How to win an argument... please tell me?

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You would think that after so many years I would have learned everything about Mrs ED, and that I would at least be winning just the OCCASIONAL battle in the marriage of war we compete in. 
 
But I don't.

In fact I'm not sure if I have EVER won an argument with her.  Oh don't get me wrong,  I have been proven right, often.  More often than the numerical keys on this keyboard can calculate, in fact. But that does not mean that I have won by any sense of the word.  No, I realise that now.  When it comes to arguing with Mrs Ed I am destined to find myself snapping defeat from the jaws of victory at the last second, every time.

You see, she plays by different rules to me, rules that I can scarcely fathom, and if I even get close to doing so, she simply changes them. 

For the sake of simplification, let's call my rules EARTH rules, and her's OGLE-05-390Lb rules.  (Just in case any of you skipped that particular science lesson, OGLE-05-390Lb is a planet 20 000 light years away from the Earth.  Such is the space between my rules and Mrs Ed's.)

Am I making sense? Probably not, so let me give an example.  Are you sitting comfortably?  More importantly, are you sitting with a reasonable amount of space (it doesn't have to be 20 000 light years) between your spouse and yourself? Good.  Let's see what you think of this -  if you feel the need to comment, please do so one at a time.  No domestic disputes thank you very much. 

Here we go….

Mrs Ed and I are dropping someone at the airport, after which we understandably drive out the terminal car park to begin our journey home.  As we get to the intersection Mrs Ed says “Go left.”

Which is wrong.

Now I should point out here that I have, on a rare occasion, got us lost before.  Ok, perhaps it happens fairly often.  Sometimes even in Sedgefield Village, which only has about four roads and a cycle track. So I am the first to admit that I haven't been blessed with the absolute BEST sense of direction. This is also something that Mrs Ed points out to absolutely everyone she has ever known, and many that she hasn't.  Indeed regaling her husband's idiocy on the roads is the soul base of her small-talk at parties.  BUT having said that, I do know my way home from the airport, and it's not left. 

I also know that ignoring Mrs Ed is not healthy, especially when she has that glint of violence in her good eye.

So I do not proceed, I merely state, quite quietly, that it's right, not left.  She firmly disagrees. A bit of banter ensues, much to the delight of our children.  Apparently listening to your parents spouting
“Left.”
    “Right”
“Left.”
    “Right”
“Left.”
    “Right”
“Left.”
   “Right”
“Left.”
    “Right”
“Left.”
    “Right”
is absolutely, flippin' hilarious.

Eventually, after my son The REE (Resident Expert on Everything) has quipped
“If you two don't stop this bickering I'll take both of you out the car and give you a damned good hiding” I gun the engine and turn right -  that's the advantage of being the one behind the wheel, you get to override any dubious steering suggestions made by anyone else in the car.

And I am correct.  Soon we get to the next intersection which takes us onto the N2, so we can head home.
 
I am correct.  Did you get that?

I sit back and sigh, happily.  Like any sane person playing by Earth rules, I do not gloat over my supreme correctness. I do not give voice to even one of the gazillion 'I told you so!'s rushing happily around my head.  I just hum a little ditty to myself and wait for the obvious next step.  The apology.  The “Oh my word, how silly of me!  Of COURSE it's right, how could I have been so ridiculously foolish?”

Obvious in Earth rules.  Not for those using those formulated on OGLE-05-390Lb.  No apology is forthcoming.  Or fifth.  Or sixth. What do I get?  Wait for it. This is good, men - though perhaps you should move a little further from your other halves.

I get blessed with: “Well if you took me shopping a little more often I might just know my way around a bit better.”
  Did you see that?  Did you see what she's done?  Suddenly the “Ed vs Ed, Airport to Home Directions” case has been tossed out of court as 'undecided', despite the evidence in my favour, and with a click of her tobacco-stained teeth we've switched over to another argument, the ongoing “Why don't you like shopping with me?” case which she KNOWS she will win. 

OGLE-05-390Lb one point, Earth nil. 

The Switch.  It's lethal, and you really cannot see it coming.  Sometimes there isn't even a connection between the 'switched' and the 'switched to'. 

Me:- “So you just rushed out and left the tap running all day, I can't believe you did that!”
She:- “Well Betty says HER husband takes her out for lunch at least once a week!”

OGLE-05-390Lb seven points, Earth minus five.

“You spent HOW MUCH on the credit card? For PLANTS?”
“Well when was the last time YOU cooked dinner?”

OGLE-05-390Lb four hundred points, Earth… oh I'm not playing any more.

Why would I want to?  I just don't have the correct tools. I'm the one who rushed out to buy a Blackberry phone because I heard it had a 'Voice Recognition' application.  Why?  Because I'm no good at it.  Voice recognition. 

For example, when a party host says to us
“Don't go now, stay for another beer!”
and Mrs Ed looks at me and says something along the lines of
“It's up to you.”
I take it as, well, up to me. 
WRONG! If I had a built-in Voice Recognition app I would recognise it as her 'Don't even think about it unless you want two days of angry silence' voice.  But I just can't get it right (nor can my Blackberry, by the way). 

Mrs Ed's 'calamity' voice is the one that throws me the most.  She has a particular 'Woe is me, disaster has befallen'  intonation which, to my underdeveloped Earth ear, sounds like a 'one size fits all' bad news voice. 

 In other words I've heard her use exactly the same tone for
“I forgot to buy milk”
as she has for
“The Sherriff's come round and taken the car and all our furniture”. 

You can imagine this would be quite disconcerting at times.  I remember once we were standing in the driveway and she suddenly put her hand to her forehead and blurted
“The couch! THE COUCH ON THE VERANDAH! WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO?”
“WHAT?” I screamed, quickly glancing around in the desperate hope of finding either
a) a hose to put out the fire that was obviously engulfing the old, patched up couch, soon to raze our entire home to nowt but ashes, or
b) a weapon to fight off the hordes of bloodthirsty pygmies which had obviously been gathering forces under the cushions prior to launching this final, merciless, throat-slitting attack on our family....
I grab Mrs Ed, wrapping my arms as far around her as possible to shield her from whatever danger was about to befall us, and I hear her voice, muffled against my chest
“I just don't like it there anymore.  It's gathering dust and dog hair.”

This, of course, gets me into more trouble. Because now, as a rule, I tend to err on the 'not urgent' side. Like yesterday, as I was driving off to work I stopped next to Mrs Ed to thank her for opening the gate.
“The car! THE CAR!” she exclaimed.
“Yes my love, I know. The patches of rust are getting bigger, the door's hanging a bit, and we need new tyres.  But we just don't have the money at the moment, really.  If you think we still have hostel fees and school fees and bottle sto…”
“YOU'VE PARKED IT ON MY FOOT, YOU IDIOT!”

OGLE-05-390Lb one million points, Earth an old, vrot naartjie.
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What have I achieved today?

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I'm sorry about this week's article having very minimal content. You see I've been very busy.... achieving absolutely nothing.

Strange, but true, I'm afraid.  And it's not by choice.  I don't PLAN to achieve nothing.  I always AIM to get loads of things done, written, designed, managed, created, etc etc

But some days there's just no…..  Excuse me......

“Hello? Yes. This is the editor speaking, How can I help you sir?... Sorry MADAM… How can I….. Oh I see.  You have a problem with your neighbour's vicious Rottweiler?  Barking?  All day? My goodness that must be terrible for you ma'am.  Yes I understand.  Days of Our Lives? Yes I agree that's not good enough. It can't be easy watching TV whilst your neighbour's dog is barking non-stop.  22b Hyacinth Close. No, ma'am I cannot come and take a photograph of the dog… or your neighbour.  Pardon me? First it was the overhanging tree, now it's the dog?  No, I must admit, I can't hear it barking through the phone… yes… I'm listening… no I still can't hear… No I am NOT deaf ma'am.  Ok I'll try the other ear... Sorry still nothing I'm afraid.  Perhaps if you…OUCH!!!! WOW THAT IS LOUD! Does it really bark like that all day?   … oh  that was YOU barking… like the dog…. So I could tell what it's like… no please don't do it ag… OUCH! Madam PLEASE STOP BARKING AT ME!  I think I get the idea now, but I still cannot come and take… Your husband? No I don't think I need to speak to… Hello sir. Yes, I gather so… a dog…. On and on and on, yes…. It's madness, on and on and on,  all day long….on and on and on and...  Are we still talking about the dog sir?  Oh good.  And have you asked your neighbour to put it away?  No?  I see, you don't want to be on bad terms with them?  But you think I should take a picture and publish it, to stop the dog barking?  I see sir.  Oh… and you want me to keep your name out of it sir.  Absolutely sir.  Ooh, hang on, the line is going funny… perhaps it's the noise of the dog……..”

  Where was I?  Ah yes, I was achieving nothing.  Nada. Nix. Nil.  It has simply been one of those days when you can't …. Pardon?  Call for me?
“Hello?  How can I help you? Yes I am sitting down. Mmmm, I do have a pen… yes and paper.  Who is speaking please?  Oh.  You wish to remain anonymous.  Ok.  What is the problem sir?  No I promise I cannot trace your call.  Yes, no police involvement, I have got that.  Sir?  SIR! I cannot understand you properly if you whisper.  Please repeat that.  No I will not show my notes to anyone.  Yes, alone.  Promise.  No-one else in my office at all. The door IS shut sir. Oh, that's just the radio sir. Yes.  Promise.  Now, could you repeat what you said please?  Pardon?..... Sir, do you perhaps have your handkerchief over the mouthpiece?  No I do not have voice recognition on my computer sir.  Once again I promise.   Ok…… go ahead….. mmmmm, ……. I see…….. …………………… …………………………………………….……………………………………………………  I see.  If I could just check that back with you sir?:- What you are saying is that the speed humps on the Island are not built to the exact CSIR regulatory standards?  Two centimetres too high?  As much as that eh? And the wrong angle…… Well, sir, I am so very glad you have let me know.  I am going to take this tip-off directly to our Inferior Roads Investigation reporter, and ask if he and his team can look into it.  Absolutely sir.  Heads will roll.   Thank you sir….goodbye.”

Have you ever had such a day?  I'm sure you have.  No sooner have you sat down to try and get some work don….. Yes? Who is here to see me?  Does he have an appointment?  Oh dear....It's just that I'm trying to get some work done…. Ok  I'll see him, but if I am not done in twenty minutes call me on my cell phone alright?

“Oh helloooo, it's so nice to see you again.  Yes, not since last year when you came to visit Sedgefield.  Oh a holiday again?  Yes it is nice here isn't it…. Sorry, what was your name again?  Oh yes, Mrs Schnickkelgruber, of course I remember now.  Well thank you so much for popping in and seeing us, it has…. Oh pictures of your grandchildren?  How many? Twelve? That's so nice.  Mmmmm . And this is the oldest……………… ……………………………………………………………………………………And (finally) this is your dog?  What a nice looking fellow he is Mrs Schnucklegrinder…. Oh  I'm so sorry!  I really didn't know.  Three months ago… well I'm sure it will get easier as time passes… 'Kennel in the sky' and that sort of thing?  Oh dear,  would you like a tissue? Yes that is old for a Labrador.  Bowel failure?  Oh … and it…. Ooh! That must have been….. Oh well Mrs Schnafflebearer, it was wonderful to see you again  I am so sorry to cut you short but as you can hear my cell phone is ringing …..”

 Hello? Thanks for doing that I thought I was going to be kept busy for….  Oh it's you again ma'am.  I see.  You have your cell phone by the fence so I can hear the dog barking.  Yes I think I can hear it now….. It sounds like a small dog …. Pardon?  If it's not the neighbour's dog then…? Oh it's YOUR dog, barking at the dog next door.  But the neighbour's dog has a more annoying bark.  Ok I see.  No, I haven't changed my mind about the picture… sorry… I can't hear….it seems you are breaking up…….”

Really, I have barely had time to even turn on  my computer all day.  It has been a madhou….  Yes?! Did I not say hold my calls? I didn't?  Well I thought it I'm sure.  Ok put her through…..

“Can I hel………….. I'm SO sorry that you are so disappointed with us ma'am. Oh?  Sorry isn't good enough?  Well I'm sorry about that too.  Pray do tell -  what particular evil did we perpetrate this time? Ma'am I can't hear if you shout, it distorts the phone.  You say we spent your doctor's game thong? I don't under….. OH! We spelled your daughter's name wrong.  I am so sorry. I do apologise, sincerely, from the bottom of our entire staff's collective heart. Could you enlighten me as to which article this tragic literary abomination appeared?  I see, let me check…. I have it in front of me now  … it says “Pictured left are Girl Guides  Rita Hopwith, Shirley Templeman  and Harriet Grizwold receiving their badges..” Oh… Shirlea is it.  With an 'a'.  Yes ma'am I understand that we got it wrong. No, no birth certificate needed at all.  I accept the blame.  Wholeheartedly.  I was wrong.  I was erroneous. I was a bad, bad, BAD editor.  Heads will roll, ma'am.  We don't let an 'a' instead of a 'y' go unpunished in this newspaper.  I will go and plug in the electric chair and sharpen the meat hooks immediately.  Pardon Ma'am? A printed apology in the next paper? Do you really think that necessary?  Of course you do.  Yes, I can only imagine  the anguish we have caused.  Mmmmm, HUGE repercussions. I don't know how she can possibly carry on living a normal life.  Could I not perhaps just send you a picture of our proof reader torn in four by wild horses?  Yes ma'am I AM taking you seriously.  Of course.  My address? You want to talk face to face?  Well, er… that would be fine, Ma'am.  You are most welcome to pop in…22b Hyacinth Close … HYACINTH  yes, like the flower - and don't mind the dog, his bark is worse than his bite…. You can just come right in and give him a big old hug….Yes ma’am, a hug...
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MY WIFE'S BURNING DESIRE TO COOK

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I was thinking the other day,  that our house is quite strangely laid out, from a nasal point of view.   Sorry. That probably won't make any sense until I explain, and luckily I have a bit of time on my hands and some free space that need's filling. 

Mostly in my stomach.
  
Perhaps let me start at the very beginning (with thanks to Julie Andrews for her impeccable advice in this regard).

I mentioned, probably quite a few years back, that Mrs Ed is not a very good cook…..  Well, things have changed since then.  Indeed her non-cooking talent has gone from strength to strength.  Now she is a TERRIBLE cook.

In her defense, I should have realized there was a problem all those years ago when we first got married. I looked deep into her good eye, clasping her hands in mine across the packing-case-used-as-a-diningroom-table and uttered those three magical words ….
“What's for dinner?”
Of course she lovingly replied with three special words of her own
“You tell me.”

It's gone down hill from there.

She tries to cook, but the strange thing is that because of how the rooms are situated in our home, we can only smell the carnage she is currently smouldering in the oven when we go upstairs to my kids' bedroom.  Needless to say, neither of my children like to hang out there when Mrs Ed is involved in any sort of culinary prowess - the smoke inhalation is just too uncomfortable for them.
Seriously.  You know it's bad when your teenage children sign a petition… along with 27 of their friends… and the neighbours from four houses either side.

Really.  Our poor children grew up thinking that all clothing SHOULD smell of campfire.  Indeed at age 6 my son had a very embarrassing time when he first stayed over at a friend's house.  It started when he put on his pyjamas and the boy's parents screamed and threw a bucket of water on him..  Worse yet, he came home absolutely famished the following day, having simply refused to eat the scrambled eggs they gave him for breakfast.
“Dad it was a funny yellow colour,” he explained later “Not black like it's supposed to be.”

I have a theory.  There is a saying “Those who can, do.  Those who can't, teach.” and I think this is what happened with Mrs Ed.  You see, my own mother, Mrs Ed Senior (God rest her soul), was never a good cook.  Oh she could boil.  She was very good at boiling. Boiling food is, many will say, a prerequisite for being British.  It was what the empire was built on. We ate everything boiled. 

So ‘memorable’ isn't a word that springs to mind when thinking of home-cooked (home-boiled?) meals. 

Actually there was one time when Mom served up a delicious vegetable soup.  So delicious my father remarked excitedly that it was the best he had ever tasted.
“How would one make such a delectable dish as this?” he waxed lyrically (no, he wasn't cleaning his ears).  My mother proceeded to describe how one would prepare the vegetables, dicing then spicing them before quickly sautéing to seal in the flavour. Thereafter, she continued, one would roast them for twenty minutes with a sprinkling of coriander and a dribbled dash of lemon juice, whilst preparing a vegetable stock with a subtle hint of garlic on top of the stove. This would then be all added together, stirred in the wok with pre-browned onions, then very gently blended.  The final addition of a thick dollop of  sour cream would bring out the best of flavour. 
A few minutes after this vivid description had been dished out, I happened to wander into the kitchen... where I found an empty tin of Heinz Vegetable Soup.  The instructions read 'Boil; for five minutes then serve.'  I think my mother's ability to baffle made up for any lack of culinary expertise!

So for my first few years I grew up ignorant of any alternative to boiled food. But once we had left the muddy island and relocated to African soil, I had the pleasure of tasting tidbits of other cultures' cuisine, and I realized there must, in fact, be alternative ways to prepare vegetables, eggs, mince, steak, puddings etc etc.

So when Mrs Ed and I started becoming serious (her father handed over the first envelope of money) I did not rush into any sort of proposal until I had embarked on some serious RBM (Research Before Marriage).  Can you imagine my excitement over the next few months as I sampled dish after dish of her mother's kitchen genius?

It was a dream come true!  I was about to embark on a life-long journey with, genetically speaking, a potential domestic goddess.
But remember what I said earlier?  “Those who can, do.  Those who can't, teach.” 
Mrs Ed's mother COULD.  Sadly it follows that Mrs Ed's Mother did not TEACH.  Mrs Ed, therefore, did not LEARN. 

Anything. 

About cooking.  

Not a sausage. 

Or even a well-meaning turnip.

I can't really blame her,  if I had grown up surrounded by such wonderful food I certainly wouldn't have offered to try my hand in the kitchen, it would spoil everything!

So Mrs Ed has an empty section in her brain - right around the 'Preparation of edible meals' lobe.  Actually, it's not entirely empty.
She did, after a few extensive lessons from my own mother, learn how to boil… after a fashion.  But this, I discovered later, was only to support her real passion:- Gardening.  I believe her theory is that if something is in a pot on the stove with enough water around it, it can be left to its own devices whilst she gets on with her digging, planting, pruning, trimming, replanting, fertilizing and watering. 

She's right to a degree, but even the biggest pot filled with a handful of vegetables floating on top of 20 litres of water will eventually burn dry. 
“Did no-one even notice dinner was burning?” Mrs Ed will harrumph soon after coming in from a 'quick bit of gardening' (normally about 11pm).  I rush up stairs to resuscitate any unfortunate children who may have succumbed to Cajun-Brussel-Sprout-Vapour poisoning, whilst she follows her usual 'dinner rescue recipe' :
 
1) Put the pot on outside kitchen window sill (next to other damaged pots) until it stops glowing red. 
2) Fill another pot with water. 
3) Put another handful of veggies or other unfortunate foodstuff inside. 
4) Bring to boil for three hours or until burnt (whichever comes last). 
5) Repeat process until husband gets off couch and opens can of beans.
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Mess… and rubbish....

Why is it that I am, apparently, so useless at identifying them?  That's according Mrs Ed of course.
 
You see, she believes that I am the most untidy, hoardingest (yes, she swears that word exists) person she has ever had the misfortune to meet, never mind marry.  Actually 'person' is my word.  She prefers to use 'fool'.  Or sometimes idiot.

I don't know why she lets herself get so upset over something(s) so small, but she does.  It starts quite slowly, but once she gets into that “I refuse to live in this pig sty any longer” frame of mind, well, neighbours start putting up 'for sale' signs, our dogs start howling and chewing off their address tags, and my family overseas message to ask what all the noise is about.

I would like to pause here to state, quite categorically, that we do not live in a pig sty.  Yes, there may be one or two little nooks in the house, and of course my daughter's bedroom, that may fit this description, and indeed we may even have a small population of farmyard animals dwelling somewhere under piles of clothes and empty pizza boxes, but as soon as the fumigator has visited we should be all clear for 'totally non-pigsty' status. 

It is probably equally important to point out that Mrs Ed is somewhat inclined to exaggerate.  Inclined like Kilimanjaro's uppermost slopes.  This is evident in most of our every day discussions.  (Once again, I use the word 'discussions' loosely, they are more like barked statements from her side, and muffled, non-committal, some-pretense-of-listening grumblings from mine.) 
Really.  After all this time in wedlock (funny how they use the word 'lock' - 21 years is a life sentence in some countries) I still find it quite surprising how she frivolously throws around phrases like
“WHY is it always ME that HAS to do EVERYTHING?”
 - which anyone would instantly see is an overstatement.  Just last week I switched the kettle on for coffee, AND on Sunday I cleaned the bath!  (she will insist, of course, that 'lying in a foam-filled tub for two hours, occasionally twitching a knee whilst reading a good Terry Pratchet novel' does not constitute cleaning it, but that is just a matter of her opinion of course.) 

So you can understand that when the question of 'how much rubbish she is forced to live with' comes up, I might not be the first to employ the services of a waste removal skip, or indeed burn the house down and start again (yes, she actually suggested that last week, soon after she discovered the half eaten egg roll in my son's sock drawer…. Admittedly he hasn't been home for a month or two).
  
The problem is the definition of 'Mess' and 'Rubbish'.  For example, our dining room table presents a grey area, one which catches Mrs Ed's eye as soon as she steps into our poor, unsuspecting home.
“I am sooooo sick and tired of people dumping their rubbish on the dining room table as they walk in!” she bellows at the top of her lungs.
“Oh?  Do we have a dining room table?” I ask, from a reasonably safe distance.
“YES WE DO!” she barks, not in the least appreciating my hilariously comical come-back, “AND IF IT WASN'T FOR RUBBISH LIKE THIS (she lifts up a pair of running shoes) AND THIS (a motorbike carburettor ) AND THIS (a jacket I took off in July) AND WHATEVER THIS IS (a neat stack of carefully cut bits of wood -  the start of a very clever potato-growing stand  which I fully intend to finish any year now) WE MIGHT BE ABLE TO SEE THE DARN THING!”

Now, if you have managed to reach this point without dozing off, or rushing to the nearest pub to drown our collective sorrows (mine's a Bosun's Bitter, please) you may be forgiven for thinking that my good wife has a point. 

Pray, do read on.

“Ahhhh,” I say, the inflection depending on whether
a) I am merely considering a carefully crafted answer, or
b) she has actually crossed the kitchen floor and struck me across the scalp with the carburettor.
“Ahhhhh…. And what about the… er … other stuff….?”

Honestly, you have to admire my courage.

The 'other stuff', in case you were wondering, is all Mrs Ed's.  Which is why it escapes the “Mess/Rubbish” labels, of course.   It includes pots of paint, bits of canvas, tubes of oils, brushes, bottles of thinners, paint-spattered palettes, old newspaper… and that's just on the 'north quadrant' of this glorious 'Oh how wonderful it will be to eat meals together' piece of furniture. The other sections of wonderful oak veneer (aside from the three square centimeters occupied by my 'rubbish') are covered with a deep crust of magazines, several handbags (overflowing), half a dozen scarves, pens, pencils, crayons, books, gardening gloves, knitting needles, some sort of crochet kit and a basket full of apparently important hair accessories. 
“What of it?” challenges my dearly beloved. 
“It's a load of absolute trash, which has no other place but the bin, along with 90% of the other stuff you leave all over the place. The fact that you haven't checked yourself into the Home for Demented Housekeepers is beyond belief and quite frankly I'm thinking of having you committed!” I respond telepathically. Fortunately she doesn't pick up this mental message, only my verbal reply which is slightly less detailed:
 “Uhhhh,…. Oh.”

And so it is in every room in our house.  Take our bedroom for example.  On any day one will only find the smallest, neatest pile of goods next to my side of the bed.  Three novels. One untouched self help book entitled 'Men are from Mars, Women are just Nutcases'.  A  Yamaha DT Workshop manual opened up to the 'Carburettor' Section.  Five odd takkies ( used to 'discourage' Mrs Ed's putrid pooch from climbing onto our bed).  A  clock radio with extra large snooze button.  And a heavy wooden knobkerrie in case of break ins (I use it to prod Mrs Ed awake so she can go downstairs and investigate.)

 But cross over to 'The Dark Side” (I call it that because the mountain of mess actually blocks the light from the bedroom window) and you will see something entirely different next to HER side of the bed. 

Apart from the mangled heap of open magazines, there is a flotsam and jetsam of books -   anything from 'Mills and Boon- The Steamy Selection' to 'The ABC of Life Insurance Claims' to 'The Art of Course Brick-laying' to 'A Compendium of Untraceable Poisons”. 

Amongst these are a dozen crumb-filled sideplates, a clinking cacophony of coffee cups, layers of 'just in case hell freezes over' pajamas, carrybags of make-up and face creams, a hairdryer, another hairdryer,  curlers,  a veritable pharmacy of pill boxes and capsule jars, and, of course, 27 half rolls of toilet paper.

Yet this morning, once again, I woke up to find a distraught Mrs Ed popping a war dance about the 'unnacceptable pile of rubbish' that is mine.
“How can you let it get like that?” she sobbed “I can't live with such chaos any longer,  I'm going to HAVE to call in the family for an intervention!”

Luckily I was stunned to silence, so we were able to hear the muffled whimper coming from somewhere underneath the rubble on her side of the room. It seemed our daughter has been sucked in through a portal in the cosmo magazines…..
“Mmmm mommy?” she whispered “About that intervention.....  Could it be today?"

Confessions of a Sack-Race Specialist

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It wasn't meant to be like this.

Really.  I had plans, BIG plans.

You see I wasn't ever meant to be a somewhat podgy, forty something, slightly (very slightly) balding, small-village resident, collapsed in an armchair on a Saturday afternoon suffering cramp-induced agony that has found its way to all far corners of my body (did you know you could get cramp in your toenails?). 

No really.  I wasn't.  I was going to be a famous sporting personality.  Exceptionally famous.  People were going to talk about me  IN A NICE WAY, not in that nasty “Do you see who fell asleep on the tavern floor again on Monday?” sort of fashion, but NICELY.

Oh the plans, the plans.  Have they come to nought?

My mother, Mrs Ed  Senior, had no problem recognizing my potential.  Right from an early age she had me pegged as something special.  I mean that literally.  Being the youngest of four, she found that suspending me from the washline was the perfect way to keep me out of mischief whilst she fed and cleaned up after the rest of them. 

But it seemed even then she knew I was destined for greatness.  I still have vivid memories of the first time she threw me into the public swimming pool.  Knowing full well that I had the makings of an Olympic swimmer, she told her friends “Watch 'im go, 'e's like a fish I tell ya!”

Perhaps she meant a 'bottom feeder'… or a crab or a lobster… or anything else that crawls around in a mad panic on the ocean floor with a rapidly blue-ing complexion.  In my defense we were living in England at the time, so it probably would have been more impressive if she had waited until Summer, at least I would have turned four by then.
 
But Mrs Ed (Senior) didn't give up.  Oh no. If I remember correctly she was always looking for ways to test my abilities, to discover my 'thing' - that which would make me famous!

I think I was barely five when she started dropping me off at distant points in the village without bus fare.  One minute we'd be walking around some market or shop, and the next she'd be gone, and I knew I'd have to start running. Such was her conviction that I would one day be a long distance runner. 

But alas, it seems she was alone in her faith in my sporting potential.  Going to school in Zambia then later Zimbabwe, it was quite remarkable how all my teachers failed to notice any early signs of my athletic prowess. 

Do they not look for such things?  Are they not trained to watch closely for any future Olympians attending the school? 
 
You would think that after achieving an exceptionally good 'third' in the sack race on 5 July 1972 (I still have the certificate framed above the mantelpiece) they would have had some idea, especially when I would have come second if I hadn’t had to make a slight detour to avoid a collision with Mickey 'The Bogey' Bigwither.

In fact if I think carefully of how often I was 'overlooked' in the school sporting arena, I would surely be forgiven for suspecting skullduggery of sorts.  Perhaps a father of some slightly less talented sports' protégé orchestrating my failure so that his child could shine? 

Why else would I always be the one picked last when rounders teams were chosen at break time?  Why else was I the only boy chosen to run in the house girls 'c' relay team to make up numbers?  Or the only one who, after the first swimming session, got a doctor's note to excuse me from all future water sports… forged by the PE teacher himself?

Looking back it seems the school staff were going out of their way to ensure my full sporting potential was never brought to the fore. 

Admittedly, there was a flurry of excitement in my early teens when I proudly reported to my parents that I had been made captain of the Under 13c Boys  rugby team. 
“Are you sure?” enthused my father in a most congratulatory way.
 
I'm proud to say that we never lost a match… but that was probably because we never played one.  Our coach, in one of his rare sober moments, said he would organise a game just as soon as we had a full team, but as there were only four of us regulars (including 'The Bogey', and he was more of a secret weapon than a player) this was not an easy task.
 
There was a suggestion that we recruit the members of the girls Under 13c hockey team (who were apparently suffering the same numbers problem) but this was met with a resounding “No!”
“We refuse to share the field with a bunch of screaming, giggling, unco-ordinated sissies!” the girls said.

It was the same throughout high school. Apparently I wasn't tall enough for the basketball team (though how the coach could see that through those floods of laughter-induced tears I certainly do not know), too 'big boned' for water-polo and too tortoise-like for the 400m. I could not even be considered for long jump until I at least managed to leap over the gap between the board and the sand pit, I was too dangerous for javelin (and that was just carrying the stupid spear from the equipment room to the field! I never got to throw the thing), too ungainly for gymnastics (the pommel horse surely had some sort of structural weakness BEFORE I got on it) and too cack-handed for cricket (which I was actually ok with.  Any sport that penalizes you for knocking over three bits of wood  with a backward swing when they are so foolishly planted in the ground just behind you is no game I want to play!)  It seemed EVERYONE was involved in the conspiracy.

But why is this coming to the fore now?  Why am I lamenting over my sports-victimisation all these years on?  Well, if the truth be known I am STILL determined to discover my 'Sports Thing' - to find the sport that I am good, nay, excellent at.
 
Some time ago, upon remembering my mother's efforts in dropping me off in distant places to make my own way home, I selected road-running as the most likely choice.  And this weekend, after at least half an hour of careful training and preparation, I decided to show-them-how-it's-done by running the Meiringspoort half marathon. “It's an easy race,” I thought, “All downhill, nice gentle winding roads,” .........

And now, the day after the big event, here I sit....  If the foetal position on an armchair can be considered sitting.  I can just about type six words at a time before my one good arm cramps up, but I can't really see the screen because of my cricked neck.  My back is in spasm, my thighs have had (it seems) 16 red-hot pokers driven into them, my toes have been squished by what must have been Geisha running shoes and my calves have been injected with molten tar.
So I have decided that perhaps road running is not my 'thing', and furthermore, I will take up my alternative choice just as soon as I find the Sporting Authority responsible for training the Olympic Sack Race team….

Our son got a girlfriend!

So what's she like?”
I shuddered so violently the car swerved and I almost spilled my coffee, dropped my meat pie, and misdialed on my cell phone.  I tightened my grip on the steering wheel…. with both knees.

It was Mrs Ed who was asking the question, and our 19 year old son “The REE” (Resident Expert on Everything) who was carefully circumnavigating a truthful answer.  I mentally harrumphed, knowing this conversation could have devastating results.

The REE had arrived for a two week 'vac' from college the day before, and up until then we had been playing 'happy families' quite effectively.  Until then.

He had, of course, slipped up and mentioned, in passing that he had acquired himself a girlfriend in Cape Town…

This was a bad thing.  A VERY bad thing. Bad like botulism on holiday..  You see his mother had always been convinced that other than his few (previously well-vetted and all from good stock) schoolfriends from Sedgefield who had also moved to the Mother City to study, her son would mix with absolutely no-one at all during his time there.  Indeed especially not Uitlanders* (*those living outside Sedgefield, Knysna, Wilderness and some sections of George) who would undoubtedly influence him negatively and turn him into a drug-smoking, car-stealing, pill popping delinquent overnight.

No.  Not her son. She was quite sure that as soon as he finished college he would return home,  move back into his bedroom, and remain under her wing until say, 2042 when she would allow him to marry a local girl and maybe, just maybe, move out (probably next door).

But now this had been sprung on her. A girlfriend from outside her comfort zone.
  “From Cape Town?” She gasped “Who is she?  What's she like? What does she do there? What is her family like?  Does she have a job?  What about her parents?  Does she live at home?  Where is her home?  Is she homeless? OH MY GOODNESS OUR SON'S GOING TO MARRY A STREET-CHILD PROSTITUTE!” she lathered (I had to wipe the froth from the inside of the windscreen), and I sensed a battle a-brewing.  Somehow I also sensed that it would be my fault  what ever fault it turned out to be.

That happens.

But I have to hand it to the lad, he has always been able to switch-talk his mom from peace to panic and back to peace again with such ease I would have taken lessons if they had been offered. This time was no different.
“Calm down mom, it's all ok,” he soothed .
(See what I mean?  Have you ever told YOUR wife to calm down?)  “She's a nice girl, er…. Quite normal….  Er… clever…. And yeah… she's just, urm …. Nice.” he added. Such elegant eloquence, such poetic passion - he was obviously already practicing his wedding vows. 
 
Hi mother's face receded from purple to a reasonable red, and I thought that all might blow over.  Until he added, in an almost under-the-breath whisper...
“She's in my class at college.” I immediately pulled the car over onto the hard shoulder and adopted the crash position…..

  But nothing happened.  Had Mrs Ed missed it?  I wondered how.  Her famous selective memory, perhaps?  Or maybe he had hypnotised her with his calming, charming tones….

Let me explain. On his previous visit home our son had regaled with great gusto stories of how fabulously freaky all his college classmates were, without exception.  Indeed the extended family had laughed until our sides ached and eyes crossed at his vivid descriptions of each and every character:- There was Radical Ron, whose tattoos engulfed his entire body, except for the inside bits of his nostrils,   Pierce-Me-Patty, who walked with a stoop due to metal fatigue,  Weedy Will who was not nicknamed for his physique but rather for his pipe content, Pharmacy Phil (self explanatory) and Schitzo Suzi/Sherry/Bob.  
“I'm the only normal one!” he had guffawed.  It stood to reason -  one doesn't do a course in the creative industry without being surrounded by a goodly supply of nutters.

But now one was his girlfriend.  Eish!  Which one?  Could it be Klepto Clara? Or Unsure Andrea? (I hoped not  I remembered The REE saying she had only just stopped being Andre!) Whilst wondering which category this new girlfriend fell into (or escaped out of?) I said a silent prayer that Mrs Ed would not remember the conversation of his last 'vac' and put two and three together…. And she didn't. 
  
It seems she was too worried about the girl's pedigree.  I think perhaps she was hanging on her lifetime hope that SOMEONE in our family might marry into money.
“And have you met her parents?  Are they decent people?  What's their house like? Is it big?  Is it… is it …..in Constantia” she beamed with a wistful twinkle in her good eye.

The REE was certainly happy to steer the conversation in that direction.  He would much rather talk about strange OLD people than be cornered into an indepth description of his girlfriend.

“Well actually they are quite well off, but she says they are really eccentric, in a very embarrassing way.  That's why she hasn't introduced me to them yet.  She says maybe in about six months, because she really doesn't want me to get scared off.  Something about building a SOLID relationship before subjecting it to anything that might be a threat. I must say, the way she talks about them they sound like REAL nut jobs.….”

But Mrs Ed had stopped listening at the 'quite well off' bit. 
“Oh it will be so nice to be connected with a good, Cape Town family.  So refreshing,” she mused. “Can you imagine the wedding?  A society wedding!  Perhaps we should invite their family up for a weekend….?  Or at least drive down and meet this lovely young lady of yours….? As soon as possible I would say!”

Now it was time (I noticed) for The REE  to look somewhat stressed.  In fact I think I detected a tremor of hysteria in his voice. He looked at me with that 'Help me here Father' panic that I hadn't seen in his eyes since the Zipper Accident of 2001,
“No really mom, there's er … no  hurry, We will organize something… at some stage… but uhm… probably not this year, ey, it's kind of hectic at college and I really don't think you need to rush anything…. we thought maybe, March .. if that's ok? Or April?  Maybe for Easter? Or the July Holidays?  How about then?  Why don't we leave it until next year July?”

Life or Death Insurance

I really need to check my insurance.....  My life insurance, that is. 

Just to make sure. 

We always have to be certain to keep our eyes on such things, don’t we? Particularly now, because I am worried that I just might, perhaps, have been.

Insured that is.

That's a scary thought, isn't it?

What do you mean “I should be” ? How can you say that? 

Are you part of the tribe that believes that having one's life insured is 'The Right Thing To Do’ , like paying your TV licence, or pouring milk into a glass instead of drinking from the bottle?  Well I disagree.

Why?  Well isn't it obvious? Surely being worth a tidy sum IF you pop off to meet your maker is just putting temptation out there?  Especially when BEING ALIVE isn't keeping your family in the lavish lifestyle they lustfully long for?

Which is why I should check. 

They do that on TV, don't they?  On the detective programs -  they check. But it's always AFTER the fact. Whenever someone suspiciously drives off a cliff, or gets fatally fowled up in an industrial meat mincer (remind me not to watch CSI during dinner again), then a whole lot of cops busy themselves enquiring whether anyone may have secretly insured that person's life, in order to profit from his or her demise.   (Admittedly, I have always wondered if it wouldn’t have been NICER if these lawmen had picked up on the $3 Billion policy BEFORE the poor fellow slipped on the highly polished floor when the lights failed during a midnight call-out to his wife's brother's abattoir?  Don't you think?)

This is a theory that came to me the other night.  Well, if 4.01am in the morning is still night. Via an encyclopaedia.
 
No, I was not reading an encyclopaedia at four in the morning.  I have better things to do at that time, which are all sleep.
 
Normally. 

But sleep is a thing of the past now.  Now I believe there may be a conspiracy going on in my home.  It's my wife, Mrs Ed… and her dog.

Let me explain.  I may have mentioned before that there is no love lost between me and Mrs Ed's dog:- the World's Hugest Yorkie (which forms the mysteriously apt acronym:-WHY).  I won't go into detail except to say that WHY was supposed to be a 'cutesy little pedigree tea-cup lap dog' when my beloved spouse acquired her back in those good old pre-recession days, but it grew up to be just slightly smaller than an Irish wolfhound, as cute as Hannibal Lecter, and with the social etiquette of Attila the Hun.
  
Anyway sometime in May this year I was bamboozled by Mrs Ed, who was cunning enough to phone me from the bottle store.  She  suggested that WHY (the mutt) should be allowed to sleep inside for the duration of winter and would I like her to bring home a sixpack of 'Amber Nectar' ? Of course my resounding “Yes!!!” for the latter was taken as confirmation for both, and the dog took up winter residence in our bedroom, much to my chagrin.

Once Spring arrived (1st Sept), I announced that the dog should be back outside, and Mrs Ed said the noxious hound needed three weeks' grace -  apparently this same dog which can't understand the simple instruction “Get Out You Hideous Creature!” needs time to gain 'closure' on her eviction. 

And this is where my story picks up.  Because the WHY mutt has not used this allotted time for ‘closure’ at all. Oh no. I believe that the conniving canine is in cahoots with Mrs ED to effect my demise!  How? (No, that's not the name of our other dog.) Let me explain.

Call me strange, old fashioned, perhaps a stick in the mud, or even a wet blanket, but I have a thing about a dog peeing in my bedroom.
 
I just don't like it.

Indeed if I was Julie Andrews I might say it's not anywhere near “Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens” on my list of favourite things. In fact it's right at the bottom, with only disguised avocado dip below it. The dog knows this, apparently, and so spent the first year of its horrid life making sure we had wet carpet patches to greet us every morning, on my side of the bed.  Until of course I booted it outside. 

(Oh it was such a memorable boot - I would have got three points if it hadn't just caught the top of the wall and fallen back into our veggie patch.) 

When it was allowed back in the following winter it realised that in order to secure its stay in luxury it should control its bladder and simply whine if it felt 'the call'.  Of course this suited Mrs Ed perfectly, it would take the whine of a six billion ton flaming meteorite scorching through the Earth's crust in our back garden to rouse her from her slumber.

So muggins (that's me) got to scramble out of bed, stumble downstairs with eyes 95% shut, brain 98% asleep and the WHY mutt skippedy-skipping in front of me, open the back door, and then climb back up to bed. 
But now something has changed.  The dog has gotten devious, and as I mentioned, I think it has formulated a plan with Mrs Ed.

Perhaps she has promised it 100% inside sleeping privileges in the event of my death? 

It still wakes me at four but then, as I am snorting myself to a Neanderthal sort of upright position, instead of skipping down the stairs in front of me…. The WHY mutt lies on the top one. Still.  Like a fur-lined puff-adder. 

 Of course I don't see it.  I dislike it intensely, so why on earth would I bother to wrestle my eyes open to get four-in-the-morning visual of the object of my affliction?

So what happens?  I tread on it.  And I slip. The WHY mutt yelps victoriously as I am launched confusedly into that cyberspace that takes over when the floor isn't there.  I spin.  I turn.  My back cracks on the balustrade, my head collides with a picture of my mother-in-law on the wall .... but somehow it seems I might just manage to save myself by planting my right foot firmly on….. an encyclopaedia? 

I ask you now, nay I IMPLORE you, to be honest.  Do you think this is an ongoing attempt on my life… or do encyclopaedia's actually belong on the stairs?

  Am I being paranoid or did I miss the life lesson that instructed
“When you have no-where to stack them, place all 16 volumes in piles of varying sizes on the right hand area of each of your four bottom stairs. This is good housekeeping.” ? 

Did I?

The more I think about it the more I realize there's something amiss. She... nay THEY are up to something.   Like the toaster she plugged in and balanced on the side of my bath, 'in case you need a snack after washing your hair'…..?  Or the broken glass I found in my mashed potato….?? Or the familiar smell of petrol that seems to have been impregnated in my favourite braai jacket ....???

In fact, I'm going to get have it out with Mrs Ed, I really am.  Just as soon as I get back from the abattoir…. It belongs to a friend of her's and they've asked me to go round there tonight and find out why the lights go off every time they turn on the industrial meat mincer…..  they've even offered me a case of Amber Nectar for my trouble…
.

.
Gnhhhhuh?

Sorry, I may seem somewhat feeble, not as energetic as my usual self, and perhaps a little cranky. You see, I am in recovery mode.

 Let me explain:- Late one evening, almost two weeks ago, I was sitting watching CSI on TV when I suddenly thought to myself
“Oh golly gosh!  It seems I have a little discomfort in my throat and a very slight stuffiness in my head.  Perhaps I am coming down with a little cold?”

Grabbing an extra ‘blanky’ from the cupboard and casually gobbling a vitamin C tablet, I bade my family good night and truffled happily up to bed, congratulating myself on the good sense of catching this minor ailment timeously and thus ensuring that I would be right as rain first thing in the morning.

Which I would have.  Normally.

Because I don’t get sick. Normally.

But it seems that sometime whilst I was sleeping (I would imagine somewhere between midnight and four in the morning), somebody opened our front door and herded 27 overweight buffalo into our bedroom, across my chest, and out again.  Perhaps not satisfied with this action, they then whistled in a small nation of pygmies, say about 400 or so, armed them with knobkerries and told them I was on fire and needed beating out.

This done, a siphon hose was then used to fill any empty space in my skull / nasal cavity / eye sockets with a 1:4 mixture of custard and coarse river sand.

  The next day I (sort of) woke up with a temperature that made my armpit suitable for a kilning facilities. 

I had The 'flu. 

The 'flu. 

Yes I repeat myself, so that you get the emphasis.

THE emphasis.

But not play-play ‘flu.  Not ‘a ‘flu’ .  The real, genuine article.

Let me explain.  My mother, aka “The Matriarch” (God rest her soul), was a nurse, and used to have a thing about The 'flu.  (Or should I say 'not The 'flu' - that is the question?), mainly because every Tom Dick, Harry and Sally claimed to be suffering from it, when according to Mom, all they actually had was a namby pamby little common head cold.  It used to drive her mad.

Especially when people were so flippant about it.
  “Sorry I missed bingo last night, I had the flu!” a friend would gaily mention in the supermarket aisle.
“My game wasn't at its best this afternoon, I think I might have the flu,”  my dad's tennis partner would remark.
 “Does this'93 Cabernet Sauvignon taste less woody on the palate than usual? Or is this ‘flu affecting my tastebuds?” she would overhear at a restaurant.

Where ever she went it seemed that misuse of the 'flu was epidemic.

Of course when she heard one of these nonsensical claims, Mom would never be so rude as to point out to the person that he or she was an absolute woosie with nowt wrong except perhaps a slight back up of traffic in the nostril department.  No, on hearing someone talk of the 'flu she would raise her eyes to the horizon and whisper under her breath:-
“Thou' shouldnae wish that thar luuurgy 'pon yerself, thoust moight wish fer 'n early grave before awantin' that!”  …. which I have to admit was quite odd, considering she didn't speak Ancient English at any other time.

I , of course, thought she was over reacting…. Like she had done in the past whenever I backed the family car into the fishpond…. Or mistakenly invited seventeen of my sixth form mates to stay for a weekend.

But that was before this recent episode when I well and truly I got it for the first time..  The 'flu.  THE 'FLU.   Eish!

And I am now a convert.  A disciple of my late mother's thinking. 

Now I know why it has the The . 
The 'flu.

Why is the The important?  Well, on occasion I have heard people mention that they “might have picked up a bit of a 'flu” … (note the 'a'?)….

Which they obviously didn't.  Otherwise they would have used the The.

It is The 'flu.  Just like it was 'The plague' and  'The Black Death'.  In ancient days one didn’t simply pick up ‘ a bit of a plague’ ...  I think not.    Similarly The The in The 'flu gives it its seriousness.

It is a sinister The.

A The that anyone who has ever been hit by this virus will insist upon using.

In fact, come to think about it, after its rather descriptive 'The', the word 'flu is actually a bit of a let down, isn't it?  Something that one did over a cuckoo's nest? 
Perhaps part of a chimney?

Hardly an adequate description for days and nights of mortal agony, the recovery from which requires superhuman strength.....  It doesn't even help if you use the full length word:- 'Influenza'  because then it sounds like you were in bed with the latest family four-door from Fiat.

Personally speaking, (from the experience of my near death experience) I think members of the health fraternity should  consider inserting a descriptive phrase in between ‘The’ and ‘Flu’ :- The 'Baseball Bat' Flu or perhaps  The 'Falling Grand Piano' Flu.

But I digress.  My current gripe, as a survivor of The ‘flu, (is there a roll of honour I should be included in?) is that these people who have claimed willy-nilly to have experienced it themselves (perhaps in the car on the way to work… “Ooh, I just had a quick flu!” or during ½ time when the rugby is on “I'm just going to lie down for a few minutes to shake off this flu.”) have watered down the from the terrible, near-death experience that it is, to just a common cold.

 This has made it very difficult for us genuine sufferers to glean the deep and caring sympathy that is so rightfully ours.

  Really. Tell people that you have had The 'flu nowadays and they barely bother to furrow their brows, never mind offering  large dishes of steaming chicken soup or lasagne or bottles of expensive single malt medicinal whisky, which might in some very small way, compensate for the extreme pain and stress your poor body has endured for the sake of humanity.
 
Worse yet, one guy I recently described my illness to threw in...
  “Yes… I had a flu 12 times last winter, once while I was playing in a rugby match!  That's why I now drink tea made with a raw garlic clove, and I NEVER step on a crack in the pavement.” 
Of course I was so angry I wanted to hit him.  With a baseball bat. To take his raw garlic clove and shove it.......

... and perhaps I will, one day.  But I’ll have to wait until I’m feeling a little stronger.... and the Buzzing has stopped in my brain....
.

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And so off we drove!

The four of us, happily on our way to Zimbabwe for the long awaited family wedding / holiday. Not the usual four, not the Fantastic Four… no. Actually there was only three family members plus an imposter. Irish Joe. I suppose he wasn’t really an imposter because he was invited.

Let me explain. Irish Joe is a GPS device - one of those mobile gadgets programmed with millions of maps and linked to some particularly clever satellites somewhere in space. When you tell them your destination they keep track of your route and nudge you in the right direction by way of a recorded voice.

 I borrowed him to replace my son, The REE (Resident Expert on Everything, including directions) as the latter was unfortunately unable to join us on our merry adventure, due to his studies in The Mother City.

So why would I, a male with the impeccable sense of direction that our gender has built into our chromosomes (next to the “never ask for directions” DNA strand) want to have a talking machine lovingly nicknamed ‘Irish Joe’ as an extra companion?

Isn’t it obvious?

Whilst I realized that driving two thousand four hundred kilometers each way in the company of Mrs Ed and The MCM (Money Consuming Machine) would provide the perfect opportunity for family bonding, I knew it would also mean I would be outnumbered two to one. You would understand my conviction that having absolutely no male accomplices for a two and a half day drive, not to mention the potential ear-battering with female conversation, would turn my mind to mush.

In short, I had visions of being brainwashed into using terms like ‘Cerise Pink’, or needing company to go to the toilet, or worse still, stopping and asking for directions.
Aside from his brilliant accent (“Torn lerft, droive aboat two hondred meetres, den torn roight”), ‘Irish Joe’ had a good sense of direction and, thankfully, didn’t feel the need to yack all the time. He spoke only when necessary and seemed to remain cool, calm and collected in the face of adversity. You must understand how refreshing this is when driving with two stress-demented women.
“Where are we going? Which way do we turn? What if we get it wrong? What if we end up in Soweto and there’s an uprising?” shrieks one, instantly heightening the hysteria of the other.
“What if this road leads to Hillbrow and we get caught in a drug deal? How do we REALLY know where to go? AAAAARRGGHHHH !!!! WHY ARE THESE CARS GOING SO FAST? PLEASE STOP AND ASK FOR DIRECTIONS!!! PLEASE PLEASE! THAT CAR IS FULL OF HIJACKERS I JUST KNOW IT!.....”

“Torn Roight” suggested Irish Joe calmly.
Actually I knew that – we were just leaving George at the time.

  And so on we went. With my intuitive sense of direction mentally guiding us (and Irish Joe verbally adding his confirmation) we passed through Oudtshoorn, Meiringspoort, Beaufort West - the town that aliens (surely) invaded (we stopped there to buy some ‘emergency shoes’ ((don’t ask)) and met an average of three weird people per second – surely that breaks even the Sedgefield record?) and the numerous other places en route to the nasty metropolis of Jo’burg.

As we entered the capital Mrs Ed hit extreme panic – and continuously screamed demands that I hand our car keys over to every person she deemed to be a potential hijacker. When I mentioned that this might be difficult at our current speed of 120km per hour, she lay on the floor in the foetal position and groaned. By that time The MCM had started chewing her toenails, having eaten her fingernails down to the quick as far back as Bloemfontein.

 We finally arrived at our stopover in Edenvale – a house belonging to a friend who was out the country at the time. His domestic servant opened up for us as soon as she could pull herself out of the clinging arms of Mrs Ed who was hugging and kissing her more than a little passionately, sobbing uncontrollably about how good it was to be alive.

We left at 4.30 the following morning (working on my passengers’ theory that even hijackers would be in bed at that time) and headed on the long trek to Beit Bridge.

 Miraculously, passing through the border post was reasonably easy. It seems that whilst those on the South African side have perfected the arrogant air of indifference to such levels I suspected they may have been involved in the training of supermarket till operators, their Zimbabwean counterparts have taken up a whole different angle. I think it’s called “We smile whilst we fleece you.”

With big friendly grins they helpfully relieved us of copious amounts of US dollars for anything the Mugabe regime could think of. There was Carbon Tax (we can’t mention that in front of the Edge-mobile, she would be so offended); bridge toll fees (the alternative route looked most unappealing, and there were crocodiles swimming in it); visa charges (“Sorry sir, (happy smile) I see you have a British passport (grin grin), that means you will have to pay a gazillion dollars more than anyone else,”); Some sort of extra car insurance (“We have taken it out on your behalf, sir. That will be another $65, but you can pay in Rand at a rate of 10 to 1 if you wish. Anything to be of service of course!”), and all sorts of other extra things, so that by the time we drove off we felt exceptionally well loved, though lacking 50 % of our entire holiday fund.

We were worried. The stop had totally confused Irish Joe, the poor lad:- Mrs Ed had mistakenly left him on when she hid him in her handbag (fearing theft out of the Edge-Mobile whilst we were queuing), and all the rushing from pillar to post at the border had obviously stressed him totally. He had inadvertently blurted “Expected arroival’ toime tree howers” whilst the customs man was asking if we had anything to declare, and “You hiv gaan tooo farrrr!” as we handed over a wad of notes for eyelash tax (or something like that).

And now it seemed he was choosing to remain silent. No matter which way we turned, there wasn’t the slightest of Irish squeaks. After a while we forgot all about him, such was the excitement of rediscovering Zimbabwe… and swerving for potholes… and being EXCEPTIONALLY nice to the policemen at the numerous road-blocks.

Our arrival in Harare, what seemed like a hundred hours later, brought mixed emotions. The flood of memories as we passed the stomping grounds of our youth, the pump of adrenaline as a group of three taxis, all carrying around 76 people as well as various mattresses, bath tubs, building materials and goats, headed towards us on the wrong side of the road (the drivers all smiling pleasantly and waving as we headed towards certain death) and the anticipation of seeing the extended family all gathering at my brother’s modest, three bedroom home for his son’s wedding.

We eventually reached his house, somehow unscathed other than badly frayed nerves. As we drove up the driveway Mrs Ed had calmed down enough to say
“So tell me again, how many of us are staying at the house?”
“Well there’s the UK family, there’s five of them, the two others from SA, the three of us, the Zim family of seven, then there’s the other friends from UK who have come up for the wedding, plus my nephew’s wife-to-be, and her family, and a couple of their old varsity mates from Cape Town, so that makes twenty seven, not to mention the six cats, the three dogs (plus the new puppy) the orphan Vervet monkey, the barn owl with the broken wing, the hawk, the parrot and the kittens my sister in law is looking after for animal welfare… oh yes, and the mice they breed to feed the hawk and the owl…..”
“Torn arrind,” buzzed Irish Joe, suddenly awake.
“Too late,” I laughed as my brother rushed out to meet us, “We’re here and we’re staying….
“That’s right,” said my sibling, enveloping me in a huge bear-hug  - I noticed he had a new and rather large addition to the family wrapped around his shoulder and waist – it looked like some sort of python. .

Going on Holiday... perhaps

.
So, we are off on a family holiday. 

Well a pilgrimage really.  Up to Zim - the old homeland. Travelling in true Sedgefield style on a whiff of petrol, an ice-cream tub of boiled egg sandwiches and a knee grazing* bank card  (*for those new in town who still actually have money, knee grazing bank cards are the sort which require a quick but furtive prayer on the pavement  before insertion into the ATM machine).

So why are we embarking on such a trip when the bank balance is shouting “NO! NO! PLEASE DON'T GO!” (quite poetic our bank balance, isn't it?) well it is purely for  health reasons.   To be specific, Mrs Ed said that if we don't take a break this year she will kill me. 

You see every year for the past seven or so, we've planned a big family holiday.  We haven't actually embarked on one, but we have made the plans.  It starts off in the first week of January (the planning, not the holiday) with Mrs Ed and I and the two kids moping around the lounge of depression  eyes down cast, lips on the floor, dreading the return to work and school.
“ I just don't wanna go.  Everyone bullies me, and calls me names.  I get into trouble for not finishing my assignments.  And they tease me all the time because I look different to everyone else!” I whimper. (That's what I get, I suppose, for working with an all female staff).So Mrs Ed calms us down with the promise of something to look forward to.  AKA The Family Holiday.

“Where do you think we should go this year?” she muses….and we fall for it every time.

Really, anyone listening would think that we rush off to a different exotic location every year, and I'm sure that in the farthest recesses of our minds we KNOW that we have a 99% family holiday failure rate…… but the planning is such sweet nectar to our ears, we simply cannot resist revelling in the joyous conversation.
“How about a fishing trip in Mozambique?” my son, The REE (Resident Expert on Everything) suggests. “I reckon it would only take us 27 1/2  hours to get there, if we drove non-stop, seeing as our car has an 1800cc engine with 135Nm torque, and the distance is 2337km.”
“Or Paris?” says my daughter, The MCM (Money Consuming Machine) “That can't be much further?”

And so (apart from a brief decision Mrs Ed and I make to cancel The MCM's extra geography lessons) the conversation carries on.  Our minds flitter from Mauritius to Mombasa without batting an eye.  Adrenaline pumps through our veins as we mentally load up the Edge-mobile to drive up through Africa to visit the Pyramids in Egypt (you see - it is not from MY SIDE that the MCM gets her terrible geography).  We can almost sense the snugness of snow mittens and taste of hot-chocolate as we discuss our skiing holiday in the Alps, then seconds later we are game-viewing in Etosha….

When a firm destination decision has been made, we all make the solemn vow to save every cent we possibly can.  The MCM suggests that if we buy her two or three new outfits she would EASILY get a waitressing job and thus boost the holiday coffers, and The REE works out the exact saving that the family would generate if his mother gave up smoking,  his dad stopped buying beer and everyone stopped using toothpaste and shampoo for the next eight months.

Then we do the traditional holiday container.  What fun!  What gloriously exciting fun! You know how the Americans carve out a Halloween pumpkin every October?  Well, we make ourselves a 'Holiday Box' every January.  The HB is, of course, the receptacle in which we post and store all the holiday savings.  Normally it is rather ambitious in size - a five litre water bottle, or 1kg coffee tin. 

Once we have found a suitable container then it is sealed.  Really sealed.  This involves approximately 50 metres of sellotape, a tube of contact adhesive, a small blow torch, barbed wire, and sometimes a short length of electrical wire and a plug.  ANYTHING we can use to make sure NONE of us can break in.

This done, there follows the ceremonial vow made by each and every family member. Linking arms and looking as solemn as possible, we all recite the sacred oath.
“I hereby promise, upon my life, that I will place any excess money  I may have upon my person , be it notes or change (but not including dark brown money), into this, the Holiday Box.  Furthermore I will never, never, ever, in any way, make any attempt whatsoever to gain entry into the HB. Indeed I will not set about it with ruler, knife, screwdriver, nor chisel. I will resist any temptation to hold it up to the light to see how much is inside.  I will not attempt to suggest reasons for the contents to be spent.  And I shall not partake in any wasteful activity which may result in the necessity for extra funds.  I say all this with sound mind and I understand that should I break this solemn vow, I shall have my cell phone removed for a period of no less than 6 (six) months.”

For the next week or so we brazenly save.  We are right up there with  the best savers in the world.  We save like we are the savingest savers in all of Savedom….  Approaching the HB like some sort of public shrine, we curtsy to it as we lavishly deposit money with untold generosity.  R20 notes,  R50 notes, R100 notes. The MCM even drops in a mismatched pair of silver earrings and a letter of promise of her prospective waitressing earnings.  The REE, who has been watching the HB closely, works out that if the family sticks to the current deposit rate, by May 17th at 4.35 in the afternoon, we should have enough savings to head off to the airport and fly to Bali.

I found Mrs Ed wrestling with the HB on the lounge floor in the first week of February (an all time record for us). There was a pile of bills and final demands and sheriff's notices lying around her as she grunted and groaned in her efforts.  I assisted, rather than trying to stop her, having just worked up a real thirst answering a call from someone who felt quite strongly that we should pay  Edgar's account  (not sure who Edgar is, but there was no way I was paying ANYTHING for him, especially not in February).
 
Eventually, me grasping the lid with both hands whilst hooking my feet under the WMCC (World's Most Comfortable Couch), and Mrs Ed bear-hugging the bottle and rolling over and over, like a Serengeti crocodile ripping the head off a Wildebeest, we finally got the HB open. Twenty one 5c pieces, a  greenish pair of silver earings and  two dozen IOU notes from The REE (and some of his friends) fell to the ground…..

Now, six months later, we have decided we're going away anyway. Why not?  There's a family gathering/wedding in Zim and the bank was foolish enough to send us a (nother) credit card in the post, so we can drive now, pay (the sheriff) later.  And Mrs Ed has assured me (through those bared bull-terrier teeth of hers) that if we don't go, I will be 'paying for it' later anyway …
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The Late Bomber Webb. Part one

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Something funny happened to me today… I was almost, accidentally....... on time for work.  Imagine that?

You see I have a thing about punctuality.  You might say I'm somewhat anal about it -  that's what Mrs Ed reckons, anyway. For the most part of my adult life I have always, with very few exceptions, made it my utmost challenge, my life's work, my calling..… to be late. 
 
It is probably something I inherited from my father.  Other people get left summer mansions, vintage cars, stocks and bonds, perhaps even a carefully wrapped Kruger Rand or two… but I was bequeathed a 'being late' fetish.

 Dad was totally dedicated to the ‘Lateness’ cause.  In fact, if I think about it, when he  moved our entire family out from UK to Zambia all those years ago, supposedly for a more exciting lifestyle, it was more likely his effort to avoid the yawn-saturated, Anglo-European tradition of clock watching. 

He was probably annoyed at the time. With the queen.  Can you blame him?  Having  been the proud inventor, so far as records show, of the term 'Fashionably Late' he was surely expecting a knighthood, or at least a few baubles from HRH's crown jewels stock, but received neither.  This broke his heart. He had worked tirelessly at his craft for years and finally had 'being late' down to a fine art.  Dad would always make a spectacular (albeit late) entrance, sweeping into the meeting / party / funeral / army intake office with such confidence and panache, that people would immediately start apologizing for the fact that they had (quite rudely) arrived before him. 

I have to admit, I haven't got it THAT right yet.  I probably would have been ok if I had inherited the full 'How to be Admired for Being Tardy' package, which couples the desire to be late with enough charisma to carry it off. But I am sadly lacking in the latter.

 So whilst I have no recollection of anyone ever asking my father why he was late (excepting of course my rolling-pin brandishing mother and once, just once, my sister  and she can be excused, after - all, brides can sometimes behave quite oddly on their wedding days, can't they?), it seems that people actually notice when I don't arrive on time.

But don't worry. I'm not bothered that people always look at their watches in a tut tut fashion when I walk in. In fact I even get a crooked little smile on my face when I hear the crackled yet no less exasperated announcement “This is the absolutely LAST last call. Would passenger T'ED please, please, PLEASE report to the check in desk?”  at the airport. 

The only thing that gets to me is when people see my being late as a weakness.  A social handicap. A shortage in punctuality DNA.  It's almost as if they actually think I COULDN'T  be on time if I wanted to. 

Which of course I could.
 
If I wanted to.

Some people even get sympathetic. I walk into a meeting the usual ten minutes after due time and they give me that 'tilt the head sideways like a spaniel' look, smiling all sweet and doe-eyed as if I've announced the loss of a favourite aunt.  I have even had my hand-squeezed in lateness-sympathy once. Which would have been alright if the fellow hadn't been 7 foot 4 with vice-grips for fingers.

Worse yet is when folks feel they can beat me at my own game.  They go to great pains personalising their 'guilt-edged' (spelling error intended) invitations, so that the T'Ed family's requested arrival time is ½ an hour earlier than everyone else's.

This is flirting with disaster, of course.  Because if we just happen to arrive 25 minutes late (according to the time we have been given) we end up being there before anyone else.  Have you ever experienced that?  It's a nightmare!

You can't just waltz in and say 'Hi everyone, sorry but the dog ate the cat and the traffic was bad and there was a tidal wave and the car wouldn't start etc etc' as you ease through the smiling crowd to the drinks cart and/or buffet table.  No.  Not at all.  You have to stand facing the door and greet everyone as they arrive.  You have to remember names… and introduce your wife… and remember your wife's name….

So then you think you are on to the people trying this ploy, and you start adding half an hour onto their suggested time… Which doesn't work because they have actually stopped adjusting your invitations because they remembered what happened last time they gave the T'Ed family an extra 30 minutes access to the buffet table….  So you end up arriving over an hour late, and then the food is finished….

But I digress.  I was talking about this morning wasn't I?  As I said, it was quite a surprise to me when, as I was walking out the back door,  I looked at my watch and saw that I would probably get to work on time. 

“This can't be right,” I thought, mentally working through my schedule to see if I had perhaps forgotten something important. But no. Everything in order.
 
Of course I wasn't worried.  I like to arrive at the office on time every now and then, if only to see the shock on everyone's face when I walk in.

So I  slammed the car into gear and reversed out, narrowly missing Mrs Ed's Yorkshire terrier. “One day I'll get it right,” I mused as I stopped outside to close the gate. Then I noticed that the kitchen window was open, and walked back in to close that too.

Which was a good thing, seeing that someone had left the milk out of the fridge. As I was putting it back I realized that the plastic tub of leftovers from last century was STILL sitting on the second shelf… with something far more radioactive than Mrs Ed's bean soup growing quite voraciously out of it.
 
In an effort to save my family from a bout of potentially fatal food poisoning I scraped it into the afore-mentioned dog's bowl, and chucked the plastic tub into the sink… a bit of a mistake because it was full of rather greasy dishwater which slopped over the side, splashing my shirt front. Grabbing a cleanish one from the laundry pile turned out to be a blessing in disguise though, as I saw that case for the rather-late-for-return DVD was sitting on the ironing board.
 
So I grabbed that and went to the machine to eject the disc, which meant scrambling behind the cupboard to unplug the iron and plug in the DVD player.  With its newfound return to power the dvd continued playing from where Mrs Ed had switched it off the night before (apparently I had dozed off) so I was fortunate enough to see how the hero had actually managed his escape from the warlike (yet somehow rather attractive) tribe of Women of the Avocado Jungle, AND (when the dvd ended and the tv automatically flipped back to normal channels) see the short piece on morning tv about how people who eat a strict tofu diet live a lot longer (though I did wonder why they would want to).

  Just as I was about to leave, the phone rang and I had quite a nice chat with my brother in law who I hadn't seen for a while, and after we had caught up with various rugby and cricket views and opinions he mentioned that he had driven past our house three times that morning, and wondered why our car was still parked outside with the door wide open and the engine running.  I called him back a minute or twelve later and he was kind enough to give me and my fuel-can a lift to the petrol station and back home again, so I wasn't much later than usual for work….

Perhaps I’ll be on time someday next week... 

But only if I really, really want to be ....