered. 
 “Darn! I was hoping to get them a couple of torches,” he said to The MCM, who was brave enough to sit in the front passenger seat.
“Don't stress,” she answered. “I'm sure they'll be happy with their curves.”
Sitting with Mrs Ed in the back -   both in crash position - I presumed that they were talking about midnight gym classes or something.  “But what about our phones?” I whimpered (I tend to go into whimper mode when The REE gets into the driver's seat.
By the end of the trip it had been explained to me that our 'Curves' were indeed Clever Phones, and by that evening, once The MCM had set the things up and downloaned all the necessary abbs, I must say I was very impressed. 
“So I can get email, send instant messages, go the google, and downvert music, all on this?” I asked her and her brother.
“Yep.  And you can also twitter, log on to Face Book, and get up to the moment news….. but perhaps you guys shouldn’t do everything right now -  take on a bit at a time, you know, so you get the hang of it,” said The REE.
“Oh no!” Mrs Ed and I replied in unison (we're both fluent in it) “We want it ALL, and we want it NOW!

It was amazing what those phones could do!  Mrs Ed and I spent the entire evening curled up with our curves on the WMCC (World's Most Comfortable Couch) sending gazillions of messages (to one another firstly, but thereafter to every relative we could think of), updating our facetube profiles, googling, trying to twit, surfing the net, receiving emails, answering emails…. And the real wonderful thing was that our kids set up the phones with a different song, noise, beep, bleep, tune, chirp or chime to alert us of each new communication arrival onto our phones.  Oh it was so good to be part of the twentyfirst century!

Of course it was 1am by the time we stumbled up the stairs to bed,  technologically exhausted but still enthusiastically engaged in our new era in communication.  Once settled under the duvet I pecked Mrs Ed on the cheek and lovingly messaged her goodnight.  My phone blipped a cricket chirp which signaled her reply -  she had sent me a cutesy heart and smiley face.  Aaah, life was good.....

Just as I was dozing off I was snapped awake by Mrs Ed's Curve emitting a baby gurgling sound - apparently her cousin in Canada had written on her Facebook wall. Then at 2.05am my phone erupted into a series of loud belches (they had sound quite hilarious earlier when the phones had been programmed) as Google automatically sent me a blog update from a windsurfing forum.  I had barely got the bedside light on and found my reading glasses when Beethoven's fifth blared out from the other side of the bed. 
“It's an email from Knockear offering me a new deal,” Mrs Ed muttered, holding her phone close up so she could read the small print. I had only half-typed my commiserations to 'Frustrated' in Southern California, to let him know I had also battled to find spares for the Breezemaster 27, when the doorbell rang.  This was odd as we do not have a doorbell.  Mrs Ed sat up in bed, snatched up her phone and blinked at the screen. 
“Its alright,” I said, “It's mine - just somebody called Keith Maniac from Guatemala who wants to view my profile.”
“No problem”, she yawned, “I wanted to double check if my online brownie recipe had come through anyway,”

We finally closed our eyes at about 2.40am. I know because I had fallen into deep REM mode when a Barn owl hooted me awake at 3.03am, signalling an sms from some service provider saying that the service might be erratic due to an undersea optic line fault.  Sometime around 3.37am Mrs Ed apparently won Four Million British Pounds in an online lottery, (her curve sang 'You're just to good to be true' in celebration. Quite loudly). 

Then at 3.52am the Curve baby gurgled again…someone suggesting Mrs Ed join the Stop Ferret Slaughter in Timbuktu Group…. which obviously awoke the Belcher in my phone because someone had blogged a theory on the Sedgefield River Mouth opening (what on Earth were they doing blogging at four in the morning?).

At 4.22, 4.33 and 4.39am Beethoven individually welcomed three pictures of Mrs Ed's second cousin's child’s birthday party… which obviously couldn't wait until morning,  and I was kept updated by something called 'no-reply' as to how my twitter registration was going…. or wasn't.

Then at 4.50 some idiot bank sent me a text message saying someone had generously deposited R7.50 into our company account, the same bank waited only 25minutes before sending an email with our bank statement apparently attached. I was worried that Mrs Ed might have been awoken by the cacophony of alert bleeps, but a glance over to her side found the dazed woman frantically searching for the 'alarm off' switch  - she had set it for 5.15 so she could get an early start in exploring her online shopping options….
At 5.30 we both got SMSed simultaneous by The REE and The MCM.  The messages were identical:- “Would you two like to swap your curves for our phones for a week or so, just so you can get some sleep,”  These kids knew exactly what buttons to press.  We messaged our equally identical answers in unison
“We'd be mad if we didn't!”

Ever get these phone calls?

“Good day Sir, how are you?”
“Gnnnrhhhhh?”
“My name is Unpro Noun Sybil, and I'm calling from Sumin Tan Jibell place in Hong Kong to talk to you about investments,”
“Yuh?plnnndrutyhfwwd? Wha'?”
“Have I got you at a bad time sir?”
“Huh?  Ummmm well has er….three o'clock in the morning ever been a good time?”
“Well sir, our sales team are currently speaking to key business people in your area and….”
“What did they say?”
“Er… who sir?”
“The locksmiths.  When you phoned them at three in the morning?”
“No, sir, as I say we have been speaking to key business people in your area, of which you have been identified as one, and we…”
“Who identified me?”
“I'm not sure I follow you sir?”
“Who identified me as a key business person, so that you could call me at this time.  I need to know because I need to go and punch them. Right now.”
“No sir, your name came up on a list of key business people… er… in your area.”
“And what area is that?”
“Pardon sir?  It's YOUR area…”
“Yes but if you tell me I have been identified as a key business person in my area  then you should know what area that is… surely?”
“Do you not know where you live sir?”
“I do.  But you clearly don't. Anyway the answer to your earlier question is yes.”
“Oh, so you wish to invest in one of our portfolios?”
“No.  I mean YES  you have got me at a bad time. But NO, I don't want to invest in anything.  Good night  where-ever you are!”
CLICK
“Good - day  sir. How - are - you?”
“Er fine thankyou.  Who is calling?”
“My  name - is - Sum  - Wat - Hannoying, - and - I'm - calling - from  Sumin - Tan Jibell - place - in  - Hong  - Kong, - following - up - on - my - colleague's - call - to - you a - few - days -ago.”
“Look, I know I'm in Africa, but English is my first language  so you can speak normally.  PLEASE speak normally!”
“Thank you sir.  As I was saying, my colleague mentioned that you were ready to sign up for investment in our portfolio, and that I should just sort out the finer details… Could I have your full name and credit card number please?”
“I'm afraid not.  Sorry to say this but I think your colleague may have misunderstood me during the last call.  It was at three in the morning, so apologies if I was a little vague.  Perhaps 'I don't want to invest in anything' could have been misinterpreted as 'Yes I'd love to invest in your portfolio.' ? But let me correct my obvious mistake by telling you now:-  NO I AM DEFINITELY NOT INTERESTED! PLEASE GO AWAY AND LEAVE ME ALONE! Does that clear things up?”
“I see sir, well I must admit I'm sensing a bit of hesitation in your voice regarding your investment, perhaps I can put your mind at ease.  You see I have inside information regarding the American Stock Exchange that is extremely hot at the moment  so hot in fact that you won't find it on any website or in any financial paper.  It looks like the return is going to be incredibly high, and well worth your while.  The investment levels are tiered to suit your account,.  Were you thinking of joining as a business or as an individual?”
“Actually I WASN'T THINKING OF JOINING AT ALL. Sigh.  Look, the truth is, if you have to know, I have no money to invest.   Nothing. Zip. Zero. So you really are wasting your time here.  Thank you SO MUCH anyway for thinking of me as a key business person, and for somehow believing that I have any form of money to invest, but as I may have mentioned earlier I am not interested in, nor can I  afford, to invest in your portfolio, no matter how good an idea it might be.”
“Well I'm glad you agree that it would be a good idea sir.  But correct me if I am wrong  what you are saying is that you are a little nervous about potential bad investment, and you don't want to lose your savings on something that's not definite.  Well sir, once again, may I allay your fears.  This will undoubtedly bring you at least a 50% return and, let me tell you I'm putting our reputation on the line here,  I can GUARANTEE that you will not lose money.  I can GIVE YOU MY WORD.  Now what other company would be able to provide such solid assurances?”
“Well if you are prepared to give your word I don't know how anyone could resist. But be that as it may, I cannot take part. Perhaps I need to draw you a mental diagram.  Are you holding a pen?”
“Yes sir,”
“Please put it down.  Ok, now tell me, what is in your hand?”
“Nothing sir,”
“Right.  Now imagine your hand is my bank account.  Do you get the idea?”
“Ah sir, I see…. What I'm hearing is that to start off with you would like to enter at the lower end, until you see some reasonable return, then and only then you may be prepared to increase your investment?  Well the good news is sir that we have allowed for exactly that in our Silver Partner agreement.  It kicks off with a small investment of anything between 10 000 dollars and 50 000 dollars and I'm sure you will find that it no ti….”
“Sorry to interrupt, but what was your name again?”
“Sum Wat.  Sum Wat Hannoying, but…”
 “Ok Sum Wat.  Would you mind awfully keeping your mouth shut, just for a few seconds so that I can draw you another mental picture?”
“That's fine sir, we pride ourselves on answering the needs of our custome…”
“Shut up Sum Wat.  Thank you. Right, now pick up your pen again.  Are you holding it?”
“Er yes sir,”
“Have you got some paper in front of you?”
“uh huh,”
“Good. Now write down the letters N and O a few times, just so you get the hang of it.  Perhaps even do it once or twice with your eyes closed, got it?”
“Yes Sir, but I…”
“Ok. Next, place the sharp end of your pen into your ear -  not the one near the phone, because I need to instruct you a bit more - then push it in as far as possible. Now see if you can write the same letters on your eardrum. Can you do that?”
“No sir,”
“Yes that's right.  Write NO.  ”
“Er No sir, I can't do that. It hurts.”
“Keep trying.  Push harder if you need to.”
“Sir, I think I have to go now… er… my boss is calling me…”
“That's fine. But Sum Wat - will you do me a favour?”
“Yes sir?”
“Will you cross me off the list of Key Business People in the area?”
“Most definitely sir, I'll tick the box that says “Client uncertain.”

Only in Sedgefield.

So this elderly Scottish lady comes in with a list of things she wants to advertise for sale.

When she’s gone our designer brings me the list and says “hey – there’s an ‘Air-cooler’ here- says as new – for R350.”

Knowing our offices (the designer’s in particular) get very, VERY hot I said “Go catch the lady and ask her to bring it in – maybe we can buy it if it’s suitable.”

The lady and her husband brought it to the counter about ½ hour later, I was talking to someone else in the reception area at the time so I turned to take the thing as her husband lifted it over the counter, suggesting that they leave it with us so that I could test it.

She was most distraught at the idea.

“That’s ridiculous,” she brayed in her deepest Highland accent, “I told you it was brand new.  Why on earth do you need to test it?”

Quite thrown by her angry outburst I turned to the guy I had been talking to and asked him if he would excuse me for a second or two. I had a good look at the ‘cooling machine’ - it was covered in dust and not in any box or anything – though it did have the instruction booklet taped to the top.  It certainly hadn’t just come ‘off the shelf’ – unless it was the shelf at the back of her garage.

I carried it to the designer’s office and quickly glanced at the instructions – When I read ‘Unscrew the back panel and place ice in the tray, then open the water hatch and pour in water…” etc etc I realized this wasn’t a quick job.  So I went back out to the reception and once again said to the now-seething lady –

“Please, we would like to test it – then if it’s ok and does the job we’ll buy it.  Can we call you later?”  Her husband (sensing a storm?) nodded in agreement, but she strutted out the office saying loudly to him  that we were being totally unreasonable and inappropriate.

I couldn’t believe how upset she was that we wanted to test the thing – it’s second hand for goodness sake!

  So we did the unscrewing of back panel, put in ice, added water, plugged it in and a faint, cool breeze emanated from its belly…. But that’s how it stayed, very faint…. And just a little bit cool.  We closed the office windows and doors and left it on for ½ an hour, then went back in and… no difference.  Closer study of the machine (we had to be doing something wrong) found the words ‘humidifier’ at the top.  Actually we should have seen it earlier – it was quite big – but perhaps our brains had been befuddled by the Haggissual outburst.

We read the instruction book again – but no, we were obeying even the small print (for a man that’s quite a victory).

So being the man of the office I bravely instructed the designer to phone the lady, suggesting that she be diplomatic and merely state that the machine wasn’t suitable for our office.

This is how the conversation went.

Designer: “Hello ma’am, I’m calling from The EDGE.  We have tested your machine but I’m afraid it isn’t suitable – perhaps our offices are too big for it to be effective?  Any way, we won’t be buying it.”

Woman: (in a Northern Gaelic dialect) “So you’ve used it?”

Designer: “Er yes, we  tested it.  It worked ma’am,  but it’s just not…”

Woman: “So you’ve used it, you turned it on….now what?  We were selling it as new – now it’s used isn’t it?”

Designer: “Well we TESTED it.  We had to TEST it and it ISN’T Suitable”

The woman slammed the phone down.

Hang on… they’re here.  This story is running live!

Ok, a few seconds ago she and her (poor, poor, poor, poor) husband came to fetch it.  Our designer tried to meet them at the counter but found it impossible to stifle her laughter, so she blurted a quick “bewithyounow” and rushed to call me.

She (the designer) had done the phoning so I thought I would handle the ‘hand over’.  As I lifted the machine over the counter – explaining (again) that it wasn’t quite suitable for us - the Scotswoman (still visibly seething) waited until her (poor, poor, poor, poor, poor, poor, poor) husband had it in his clutches before she went in for the kill.

“Aaah Wooood Jis leeek ta tal ya thut aah feel yuh huf teekin advuntuge o’ us,” she said (I would just like to tell you that I feel you have taken advantage of us). 

“I beg your pardon?” I said, raising my right eyebrow quizzically (I’ve seen Steve Austin do it  in ‘Bionic Man’ – it works well for those ‘I know I’m not going to believe your answer’ moments)

“It wis nee, nay ut’s nogcht!” (It was new, now it’s not) (ok, so I added the ogcht for poetic license) (sorry, I haven’t got the time to keep referring to my Anglo-Hebridean Dictionary, so I’ll stick to English now.)

She continued “The fact (now you see why I didn’t want to write in Gaelic) that it doesn’t work for your office is not our fault!” she hissed “You can’t buy something from a second hand shop then take it back when you’ve tested it.”

“Er actually ma’am, I think you are being a little unfair,” I answered (not very butch I agree, but she is a shade older than me) “If I buy anything second hand, I will test it. That’s what people do, It’s common prac…”

By this time her husband was sort of half humming half muttering a non-committal mmm mmm mmm thing which I believe he hoped I would find sympathetic and she would find to be in full moral support of her anger.  He was also trying to edge towards the door, though his eyes being firmly focused on the ground made it difficult to find the way, so he kept walking into the window like one of those remote control cars hitting an obstacle over and over again.

She wasn’t finished.  “Oh I see!” She blurted, sensing imminent victory, “So your telling me  if you buy a second hand bed or something, you’d test it?  Is that what you’re saying?”

“Er, yes.  Actually I would. I’d lie on it .. I think,” I answered.

She launched into a long diatribe about thanking her lucky stars she wasn’t married/connected/joined at the hip to me – or something, and she left .

There is no quirky end to this tale.  No rounding off conclusion.  It just happened.  Today. 

All I can say is that though we have always known Sedgefield has more than its fair share of strange people… I hadn’t realized they were IMPORTING THEM!

Valentine's Day.  Hmmm.  Wasn't it supposed to have been fun?  Wasn't it the day when we were supposed to throw caution to the wind and confess our undying love for those whom we have secretly admired from afar?  (And no, I'm not talking about the incident with the telescope.  I should remind you that I was actually acquitted of that charge due to lack of evidence, and Miss Wothering-Smythe - the one with the small tattoo of the Taj Mahal on her lower back - has moved to another town).... (and, apparently, changed her name)… (she obviously owed money).

So where was I ?  Yes, Valentines day.  Or, as Mrs Ed started calling it 10 years ago 'Safety Boots Day'… but that's another story altogether.  (Her fault for suggesting I get her something 'black and lacy' to wear on Valentine's night)

So this year Valentines Day came and went in our household, and I must confess it was a day that was memorable, though for all the wrong reasons. Why?  Let me explain.

You see, this may come as a surprise to you but we are broke.  Stony broke. Al is klaar Kommissar. We are the king and queen of the cash-less society.  Have you ever heard an ATM machine laugh? Follow me and I'll show you….

The thing is, between the Christmas presents,  the twenty- seven-month-long December school holidays (when children believe we are their own personal ATM), the heat-wave (which necessitated liquid intake at a much higher daily rate), and the coming home to roost of some rather desperate rolling of December/Jan bills, we found ourselves starting February in a very precarious position.  My Bank manager wants me to go for a medical…. daily….  And I KNOW that's him parked outside my house every night, watching us… because I recognized the sobbing sound from when I visited his office for the last over-draft extension meeting….

So what does one do when one is broke and Valentine's Day is approaching?  Of course - one cuts a deal with one's spouse.  But this is where men and women differ.

(NB As I know many couples may have had similar conversations, I will suggest that both partners read the following dialogue.  The men should just read the underlined 'speech' sections, but I know women prefer more than just headlines, so to keep it exciting for them I have also filled in a few descriptive lines stolen from the Mills and Boon romance novel I found under the deep freeze when we decided to defrost it… because it was empty)

“So,” I said, looking deep into her eye (they are a bit far apart to look deep into both at the same time, especially from close up) “That's agreed. This Valentine's day I won't buy anything for you, and you won't buy anything for me?” 

She crossed the room and stood against the open window, staring out into the rolling hills of her father's estate as she searched for a meaning, a reason for the pain that lurked deep within her soul.

“Yes,” she replied easily, belying her inner turmoil as the light breeze gently riffled through her sun-kissed locks. “Yes, that's fine.”

“But let's get this clear,” I  uttered, choking back the pent up frustration that years of living a secret life had left boiling violently under the surface of my seemingly innocent demeanour, “That means NOTHING.. Not even a small trinket?” (these days 1x small trinket = 3 loaves bread in Rand Value). Through the tears that I knew would never flow freely, I noticed that she was gently, seemingly thoughtlessly, rubbing a small scar behind her left shoulder, and I wondered whether she would ever tell me what had happened.  I somehow sensed that the scars on her heart were so much deeper.

She turned around, breaking the moment in a flurry of decisiveness. “Of course.  I understand. We are broke. No Valentine's presents. Please don't treat me like an Idiot,” she stated matter-of-factly, striding across the room to the door . She paused briefly as she left, not turning round, but perhaps wanting to say something, then deciding against it.  Would I ever know?  Would I ever see her again?.......

Ok, back to reality.  So we cut a deal.  Simple really isn't it?  Makes sense, doesn't it?...  Do you know I can actually feel all the men nodding as I type this.  And all the women storming out the room.  (No I'm not saying that 'This column was typed in front of a live studio audience', I'm just using my imagination)

The question is, do such deals work?  

Ah…. I hear a resounding “NO!” from absolutely everyone, men and women -  and hang on,  there's a brave little fellow at the back who has the courage to add “Because the women always break the deal!” (I'm sorry sir, whilst I thank you for stating the obvious  I fear that your spouse may wish to remove your head from your shoulders when you get home.)

Mrs Ed presented me with a small chocolate and a cold shoulder on Valentine's morning.  I, of course, had nothing to offer her, though I did try -  perhaps passing her the rather battered copy of 'Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition' that just happened to be lying next to my bed wasn't a good call.

“But we made a deal!'  I reasoned as she harrumphed down the stairs.

“If I'd known small chocolates were allowed I definitely would have got you something…” I  shouted as I heard her slam the kitchen door….

“I'll buy you something at the supermarket later today!” I whimpered out the bathroom window as the creak of the front gate sounded her exit. 

Too little too late.

Apparently it's the thought that counts, and 'I thought we cut a deal' doesn't qualify.

Of course a day which starts like that - especially being a Monday -  can only get better, can't it?

As the average teenager would surmise “NOT!”

I now truly believe that electronic equipment is female.  Worst still it can sense the emotions of it's human counterparts.  I have proof.  On the morning of Valentines Day, just when I entered The EDGE offices silently wishing things might start getting cheerier, our main computer's hard drive obviously got wind of my Valentine failure, and in some strange allegiance to Mrs Ed, it crashed.  It wouldn't talk to anyone.  Though I didn't know machines could portray emotion, this was the closest thing to slamming the bedroom door and saying 'Just leave me alone' that I've ever seen performed by what I previously thought was an inanimate object. 

We all knew she was in there, sobbing to herself that the 12 loyal years of Newspaper stored in her disk obviously meant nothing to me, but no amount of coaxing would persuade her to talk, never mind unlock the door. After  a while we got the specialist in - the 'drive whisperer' .  He psycho-analysed  her for a few hours, before shaking his head in despair.

 “I don't know what you did to make her behave like this” he said, “but I'm not getting through at all.  I'm afraid I'll have to take her home for the night and see what we can do.”

It wasn't long before the Internet Modem realized what was going on, and she too began sulking.   “You men are obviously all the same,” her green 'disconnected' light blinked at me.

The office was chaos.  No 'mainframe', no  internet, and of course, popping out to buy Mrs Ed a little something, just to make up, totally slipped my mind. 

By the time I got home even the stove had joined the sulking sisterhood.  It thwarted my attempts of making-peace-by-making-dinner, by burning everything to a crisp.

Mrs Ed eventually did talk to me.  Just after midnight she said “Come out from behind the curtains, and get into bed.” Nothing meaningful but at least the silence was broken.

And our hard drive?   It took two days but the disk-whisperer finally managed to get her back to her former self. I asked what had gone wrong but he couldn't explain.  To be honest I think he got his wife to chat to her.

He'd be mad if  he didn't!