Driving Miss Crazy

Clear the roads, lock up your children and family pets, for the time has come. I regret to announce that the peace that was once prevalent along the quiet village roads of Sedgefield is a thing of the past. Why? Because our teenage daughter is learning to drive.

To put things into perspective I must start with a new ‘christening’. Up until this time my youngest offspring has been known as The MCM (Money Consuming Machine) but I must point out that other than a brief flurry involving 24 Million or so (I forget the exact amount) during the lead up to her matric dance, of late the poor girl has not been able to live up to this name. There simply hasn't been any money.

Every time she has gingerly reached for my wallet I have happily handed it over, because it's been empty. It's quite freeing actually. Even my debit and credit cards get happily dished out to any members of the family, because, well, you can't get blood out of a stone, can you?

At first I used to get frantic phone calls from shops / boutiques / restaurants “Hey, I keep trying to use the card you gave me, but it keeps getting rejected, it says 'Insufficient funds'.”
“That's funny,” I would answer, “It did that for me as well.”

So, back to the story at hand My daughter, has been newly named Fear Factor, (for reasons which have nothing to do with what we dread may be living underneath the detritus of clothing that lies on her bedroom floor), and is embarking on her first tentative wheelspins into the driving arena….. and alas, one of us has to go with her.

Actually 'one of us' is a bit misleading. It's me. And no, I didn't lose a bet, and I have no sadomasochistic leanings either. There's just no other choice. You see, despite her robust outward physique, and her ability to grow a beard in three hours, Mrs Ed shrinks into a quivering wimpy girl when it comes to being in a car with someone else driving.

Would you believe it? The same woman who has been known to stand down a charge of a heat crazed Zambezi Buffalo with a single shout, falls to pieces when she's a passenger in a car when anyone except her dad is driving. I have deep nail-gauges in my left thigh to prove it, and I'm mostly deaf in my left ear, thanks to the continuous barrage of screaming every time we drive anywhere.

We did try letting Fear Factor drive once when both Mrs Ed and I were in the car… just once. But it's very hard to calmly talk someone through the process of gear-changing and clutch operation when someone else is in the back seat alternating between screaming “We're going to die! We're going to die!” inside the car, and “Your going to die ! YOUR GOING TO DIE!” out the window at any unsuspecting pedestrians..

So no. I'm afraid I am THE ONE.

Which is odd in itself because whilst I consider myself a cool, calm and collected instructor, I have no delusions about my ability to drive. Indeed I have said it before - the reason I moved to Sedgefield is that my driving would fit in with everyone else's. It's that bad.

Of course this does not make me the best 'Master' to learn from, and in hindsight, perhaps the first lesson - an hour-long lecture on the intricacies of balancing a pie, a cup of scalding hot coffee (I allowed her to use warm milk whilst in training), a cell phone and a short story book (perfect for light reading at a red robot), with a diagrammatic instruction on knee-steering, was not something that will benefit her for the actual test, though it will doubtless come in handy for a life of driving thereafter.

Our car is not the best vehicle to learn in either. The EDGEmobile's replacement (an old Nissan 1400 bakkie) is making every effort to fill the big tyre tracks left by her predecessor, but (bless her rusted wheels) her doors do tend to swing open on a whim (or a passing cyclist for that matter) and finding the right gear is like trying to thread a needle in a bucket of custard.

Our inaugural venture onto the road went well for the first fifteen minutes, but then Fear Factor managed to get the car moving and, well, it was downhill from there.

You see there's one thing that a teenager hates more than driving badly, and that is being seen driving badly. That scores a minus four million on the Cool Scale. So when parked at a stop street (which, let's face it, is already a foreign concept in Sedgefield), the mere THOUGHT of anyone in the car behind said teenager, witnessing her stop-start attempts to get to the other side (which are strangely similar to a vomitous drunk lurching for the toilet .. or basin… or anything), sends her into stress level 17.

So how does Fear Factor deal with this? Quite simple really, if there is a car behind her at an intersection, she sticks her hand out the window and waves it on. Indeed she will only move if there is NO CAR IN SIGHT. Even if someone has innocently parked outside a home near said intersection, - perhaps visiting a friend… for lunch… - she waits for them to finish their last course, say their goodbyes, perhaps over a cup of coffee, and climb into their vehicle… then she waves them on.

So yes, we spend a lot of time at intersections waiting…. Waiting…. Waiting.

Once we are moving there is much more excitement. Apparently Fear Factor has a thing about making sure she keeps left. Extreme left. I think she may be a communist.

I see her point, it would be exceptionally unpleasant to hit an oncoming vehicle in the road. But I'm not sure if I agree that she should drive with the left half of the car on the grass verge either. It makes things extremely unpleasant for pedestrians, dogs, guinea fowl and anyone who has decided to trim their hedge that day. Worse yet, that's the side of the vehicle I am sitting in, so my terrified face is the last thing anyone sees as they dive for cover, I know this because one man, a painting contractor I think, stopped me in the supermarket and asked for his ladder back.

So if you are in Sedgefield and you see a white bakkie, with an even whiter passenger (easily recognisable by the motorcycle helmet i tend to wear) lurching along at either 13 or 185km per hour (depending on what gear we are in), please try and move to within the 5m building line of your property, or better yet, go indoors….. and close any street facing windows…

Living with a WATGUS

For those of you who were concerned after last issue’s T’Ed’s Head (thanks for the flowers by the way, and the self defense manuals and mace spray) life IS actually getting a little easier…..

I've found that living with a WATGUS* (*Wife Attempting To Give Up Smoking) has dropped on the Horrichter Scale from 'BLOOD-CURDLINGLY TERRIFYING' down to 'I'D RATHER CLOSE MY FINGERS IN A SLIDING DOOR', which is a positive omen, you have to admit?

In fact I am happy to report further signs of progress :- our daughter has been brave enough to venture out of her bedroom twice this week, the second time for over a minute, and I've noticed the neighbours on both sides have sent advance parties to investigate the possibility of their moving back home.

So yes. Despite not having a cigarette for six weeks, Mrs Ed is finally calming down. She is even waking up in an only-moderately-grouchy mood…. some mornings. I'm starting to actually believe that I might just come through this alive.

That's not to say that there hasn't been a scary moment or two hundred over the past month.. Especially at night. Really, I'm still having quite a bit of trouble sleeping, because I'm having nightmares….. about the nightmares Mrs Ed is having… about smoking.

Or should I say about NOT smoking?

If I remember correctly (through my befuzzled, sleep-deprived brain) it was during the third night of WATGUS that I woke up thinking something felt exceptionally wrong. This was confirmed when I tried to move my arms and they… just …. wouldn't.. And furthermore, when I opened my eyes I couldn't see a thing. Nix. Nada.

If the truth be told I truly believed that I had somehow been rendered paralysed, and I was just starting to mentally compose a letter of complaint to the makers of a particular brand of box wine, when I smelled the terrible, terrible odour of singed hair. You know the smell I’m talking about?

Of course I leapt to my feet in terror, except I discovered - in even more terror - that my legs wouldn't either.

I don't blame them really, after all they had little choice.

You see, the reason I couldn't move arms nor legs, or see, was that Mrs Ed had rolled me up oh-so-tightly in a white duvet. Worse yet, she was currently busy at either end of the resultant 'me-cylinder', alternating between using a candle to light my hair at the top, and rushing round to the bottom of the bed to puff on my feet. I don't know which was the worse sensation. I don't want to think about it.

Once I had woken her up with my embarrassingly high-pitched, girlish screams, she immediately stopped what she was doing, and launched into a lengthy diatribe about how she had been dreaming of rolling a huge, fat (steady on there) cigarette which would be her ALE (Absolutely Last Ever), which meant it had to be big enough to burn for a very long time.

All I can say is thank goodness for Dr Popper's Natural Crocodile Oil Treatment. It seems that though it allegedly promotes hair growth, improves the elasticity of skin, reduces stretch marks and increases chances of winning the lottery, one thing it isn't is flammable.

I have to admit, even once I had been unrolled I wasn't totally convinced that Mrs Ed's story was authentic. Judging by her recent mood swings I thought it far more likely that she had been preparing to drop me down into the septic tank through the manhole. In fact, at the time, I reasoned that spending a week or two in the basement suite of 'Hotel Septique' might be a far more peaceful option than living on the ground floor with a WATGUS. Sigh.

It's an odd thing, this giving up smoking. Because for Mrs ED it's a total about turn. An all or nothing. Cold turkey. And this is not something I can fully grasp.

You see I've always been a bit of a fence sitter when it comes to the dreaded habit. I'm not like most of the world who believes that anyone who indulges in a bit of baccy should be put on an island and hosed down with iced water, or forced to listen to Barry Manilow tributes until dead, but nor am I someone who appreciates the artistic appeal of an ashtray of freshly crushed stompies next to my breakfast plate.

I think I'm in the middle because, well, I confess I like to have the OCCASIONAL cigarette. You know, in social circles, just to keep other smokers company (they are a rather sad bunch since they have been excommunicated from society, aren't they?) .

But this is taboo when one is living with a WATGUS. They don't, as a rule, understand the concept of 'Social Smoking', or perhaps they are too busy thinking along the lines of Violence and Torture and How To Shout Loudly to give any other thoughts the time of day.

Indeed to proclaim to a WATGUS, or indeed anyone who is trying to kick the habit, that you are a social smoker, that you can have a cigarette anytime you feel like it and then not smoke for another month or two, is sheer lunacy. Especially if they are carrying anything remotely dangerous, like a handbag, or a sharpened lipstick, or a voice.

In fact I've seen a self proclaimed ‘part time rooker' reduced to a quivering, bleeding wreck by an ex-smoker brandishing nothing but a ham sandwich! (Mind you, it did have a lethal dollop of mustard inside).

Whilst I continue on this long and scary journey with Mrs Ed (apparently it takes nine years to totally rid your body of nicotine craving….. AAAAARGHHH!!!) there is something that keeps striking me across the face like a wet sack of stompies:- Whilst we all appreciate the compulsory warnings emblazoned on cigarette boxes which wax unlyrically of slow and painful death should one partake in the habit, why-oh-why is there no equivalent warning about living with someone who is giving up? Surely it makes sense that anyone attempting to stop smoking should have a large DANGER! POTENTIALLY LETHAL TO THOSE WITHIN A 20M RADIUS! stamped across their foreheads?

Indeed, once this thought was in my head, I could think of nothing else, it became an all-consuming idea which made so much sense..

....though in hindsight perhaps I shouldn't have mentioned it to Mrs Ed this morning, not when I was standing on the threshold of our sliding door….

But watch this space. I plan to start my campaign by sending an email to the Department of Health…. just as soon as I can move my fingers again.

Dieting is not for sissies... or husbands

Diet.

Hmmmmm. It's that time of year, isn't it?

Well at least in my house it is. But then again - there are extenuating circumstances M'lud.

Firstly, the odds have changed drastically in our home. I am, to put it plainly, outnumbered. Up until recently our home has always enjoyed an even split. Two males and two females. Hence when the subject of dieting came up we two males (my son and I) could roll our eyebrows (now that's quite a feat - most people can roll their eyes, some even their tongues, but their eyebrows? That takes some doing), give each other a manly slap on the back and retire to the kitchen to wolf down a five tier peanut butter, cheese, bacon and Bovril sandwich.

We were men, and men don't diet. And no-one could suggest otherwise.

Actually if the truth be known, I simply hid in the shadow of my son. You see it’s a nature thing. Mothers do not make their sons diet. Of course they don't - the mothering instinct does not allow them to see their sons as anything but perfect specimens of humankind, which means they can eat all they want, indeed they may even over-eat (though when you consider Mrs Ed's cooking, you would realize this was not something my son did too often).

Hence when grocery shopping is done in preparation for any looming, glooming, dooming diet, if my son is around there will always be additional 'normal' food purchases included amongst the celery, shredded lettuce leaves, pomegranate seeds and plain,0%fat,0%taste yoghurt.

Like bread, and peanut butter, and cheese, and Bovril and bacon.

But alas my son is in Cape Town now, so it is Mother and Daughter versus Father. The dieters win.

Oh yes, I can already hear the men-folk mercilessly teasing and taunting me in their ridiculously butch voices.
“You wimp! You wussy” I hear them leer, “How can you let mere women treat you like that? You ARE a MAN aren't you?”

But if you remember, I mentioned extenuating circumstances?

Well the big one is this: Mrs Ed has (once again) given up smoking. But ‘properly’ this time. No electronic glowing cigarette replacements. No “I'll just cut down to two boxes a day, and wean myself off from there.” No patches, pills, chewing gums or cinnamon sticks. She has given up, good and proper. Cold Turkey, you might say.... (which again makes me think of a sandwich…. sigh).

So, as any of you who have ever lived with a WATGUS (Wife Attempting To Give Up Smoking) knows, YOU_JUST_DO_ WHAT_YOU_ARE_TOLD.

And when one's WATGUS suggests that a diet is necessary because, you *^#!!@ swine, she does not want to gain weight as a result of not smoking, you nod your head in that imperceptible way that certainly does not imply that she has, in any shape or form, put on even the lightest of ounces, but simply insinuates that you agree with her thoughts, purely because you love her so very much and you are really terrified of a repetition of the rather painful vegetable colander injury of last Monday.

So I was given one weekend to carbo-load* (*fill my body with sensible vitamin-enriched foodstuffs such as burger patties, crisps, chips, peanut butter-cheese-bacon-and-Bovril sandwiches and of course meat pies) and then the diet started.

On Sunday night I phoned my son in Desperation. (actually he's in Woodstock, just round the corner from Desperation.)
“Can't you come home until this madness ends?” I begged, but he selfishly told me I was on my own, and that, incidentally, he had to hang up because he feared his flatmate was about to steal the super-sized, double thick-crusted, three cheese, bacon-topped pizza that he'd left on the kitchen counter.
“Et tu Brute?' I whimpered. But he was already gone.

To make matters worse, this is one of the bad ones. Diets I mean. It's what they call 'chemically designed'. In other words I don't just cut back on the knobs of butter on my baked potatoes, or only have ONE handful of cheese on each fried egg, it's apparently an Exact Science. In other words, I have to follow the diet to the lettuce… er… letter, otherwise it won't work.

And each day provides a menu more disgusting than the last. In fact, 'disgusting' is the wrong word - that would suggest that there was some sort of taste involved.
“Tomorrow is boiled cabbage soup, celery and Greek custard!” Mrs Ed will declare, squinting at the printout some evil associate from the same coven has sent her. “And you also have to drink 27 litres of water.”

I close my eyes and try to work out whether that's any improvement on the lima bean and tofu salad, raw beetroot and cod-liver oil tea I've just consumed, but all I can see is a steak pie flying past on crumbed chicken wings….

And Mrs Ed knows, oh she knows, if I have broken the rules. You see one thing that happens almost instantly to a WATGUS is that her sense of smell returns. After years of not even being able to pick up that dinner is incinerating at 2000 degrees right under her nose, Mrs Ed can now recognise the scent of a trout swimming upriver. So when it comes to whiffing out the slightest hint of that tiny little bag of slaptjips I guzzled at lunchtime, it's as easy as pie (the one I ate the day before) for her. Such rule-breaking is punishable by death, or worse. Dinner.

So if you see me in a week or two, and I seem like a mere strip of my former self (either because I have just finished a bag of green suppository beans or Mrs Ed has caught me chewing on an illegal block of wood, ripped my arm off and beaten me into submission with the soggy end), please give me an encouraging word and a soft pat on the back…. And perhaps, if you happen to have one about your person, a five tier peanut butter, cheese, bacon and Bovril sandwich!
I'd be mad if you didn't!

Heritage Day

We recently celebrated 'Heritage Day'. Well, others celebrated, and I, like every other 24th September, took a long, hard look at myself. No, not in the mirror. I only do that once a week these days because, well, it's not very pleasant any more.

Indeed if the truth be told, once I passed the ripe age of 45 I made it a personal policy to NEVER look at myself in the mirror, but then I came unstuck I had to start the 'once a week' check after the internet/ police station incident….

Did I tell you about that? The internet/ police station incident?

That was when my daughter posted (on facebook, not in the mail for those over 55) a series of pictures of our family swimming and sunbathing at Jubilee Creek during the Christmas holidays. Of course being the social media mogul that I am, I only saw them a month or so later, and immediately realized there was something horribly amiss. I printed them out and rushed to the police station.

“You may need to call in the Special Crimes Unit!” I blurted as I burst in. Slamming the pictures onto the counter under the desk sergeant's nose I demanded he instruct the whole detective squad to drop everything and set up a manhunt for the lecherous, balding, fat dude in the speedo who appeared in the background of every one of the photographs, sometimes in the near vicinity of my daughter!
“Look at this pervert, he's absolutely disgusting!” I babbled to the bemused man, “And so cunning! He's in all our pictures, yet I never saw him once, and I was there the whole day! Probably a sex starved stalker if you ask me.”

The desk sergeant looked at the pictures, then at me, then at the pictures, then back at me.

Then he started laughing. And laughing. And laughing.

So. Yes. I have started checking myself in the mirror, once a week, just to avoid any more embarrassing moments. I have also made a mental note to write to the manufacturers of Speedo costumes, because they are not supposed to shrink. Not that much.

Anyway, what was I talking about? Yes. Heritage Day. Having a long, hard, look at myself… and my heritage too.

You see I'm a bit of a rolling stone, I suppose, when it comes to heritage. No, I do not bear any resemblance to Mick Jagger (though Mrs Ed has won a prize or two in that arena), what I'm trying to say is I have no real roots. I am a displaced person. I have lost my origins, somewhere, somehow……….

So what is my Heritage? I was born in Birmingham, England but I left when I was six, so I have a very limited 'connection' with my birth place, other than the occasional, strange longing for boiled vegetables and bad cardigans.

Then followed three years in Zambia, but the only heritage I gathered there was one of American Hippy History (we went to an international school, at which it was exceptionally cool to grow long, greasy hair, wear no shoes, and say 'Wow, bro, that's, like, psychedelic!' I also got to learn the lyrics to every Simon & Garfunkel song ever written).

Then, for reasons of which I have very little knowledge (those cannabis plantation stories were just malicious rumours) my parents bundled the entire family (including all our worldly goods and the dog, but sans heritage) into a decrepit Combi, and drove us off down to Zim (then Rhodesia) where I spent the next 22 odd years. Ok, they weren't ALL odd.

So should I look for my heritage there? Hmmmm, I did learn how to drink beer from a 'vellie' (yes, I regret to confirm that it is indeed a shoe), AND to sit on my haunches (after consuming countless Vellie-fulls of amber nectar) round a fire and eat Sadza ne mtombos (mealie meal porridge and cow intestines), with the occasional addition of a mopane worm. I also learned a bit about braaiing….. but more about that later.

Sadly I don't think the president of that fine country really wants me to claim any heritage there at all. One look at my passport would doubtless convince him that I am a BREEETISH SPY WHO WOULD DENY AFRICA'S PROUD PIPPLE THEIR LEGARCE..

Alas. So now here I am, in 'home-country number four':- thoroughly happily living by the sea, and desperately trying to adopt a heritage. The Garden Route heritage. When I first looked at it (on www.choose-your-roots.com) I thought it might include interesting stuff like pot-hole decorating, satellite rugby refereeing and perhaps a tortoise-in-a-potjie recipe or two, but no, nothing of the sort. Indeed when you mention heritage in this area you only seem to get one answer:- braaiing .

And this is where I come unstuck (again?) because, well, it's not that I'm not a good braaier, it's just that 99% of the male population, and probably 93% of the female population, are better at it than me. And as social etiquette demands that the best braaier always gets the tongs, it stands to reason that I won't ever get the opportunity to improve my standings on the braai-ladder.

Let me explain, and forgive me for this little lesson in anthropology.

In England the braai serves a totally different social function. Firstly it's not even called braaing, and so it shouldn't be, when you think they only cook patties of suspicious origin (and that's out of the horse's mouth) and er, 'pork' sausages. When one takes into consideration that, other than mince, this is probably the only meat they've had since great Aunt Agnes accidentally dropped her fingernail in the plum pudding, one can understand that they still manage to whip up a bit of excitement about eating this. But the actual act of braaing, sorry, barbequing? Let's just say that 90% of the time it's done ‘solo’, in the rain and cold where it really is miserable and much more fun to be sitting inside with everyone else, sipping ale, humourously debating politics and discussing why the Australians are too Neanderthal to play cricket.

The bottom line is in England there is no 'queue' to barbeque.

In Zim we did a lot of braaing, and I pride myself that we could make braais out of anything (shopping trolleys and wheelbarrows included) and anywhere. But it was more 'coarse braaing'. Wood, matches, newspaper and, if it was a smart function, a grill.

Oh, and petrol.

Posh people who had contacts at the border post used 'firelighters', but behind their backs we'd always point out that such things made the meat taste odd.

I think what I'm saying is that braaing was a means to an end. You did it to cook your meat, so you could eat something nicer than 'mtombos' with your sadza.

But there was no such thing as a 'Braai- Master'.

So I fall somewhat short here in South Africa. I've tried. And failed. Numerous times. Indeed I thought I knew what I was doing until we had guests round for a braai on my first Heritage Day in South Africa. I hadn't met them - Mrs Ed had chatted to the wife a few times in the car park at the nursery school, but as we had been in Sedgefield a few months we thought we should make some sort of attempt to break into the local social circle.
“What on earth are you doing?” the husband squawked as he rounded the corner and found me standing over a wheelbarrow, frantically fanning two old planks, a handful of grass cuttings, a ripped up cornflake box and a damp cross-section of a log about 45cm in diameter. Admittedly I was quite convincingly disproving the well-known 'where there's smoke, there's fire' theory.
“Hi, pleased to meet…” I put out my hand to introduce myself, but the poor man was too distraught for formalities. I was murdering something he held sacred. I was insulting his forefathers. I was haemorrhaging his heritage.

Wincing, he snatched the tongs out of my hand, and tucked them under his arm. Then he started rebuilding my braai fire. My! But it was impressive. In less than seven minutes he had turned the whole fiasco around, with a neatly stacked, disciplined tower of blazing 'Hardekool' logs (of course “You can't get better braaiwood”, and, also of course, he had a bag of them in his car boot, for just such emergencies).

He was a very nice man, and didn't seem to have any problem with cooking ALL the meat. In fact he insisted (I must admit, his Wildebeast rump steaks, hung for three weeks in a cold room, marinated in his special braai sous for exactly 52 hours, then peppered with freshly ground spices and lightly brushed with olive oil, looked and smelled a lot nicer than our QF drumsticks and viennas). But he never handed me my tongs back. In fact I think he took them home with him. I'm sure I saw them there when we went to their's for a 'returrn braai' the next year. He suggested I be in charge of fetching the beers and buttering the bread for the 'braai-broodjies'. But just when I was falling into a head-hanging ‘I Have no Heritage’ pit of depression, he shouted after me.
“Hey bru', whaail you there, Chuck some choones on the Haai Faai. My Waaif's got a whole lot of lekker ol' music, so choose whadeveva you smock!”
“Aaaah,” I smiled, looking lovingly at the 'Simon & Garfunkel Live at Central Park' cassette tape I discovered hidden in her collection, “Bru? You know what? I think
I'd be mad if I didn't!”

Ha ha ha holiday

Dear Reader(s?),

Whilst I would hate to make anyone feel even the slightest twinge of jealousy, I feel it only right to point out that whilst writing this I am sitting in a little oasis, with the branches of an enormously beautiful Baobab tree shielding me ever-so-slightly from the heat of tropical afternoon sun, as I sip something my daughter describes as a Mojito through a landslide of crushed ice. 

No, we haven't had a lotto win, nor have we any connection with the recent criminal activity (actually a recently published identikit of a bank robber did bear an uncanny resemblance to Mrs Ed, except for the fact that the perpetrator was clean-shaven). By way of explanation, let me go back a few days……

 “We're going on Holiday!” announced Mrs Ed, somewhat matter-of-factly. She does that- makes these great proclamations as if there is an unending supply of money. Normally it's some sort of Cruise the Coast of Iceland ad she's found in a magazine, waxing lyrically about the never-to-be-repeated-value of only R275 000 per person, not including bar drinks or visas or laundry or vegetables beginning with 'c'.

 My response has always been, of course, a cool, calm, “Yes dear, let's plan it for next year June, just after we register the gold mining rights for the back porch,” because I know the idea of a holiday will swiftly wane into insignificance once them Credit Card monsters call again to threaten us with legal action (I have tirelessly pointed out that when I was at school, 'Outstanding' meant 'Distinguished from others by high levels of achievement', but will they listen?).

But this time Mrs Ed had a somewhat serious glint in her good eye.  And as she explained the situation to me it seemed that this SHI (Sudden Holiday Idea) might actually become a reality!

Apparently her aunt had mentioned that a great aunt living somewhere near the northern border with Zimbabwe had just turned 91, and had expressed a desire to meet the Garden Route Branch of her extended family. This great Aunt's son had passed this request on to us in an email, kindly mentioning that he would gladly accommodate the entire tribe. 

Understandably, the immediate response from the huge rabble of relatives living down here was a sensible 'Nay! Alas, 'tis too far, the fuel too costly and who can afford time away from work?' 

Of course the son graciously replied that though it was a shame, they fully understood. And just as a matter of interest, in case we were wondering what they were up to in the Limpopo Province, he attached the brochure of his luxury game ranch which, had we been able to come, we would have stayed at, with an air conditioned thatch cottage for each family, full and exclusive use of the large lapa / pub / braai area, hot and cold running servants,  and of course a swimming pool, jaccuzzi, games room and a jumping castle for the kids.

 “It's such a pity you won't be able to make it,” he added “I would imagine one or two of the men might have liked to do a bit of hunting, and we have a surplus of wildebeest....”

It was quite a feat, getting 17 of us into two vehicles, but somehow we managed. Actually I think if there had been 170 of us it still would have been managed.  The offer of wildebeest was the clincher, as it resulted in the two 'hunters' in the family swiftly stepping in and arranging everything with crack-shot accuracy. In a matter of minutes the planning, packing and allocation of space per passenger were processed  - Indeed, the first time I had witnessed the efficiency brought on by what I now call 'The Call of the Hunt'.

Let me explain. You see I don't have  'The Call of the Hunt'  in me.  I think it's something you either have or don't.  I imagine that if the world as we know it suddenly reverted back to the 'hunter-gatherer’ age I would be the skinny dude playing cards with a kudu in the hope that I could get him to bet his left hind quarter on a pair of twos.

But let's not go into any 'should or should not hunt' debate here.  I am not qualified to do that as I am what you call an 'end user', in that I really do love game biltong.  Being also a fan of the idea of wildlife loping majestically across the plains and forests of Africa, up until now I have had to convince myself that this delicious delicacy simply grows on trees.

But I digress.  What I am trying to say here is that this Call of the hunt was VERY strong for some members of the family, hence the  military-style, synchronise-your- watches organisation of our trip. The journey, they surmised, would take 17 hours maximum.

It took us 27. I watched with interest as the best-made plans of our trip North went south. Indeed the hunters could not hold in their frustration.
“It's like this family is one big directionless amoeba!” my one seething brother in law spat at about the 47th stop.  The other brother-in-law could not add anything - he was too busy leaping up and down the back of the trailer like a wild thing, brandishing his hunting knife in the hopes that he could prevent anymore unwarranted unpacking by passengers. I truly thought that he was seconds away from loading his rifle.

The amoeba theory had some merit.  Sometimes only half an hour away from the previous stop a desperate plea for the toilet, or a cigarette, or a leg stretch would emanate from the depths of one of the vehicles.  The nearest petrol stop would be reached and, after strict instructions to 'Please. PLEASE make it quick' bodies would pour out every door and gather in one big central cell.  This cell would ooze towards the main building and bisect itself into the gents and ladies toilets. But on its return part of the cell would see something of interest in the shop and head in that direction… and, feeling this gentle pull to the side, the rest would simply ooze after it. 

And then the ‘cell division’ would start. Every aisle would be full of our passengers - as if no-one had ever been into a shop before.

Frantic dashes ensued.  Back to vehicles to ask for money. Back into the shop. Back again to ask a cousin if it was the grape Fanta or the traditional orange Fanta she wanted. Back in again, then out to the car to find moral support for the rather risqué sunglass purchase “Do they really suit me? Really?  You promise? Really? Hang on, let me get my t-shirt out the bag in the trailer to make sure they match..”


To put it simply, getting everyone back into the vehicles was like herding 16 oiled penguins into a small crate with unlocked sideflaps.  No one really wanted to get back in, and once in, noone ever stayed there if the car wasn't moving.

And so it continued.  For more than an entire calendar day's driving. ......

I must say, it was certainly nice that we eventually also got to see the gentler side of the hunters' characters.  I think the original plan was that we would arrive at the ranch at about 5pm, just in time for them to make a camouflage-coated, weapon-blazing dash into the veldt,and perhaps, er…. pick some biltong.  But in reality it was after midnight when we got there, and anyway by that time they were in no state to hunt, each curled up in the foetal position, sucking their thumbs and gently weeping real tears, as their wives sympathetically stroked their foreheads and promised them no, there weren't going to be ANY more stops…….

But alas, I need to leave you now, dear reader, as the pool beckons, my Mojito is depleted, and I feel the need to perhaps chew on another stick of fruit from the biltong tree.  I'd be mad if I didn't!

It's raining it's pouring...

An odd question, perhaps, but might I ask where we stand at the moment, regarding rain? Can anyone tell me?

You see I have a theory:- we are so used to needing it that when it finds its way into our everyday conversation, we kind of sound like stuck record players .... oops- uhhhm - scratched CDs?

This struck me like a rainsoaked rabbit the other morning when I bumped into someone outside the bank (these days I tend to hang around outside - firstly because I hope that someone might drop a bit of money, and secondly there's that restraining order…)

(Its unfair, really, I have explained to the manager that my visiting his house at three thirty in the morning to request another extension on my overdraft was simply my idea of 'moving forward', but he just won't drop it - something about my singing scaring his wife and children - which is absolute rubbish because I KNOW I sound quite impressive after six or so beers.)

Anyway where was I? Oh yes, bumping into someone outside the bank - one of the few people who I don't owe money (he'd been away for a month) which made it a more pleasant experience... well it would have, if it hadn't been 'raining old maids with knopkieries' (so much more descriptive than 'cats and dogs'.)

(Incidentally, many of you may have read that 'raining cats and dogs' came from the old times when domestic animals had to sleep in amongst the thatching on the roof to keep warm. Apparently when it rained hard enough the thatch became slippery and they slid out and plopped down to the floor, hence anyone looking through the window would remark 'It's raining cats and dogs'. Now the old Afrikaans saying 'Dit reën ou meide met knopkieries' makes me think that perhaps, in bygone times, the 'early settler' men were courageous enough to send their mothers-in-law to sleep amongst the cats and dogs in the thatch, which, let's face it, would make for a far more entertaining thunderstorm.)

But I digress. Sorry. I tend to do that. It drives Mrs Ed mad, of course (though I've oft commented, under my breath of course, that it's not a very long drive) but I, personally, don't think digressing a serious problem - certainly not worth all the bruises on my arm .

Come to think of it, at least I'm not REgressing which would mean I'm going backwards. And if there was such a thing as 'UNgressing' which would be the appropriate word for TOTALLY changing the subject, then that would be Mrs Ed's thing.

Indeed I'm willing to bet my entire over-draft that she would be the unchallenged Queen of Ungress, year in year out. She has it perfected, especially when we're in one of those very rare arguments that I may be close to winning…
“But my darling love-dragon,” I will say, very calmly of course, “The horrendous smell in the kitchen IS your fault. You are the one who put the frozen chicken into the oven, STILL ON ITS POLYSTYRENE TRAY and left it on at 400 degrees… ALL DAY!”
“Yes,” she will scream in reply, “But when was the last time you bought me flowers?”

Anyway. Back to the rain. Be it old maids armed to the teeth with clubs or a canine/feline combo, on that particular day it was pouring, which is why we bumped into one another this man and I - because we could barely see three feet in front of us (I used feet instead of metres because he is quite a bit older than me). Of course we tried to exchange pleasantries, but the rain and the howling wind made conversation almost impossible.
“……….. on the rocks,' I caught, as we ducked into a doorway.
“Whiskey?” I answered, “What a splendid idea, thank you very much - that would be a perfect warmer-upper.”

Apparently this confused him somewhat. I realised why when I discovered that he had been talking about the Kiani Satu, which was still aground at the time.

Eventually we moved onto the embarrassed silence that happens when two men run out of conversation, or one of them is convinced that the other is about to ask for a loan.
“How about this weather?” he said.
“Yes isn't it appalling?” I answered.
And that's when he uttered that standard answer, before making a hasty exit. “We need it though, don't we?” he grunted dashing across the road before I could answer.
“Er... Yes, I suppose we do. Talking of needs……could I…..” but it was too late, he was already in his car and reversing out, doing everything possible to avoid eye contact.

So I stood there like a damp hamster would, if it was wet and had the habit of hanging around financial institutions. And that was when it hit me. Not the hamster. The rain talk. Why would we need it? It had been storming for six days. Ships were crashing for goodness sake. They had brought in a heavy duty waterpump to try and stop people mooring their boats on the road outside the school!

But somehow we always say “Phew! We need it” every time it rains. Do we? Need it I mean? Has someone checked with the farmers? They could well be standing around wondering how they are going to get Blossom the milk cow out of the mud, or whether they should choose the tractor or bass boat to harvest the apples?

I do realise I may be appearing somewhat selfish here, so please don't get me wrong. If we need the rain then I'm all for it ….let it pour and pour and pour again…

But. Not. In. My. Office. PLEASE!

Yes. Alas, alack, Our new premises suffers from Porous Roof, and it does make it VERY hard to concentrate. The constant drip drip drip ON MY HEAD is more torture than… than… than Mrs Ed singing (her version of) Bon Jovi's Bed of Roses over and over again. (Should I take this opportunity to apologise to my neighbours?)

Of course I have tried shifting my desk around, but every time the wind changes, so the leaks seem to move. It's as if they are following me.

The other evening I had to work late to get the paper out, and it was really bucketing down, inside and out! This left me no option but to take my life into my own hands, if only to save all our computer equipment… and my sanity. So, acutely aware of the danger (one slip on the wet corrugated iron might send her crashing through the roof on top of me!) I bravely sent Mrs Ed up there with a handbag full of putty to try and block the holes up. It was terrifying! Her footsteps on the uneven roof sheets combined with the flapping of her over-alls in the high winds were enough to drown out even the thunder.

I would love to report that she managed to block all the leaks, and we all lived happily ever after… but she didn't.

In fact the only hole she managed to close up was the one just under the nose of a truck driver who had stopped his eighteen wheeler on the road just down from our office. Apparently a huge bolt of lightening had flashed just as had driven past, and seeing the vision of a handbag-brandishing Mrs Ed seemingly hovering under an umbrella at single story level had been quite a religious experience for him.

Mesmerised, he climbed out his cab and stood in the shelter of our doorway, as if it were a holy shrine. Whilst Mrs Ed clambered down the ladder I tried to explain to him that she had been on the roof trying to fix the leaks brought on by the torrential rain.
“Oh, I see,” he eventually said, rather disappointed that it had not been Mary Poppins after all, “Still.... The rain - we need, it don't we.”

I suppose it was a bit careless of Mrs Ed, swinging her handbag round like that, especially as it was still half full of putty. Apparently lips do tend to bleed a lot, but I'm sure in a day or two the swelling will have dropped and the man will be able to speak normally. He was very nice about signing the bit of paper stating that it had all been a simple accident.

Mind you, with Mrs Ed still swinging her bag above her head…
He'd be mad if he didn't!

Matric- Farewell..... to money

Woe is me!
Last week my daughter, The MCM (Money Consuming Machine) attended her MATRIC DANCE. I spell it in capitals because Capital is what it's all about. A LOT of capital. EISH!

“It's like a bottomless pit,” I said to Mrs Ed one evening a few days before the BIG event. I was watching her stuff envelopes with one hand (to raise money for the matric dance shoes) and do someone's ironing with the other (to raise money for the matric hairstyling). I of course was busy on the couch with my TV data research which I intend to sell to advertisers (in aid of the matric dress) once it is complete.

Mrs Ed just grunted and, in that non-committal, I'm-too-busy-for-your-idiotic-banter way of hers, spat out a wad of chewing tobacco into her makeshift spittoon. She had to use the stuff because her hands were just too busy for cigarettes. She was already way behind in the magazine packing she had taken on to raise money for the matric nail treatment.

“Perhaps I could get another loan,” I thought out loud, kind of continuing an earlier conversation about how we could pay back the loan we had already taken for the Matric dress, should my TV research not come to anything, “Last time I met with the bank manager he was quite friendly.”
“He tried to run you over,” she mumbled through her beard. (Alas, there's just been no time for shaving or money for razor blades.)
“ No, I'm sure that big swerve he did onto the pavement was just a mistake. I distinctly saw him waving at me, in a most friendly fashion.”
“The man was waving his fist,” she sighed, spitting again, “Apparently the cheque you sent him to cover the overdraft bounced.”

I would not be moved (it is the World's Most Comfortable Couch after all), and instead decided to regurgitate a previous heated discussion.
“What is it about the Matric Dance, that everything has to be so darn fancy schmancy?” I asked. “In my day we had to go in school uniform. And I rode there on my bicycle!”
“It was MY bicycle,” she reminded me, “And you sat on the carrier and made me pedal!”
I changed the subject, not wanting to go down that road again (in case she made ME pedal this time) “But NOW,” I offered sarcastically, “NOW we have to buy a matric dress that costs more than a small aircraft. Will she ever wear it again? Should I get it insured for theft or are you going to donate it to a third world hunger scheme when the dance is over?” There was no stopping me. Of course she had heard it all before, so I wasn't surprised when she left the room to get the next bag of “And the shoes? You aren't going to even SEE them under the dress. Why she couldn't have worn her tommy takkies I don't know…..” But without an audience I lost steam, and eventually lay back and closed my eyes…. “How on Earth did a simple dance get so out of control,” I thought, as sleep crept in… “There must be a story behind it….”

Once upon a time, long long ago, in a land far, far away, the king decreed that young men should mark the end of their final year at school with a great feast .
“There shalt be a night of much music and dancing and general misbehaviour!” he said.
And so it was for some years, and the men didst enjoy, by themselves, the end of school celebrations.

But then one brave young man approached his head tutor, Sir Matthew Rick, with a humble request.
“Forsooth!” he exclaimed “Verily we implore ye sire. Whilst we thoroughly look forward to the imbibing of good mead, the fine platters of meat and of course the dwarf tossing competition, we gather that dancing with other men hath become somewhat 'last year'. Surely 'tis time whence one or two lowly maidens from the domestic training school should be summonsed to attendeth so that we may at least keep abreast with the eighteenth century?”

And so the head tutor decreed that young maids-in-training should be ordered to attend the celebration, but on condition that they fully covered themselves in sack cloth, so as to avoid temptation of the boisterous lads. And so it went, and a merry time was had by the young men at least.

But the following year one courageous young filly bespoke a request of her own to the head tutor, no doubt batting her eyelids as she did.
“Sire, this course sack cloth doth make us itch, and our erratic scratching movements will surely be off-putting to the young men. If it pleaseth thou, if only for their sake, may we not forgo such uncomfortable attire and rather drape ourselves in thick canvas or hemp, lest our dance moves deteriorate further?”

And, quite taken aback by her brazen attitude, the flustered man didst permit this to come to pass, not realizing what monster he was creating for the future.

Word of his weakness for a sweet smile was passed on from class to class, and as each year's celebration approached, more and more young lasses' presented their subtle and oft sly requests. Most were granted, and there was change in the land.

“Mayest we no longer be forced to arrive at the dance in the sewage transport cart, as it dost make us rather odorous partners for the young men?” suggested one damsel.
“Perhaps each of us could be assigned a partner so that the young men no longer injure their noble selves in the squabble over us lowly maidens?” another asked the following year.
“Alas, we useless wenches are shorter than most of the young men. Verily are we willing to bear the pain of wearing shoes built up in height to make us more suitable partners, should thou permit?” said a third the year after that.
“Lest the fine young men should find us ugly and unbearable to look at, would thou permit us to humbly sacrifice our dignity and allow the torturous application of paint to our faces and nails, and the use of heat in styling our modest locks of hair…..” a fourth offered generously.

And so, a new tradition of co-ed or 'Matric' school dances (named after that first head tutor), began. At first they blossomed into fun events, and a good time was had by all. But then, as each year further suggestions from the young lasses were met, the dances grew out of control.

For years parents knew nothing of the trouble that was brewing, but eventually the school could no longer afford to fund the ever-increasing costs attached to the maidens ever-increasing requests, and the lasses were forced to turn to their families for help.
“Papa, I beseech thee! Matilda hath been granted monies to purchase a bodice in the finest of imported woven cotton for the dance, and I wouldst not let anyone think that her father be more generous of heart than thee? May I have leave to visit the bank manager with your note for a little withdrawal? Pretty please dear papa?”……..

“Pater, I am bereft! Wendy and Michael hath been granted permission to arrive in his uncle's gilded carriage drawn by six of the finest Arabian stallions! Can we not arrange transport with more horsepower so that my partner and I may not dieth in agony of embarrassment?”…

But back to my daughter's Matric dance. Of course when the day arrived it was all SO worth it in the end. When my darling little MCM stepped out all grown up in her gorgeous flowing gown, I couldn't have been a more proud father, and must confess a tear or two did escape from my eye.......

Later on, when all the fuss was over and I was back on the couch, it brought to mind a Visa ad campaign I remember seeing on tv. (NB the prices are taken from memory, so might not be 100% accurate .)

“Matric shoes: R350
Matric Dress: A quarter of a billion Rand
Matric facial treatment, make up and manicure: 320 billion Rand
Hire of Rolls Royce to take my daughter to her Matric dance: 400 gazzillion Rand.

The look on my bank manager's face when he realizes I managed to extend my overdraft on the internet to 'pay' for all this…. PRICELESS!

But not all tales of princesses have a happy ending. Just when I was enjoying the fact that is was all over, bar the paying, a more experienced father chose to shatter my dreams.
“Ha ha,” he chuckled annoyingly, “You think the matric farewell is expensive? Wait until she gets married!”

I think I'm going to dig that bottomless pit and crawl into it for ten years or so, perhaps I might even look for gold?
I'd be mad if I didn't!

Wife number 2?

Now it was recently Mrs Ed's birthday, and being a creature of habit, I forgot until the last moment. No, not the last moment like 'the day before', or 'the night before' or even 'the hour before'. I mean the REAL last LAST moment. The split second when the memory hits your face like a soggy frog, just as you open your eyes for the first time that day. “OH MY GOSH! IT'S HER BIRTHDAY!” Of course being the coward that I am, my usual modus operandi is a mad, scrambling effort to leave the house through a window, or by removing a few roof tiles, and rushing to the nearest shops (NB the ones attached to petrol stations are open 24hrs) and back, so that I can nonchalantly wander into the kitchen before she even knows I'm gone, with a very attractive five litre can of multigrade oil, a new set of wiper blades and a PS bar chocolate bar - you know the ones with a message on the wrapper (if one is lucky one can find one with a 'Happy Birthday', or an 'I Love You', but sometimes one gets stuck with more vague birthday greetings, such as 'Missing You', or 'Good Luck for Your Exams' which need a lot more creative explanation.) But this year I was not blessed with so much time. The fact that Mrs Ed was standing over me, with her not-very-happy-birthday face glaring down, inches from mine, made me realise my options were even more limited than usual. I had to think fast. “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” I squawked, “Um…. Did it arrive?” “What?” she parried, leaving me a beautiful, snivelling gap. “I can't tell you 'what' because (I haven't thought of it yet) then it wouldn't be a surprise, now would it?” Ooooh I am getting so good at this! Evidently not quite good enough. I could see by the fierce look in her good eye and the Charles Bronson twitch of her moustache that further explanation was required. I had to dig deep, and quickly too. “I've ordered you something over the internet, and it was supposed to arrive first thing,” was what I blurted out. Pausing for reflection, I solefully added “I can't believe that courier company. Tsk tsk.” The last bit of the sentence was, of course, the 'break eye contact phrase' which history has taught me is exceptionally useful in matters of self defense. A lot like the lesser wolf drops his gaze from that of the Matriarch so as to avoid getting his throat torn open. And so, apart from the ten minutes dedicated to angry shouting about poor service to the poor non-existent manager of the non existant courier company who wasn't really on the other end of the line, I spent a good portion of the day secretly perusing the internet, trying to find something that was a) cheap, b) not available locally and c) a practical birthday gift for Mrs Ed. I was just about to log off the www.discountgardentrowels.com website, when I spotted something out the corner of my eye. It was one of those internet ads that jump around and annoy people, but the wording got my attention. Online order - satisfaction guaranteed! Hmmmmm. In desperation I clicked on it. At first my heart sank:- at face value the website - www.russian brides.com - didn't look like it would solve my immediate problem at all…. But then I started thinking out of the box…. Maybe it would! In fact, maybe it would kill two birds with one stone! Just because I'm such a sensible person, I quickly read the 'Genuine comments from genuine customers' section. Keith Maniac from Piddle-on-Tyme, Gloucester had this to say: “Make no mistake, these Russian brides are here to meet a man like you. My new wife was desperate for just a little of the security, love and affection that Western women take for granted, and she found that in me. There's no doubt that the right Russian bride for you will treat you like the king of your own home.” Just above this was a big button that said 'Click here to meet a selection of Russian Brides, waiting to hear from you' I hesitated. One should really not judge a book by its cover, thus I had to steel myself so that the pictures I was about to see (no doubt of poor, hard weathered, be-muscled and sullen Russian housewives, desperate to improve their lot in life) wouldn't affect my purchase decision. Click. My giddy aunt! If these were the 'unhappy, down trodden, desperate for marriage, Moscow maidens', then something must be seriously wrong with the eyesight of the Russian male population. Either that or the happy women in that country must be absolutely exquisite! Of course I had to think practically, but it all started to make good sense. Mrs Ed was always saying she was tired of housework, and could really do with some help with all the cooking and cleaning (apparently lifting my feet as she vacuums underneath them is not considered real help), and here was poor 'Alyona' a rather busty blonde lady of 25, who the Russian Bride agency claimed was 'A queen of Russian cuisine' and 'Can't wait to make her new western home as spotless as the Tsar's palace'! What better help could Mrs Ed ask for? One presumes the Eastern woman is reasonably tough, judging by the photograph - no weakling would be brave enough to wear a bikini like that in the freezing Russian temperatures, would they? The logistics were a bit tricky. Obviously I wanted to keep the gift a surprise for Mrs Ed, so I had to forge her signature on the consent form for me to take on (by traditional law of course) a second wife (understandably the Russian ladies want to know they are being taken seriously before leaving their simple village lives for greener pastures). Fortunately the website had the paperwork which I could print, sign, scan and send back, along with details of our (Mrs Ed's) credit card for what they call sundry agency fees (no more than $15 according to the Russian BridesFAQ section). It's so exciting! According to a personalised email from Russian Bride CEO (what good service!) Don Duckerman, my new fiance will be arriving soon for a trial visit, just to check whether I am happy with her work before officially 'tying the knot'. And I know he's not lying because this morning I got an email from Alyona herself. She says she can't wait to meet me, and was happy to spend all her savings on her air fare, but if I could just transfer some money (she suggested about four hundred US dollars) into her parents' account so they and her little brothers won't starve whilst she is visiting me (thoughtful girl), she will be on her way! I can't wait to see Mrs Ed's face when her new 'kitchen sister' arrives! Once she gets used to her youthful looks and husky foreign accent, I'm sure she'll like her,

It's just a head cold, REALLY!

Go away already!

Sorry, dear reader, I don't mean you, though it may be in your interests to keep a safe distance.

I'm talking about my cold.  As the saying goes - I have a colt in by dose and a coffin by chest.  Exceptionally annoying, because I have only recently got rid of the last one.

Of course  I categorically state that it's NOT The Flu'.  I have already written extensively about my dislike for the flippant way people with head colds always claim they have a bout of the dreaded influenza.  It makes Flu' seem like something ridiculously mild, like a paper cut or an in-growing nostril hair.
(“Oooh, I had a flu' earlier today, just before tea, but it's gone now.”) 

What I have is just a bad cold.  An annoying cold.  It's that sort of cold that makes your life a misery, then lies dormant in your system for a while, perhaps giving  you enough time to hug and kiss your family and friends, thus converting them into miserable sneezing and coughing wretches, and then returns when you least expect it. BAM!

And the sad thing is that, as bad as a cold gets, it's not serious enough.

Really. It's  not serious enough to put you on your back and have your family waiting on you hand and foot. 
It's not serious enough to cause friends and acquaintances and perhaps the chairlady of the 'Sedgefeld Bobotie Guild' to queue at your door with steamingly delicious dishes and pots of health-giving chicken soup that Mrs Ed thankfully didn't cook.
It's not serous enough to allow you to set up camp on the WMCC (World's Most Comfortable Couch) and watch your whole 17hour Bay-Watch collection whilst your family goes to school / work before coming home to make you tea and mop your forehead.

No, it's what I call a 'Debilit Cold'. In other words it's only half debilitating.

You don't want to do anything, and you don't want to do nothing.

I hate being in the 'twilight Zone' of health.  Really.  I get so grumpy  I'm like Mrs Ed woken up from hibernation with a migraine. Talking of Mrs Ed, she often thinks that having a cold affects my hearing, but that's just something I let her believe, because it's safer that way, isn't it? 

Why? Ask any man.  When you have an annoying head cold you really have to take the time to choose your answers.

For example, rushing into an answer to the simple question “How are you feeling?” can cause no end of problems.  If you answer
“Oooh, terrible!”, you will most likely be hit with
“Well it would be really silly to be going out in the cold to watch rugby at the pub, now wouldn't it? I think you should really stay home and go to bed.  Come on, up you go….”
Or worse yet:
“Ok, you need to swallow these two pills…. Done? Ok, now remember you cannot have any beer at all for the next 24 hours because the alcohol will react with the medication and you will die a sad and agonizing death.”

With this in mind the temptation is to go with the more heroic answer when hit with that question, and blurt out
“I'm absolutely fine thank you.   On top of the world!”

But then you can be pretty sure the response will  be
“I'm so glad you are feeling better, my Sweet  I hate it when you are ill, and you've got so much to catch up on! Now you can take the rubbish out, and mow the lawn, and I really feel we need to start moving furniture about, just the really heavy stuff and only for a couple of hours or so, until I realize that it was perfect the way we had it in the first place….”

Or the agonizing
“So you can come with us?  That's fantastic! We're going on a family shopping trip to George to find the MCM (Money Consuming Machine)  a Matric dress, and shoes, and I need an outfit for your niece's wedding, and there's new stock in the nurseries now, and I'd like to buy PERFECT birthday presents for 16 of my friends you don't know, not to mention the 487 hours (or until death, which ever comes first) I will want to spend browsing around that shop of absolutely no consequence or interest at all except that it gives you a rather interesting urge to chew off your own arm…….”   

So it really is a lose  lose situation, having a cold.  And of course it plays havoc with all the best plans, doesn't it?  I was once warned that even the mildest cough can render any sort of athletic activity fatal!
 
“LISTEN TO YOUR BODY!” all the top sports medical advisors say.

So, being the serious athlete that I am, when I woke up at five thirty on Saturday morning and thought Wow, wouldn't it be nice to leap out of bed and do a 20km run, and perhaps swim across the lagoon, followed by a mountain bike ride to George, over the steep, back passes of course, what happened? I had to fight off the urge, naturally-  having a cold and a tight chest made it just too dangerous, I HAD TO LISTEN TO MY BODY. 

So in a fit of depression all I could do was roll over and force myself to go back to sleep, until about 11am.. 

Even then I couldn't even help Mrs Ed make the bed, or wash the dishes   it would have been just too risky!

Don't you feel sorry for me?  Worse yet, when I spoke to my body after lunch, it said it really felt I had to relax for a while in the horizontal position, and cancel all my exciting Saturday afternoon plans to clear out the garage. This was most disappointing because the old bearded dragon had been on at me for months to sort the garage out. It has admittedly been a total mess for the last fourteen years and we do now need somewhere to park the replacement Edgemobile out of rust's way.  So, as a special treat to Mrs Ed (as I tried to explain to her)  I had set aside the afternoon and the whole of Sunday to pack everything neatly in boxes,  throw away all the old appliances, clear out all the expired paint tins and hang my tools up in alphabetical order….. really I had! 

“But now I can't do it, my love” I murmured weakly to her from the folds of my hammock “I HAVE TO LISTEN TO MY BODY.” To emphasise my point I closed  my eyes in a grimace of disappointed discomfort, and lay back, breathing heavily through my mouth.
  “Of course you do,” she smiled, dropping several pills down my throat before I could splutter an objection, “Of course you do…” she said again as she grabbed the freshly opened quart of amber nectar from the table next to me and poured it out over the flower bed, “I fully understand that you have to listen to your body,” she said as she nonchalantly pulled on the hammock rope knot, collapsing me into an aching heap on the floor.
"Tell me, what's it saying now?"
"It says it thinks you might have just broken its back..." was all I could groan.

Buying a car..ar..ar..ar

After being out of the 'Car Purchasing Market' for the last 10 years, the sad loss of our trusty delivery vehicle  the Edge-mobile necessitated me venturing back in.

Being the techno-minded man that I am (I can sms, bbm and sometimes even manage to answer my cell phone without cutting the caller off) the first place I looked for a potential replacement vehicle (after the EDGE classifieds of course) was the Wobbleyou Wobbleyou Wobbleyou. The interweb.  And wow, was I IMPRESSED!  It makes it all so simple that even a mechanically challenged buffoon like me can find any sort of vehicle he wants … and there are so many wonderful bargains to choose from. 

Or so I thought…..

After making note of numerous likely vehicles I finally chose the one that I believed would suit our needs… and boy did it look great. A 2nd hand, customized Ford F650 XLT V10 gas pickup, in shiny black with flames painted on the sides!  “All the truck a man could need plus extras, for only 30 Grand”  the advert read.

I deftly clicked on 'email seller' and asked the usual intelligent questions….
Did the furry dice hanging on the mirror and the horns mounted on the bonnet come with the vehicle?
Was it really as wide as it appeared in the picture? 
I also asked if he was aware that he had mistakenly flipped this picture in his advert which made it look like the steering was on the wrong side.

Having clicked 'send' I waited for a swift reply, all the while doing a bit of research to see where Algansee was on the map.  With such an Afrikaans name I hoped it was somewhere in the Cape so I would be able to bus there, pick up the pick-up, and drive back, all within a couple of days. 

But I had to wait until the following morning before a message landed in my inbox.  Apparently Algansee, Michigan, USA (population 2,061) is in a different time zone to us.  And, as the seller pointed out (With a tad too much unwarranted sarcasm, I thought), even if I was prepared to pay him thirty grand (US Dollars!) for the pick-up, at only 12 miles to the gallon it might cost me a tidy sum more to drive the wretched thing back.

Who wants a vehicle with a naked lady painted on the front anyway?
 
So I resumed my WWW quest, this time asking Uncle Google to limit his search to 'vehicles for sale in the Garden Route, South Africa'.  I must say this bought my options down somewhat, but there were a few available, and though they were certainly no Ford F650XLT's (and not one of them had any sort of flame motif) there were some that looked like they might serve the purpose, if the pictures were anything to go by….
 
Unfortunately, however, the same 'simplicity' that the internet offers car buyers, applies to some of  the sellers too.   Any buffoon, it seems, can SELL a car on the internet. One would have thought that there would be some sort of IQ test that one would have to pass before becoming an online vehicle marketer… but alas no.  In fact, after a while I started thinking that perhaps 'Buffoonery' was a pre-requisite for selling a vehicle on the internet.

“Hello? I'm phoning about the advert for the Ford Bantam….” 
“Er… Ja”  
“Your advertisement says good condition, no rust , engine needs a little TLC…. What would that mean    Does it need cleaning?  A bit of paint?  Or is it something worse, like replacing an air filter or something?” (Being under the impression that TLC was an acronym for Tender Loving Care, I was secretly hoping all I had to do was immerse the engine in a nice hot tub with bath salts, rub its back for a while and perhaps bring it a cup of Horlicks)
“No man, the engine's good.  It's er… not got any problems… it's just the gearbox.”  
“Oh, the gearbox needs TLC?”
“No… The engine needs a gearbox.”

And so it went, from vehicle to vehicle, seller to seller. 

“Hello? The VW Caddy you advertised on the net?” 
“Yes sir?”  “It says brilliant condition?” 
“Yes sir, absolutely top condition.  Not even a scratch, and the engine - one of the best runners I've ever had.”  “Great! No TLC needed?” 
“No sir!”  “Perfect.  Well I am very interested, just tell me one more thing… ummm… if you don't mind me asking…. Is the gearbox all ok… I mean, it has one, I take it?” 
“Of course sir, it certainly did,”  
“Great!  Hang on….   Did you say 'did'?  Does the engine not have a gearbox anymore?” 
“Of course it does sir, I saw the vehicle going past the other day and she looked to be driving fine!”  “I'm not with you…. You saw it….?” 
"Yes sir, the lady I sold it too last January was driving… Actually I can't believe that advertisement is still on the net….”

Eventually I found a man who made sense.   He ran a second hand car spot in Oudtshoorn and had two vehicles that would certainly suit my needs.  I must say, the pictures were pretty impressive, as was his guarantee.
“My reputation depends on supplying quality vehicles.  Come and drive one of these babies and you will not be disappointed!” he said.

So I took the Friday off and, with my Brother in Law at my side for company (I had convinced him that it was really going to be a matter of choosing between the two immaculate vehicles, then back over the mountain again for an ice cold beer), off we went to the Ostrich Capital of the World.

Incidentally.  You know there's a rumour that the swim-wear models in FHM are quite different to how they appear in the magazine, because all the photographs have been cunningly airbrushed to make them look thinner, more curvaceous and blemish-free….?

 Well I think I've found the man who does it.  I think he supplements his meagre airbrushing salary by selling vehicles in Oudtshoorn. 
“Is this the Bantam that was in the picture?” I asked incredulously (It's amazing what disbelief can do - Before arriving in Oudtshoorn I couldn't even SPELL  incredulously, and there I was ASKING in it).

“Yes sir,” he smiled, “A real work-horse.  These bakkies never ever break down.  And now I've rebuilt the engine, and gear box and done the brakes, all she needs is a lick of paint and you'll be home free.” 
“A lick of… Where is the tailgate?... and the passenger door…?  Do I need to paint those on, perhaps? Can I paint over this gaping crater in the driver's seat upholstery, do you think?” (Any John Cleese fans out there will be able to imagine the slightly sarcastic lilt I added to my voice at that stage).

But we had come all the way to Oudtshoorn, so I had to abandon my immediate urge to insert a well-worn spark plug into the man's left nostril, and concentrate on the job at hand.  
“What about the other bakkie?  The Nissan 1400 you advertised,” I asked, ever-hopeful. 
“Ah sir… you will have to move quickly on that one,” he oozed, sauntering betwixt the mechanical debris to a back courtyard, 
“There are two or three others interested in her,   but I know how desperate your need is, sir so I have held them off for a while.”

We stopped at a pile of old metal and rubber which had obviously dropped out of the sky onto one of his staff, because a pair of overalled legs was sticking out from underneath. 
“Here it is,” the salesman said, seemingly oblivious of the man's fate and proudly waving his hand in the direction of said pile. “Our mechanic is just giving the gearbox a little TLC, and then it's just the clutch,  the tie rod ends, the respray and a tune up - she'll be good to go by Monday! You will have to buy new tyres though sir, we had to take the old ones off for the Bantam you were looking at earlier…..” His eyes widened as my brother-in-law and I advanced toward him.
“Sir?  What are you doing with that Sir?  SIR!”

Our trip to Oudtshoorn was successful in the end. We eventually found a nice honest man who sold us the perfect replacement for the EDGE-mobile - a lovely little white bakkie - pretty as a picture she is!
  
And the other fellow?  …. I don't think for a moment that the spark plug did any permanent damage.  And even if there is the slight hint of scarring around his nostril the next time he poses for a family portrait,  he's perfectly capable of airbrushing it out…

Edgemobile Epitaph

"If you can't get me a week in Mauritius with Katie Melua, I want a new car for Father's Day,” I said, but I don't think they were really listening.
 
Our whole family was together again.  Indeed in special father's Day appreciation, my son, The REE (Resident Expert on Everything), had popped home for the weekend….. with eight friends from his college.
 
It was an educational visit -  for me, that is,  because when my son had told me that in his class you could find ALL SORTS of personal ‘Anti-establishment statements’ -  tattoos, body piercings and even dreadlock hair, I  hadn't realized that they were all on one person -  himself.
 
Honestly, his eight friends seemed perfectly normal.  In fact I think they were quite disappointed when they arrived -  they had come all the way from Cape Town to see the weird dude's 'old ballies', only to discover that we were just average-looking Joes………..  (Mrs Ed’s Bon Jovi tramp stamp is still in its planning stages)

But I digress.  Perhaps I am still in shock.  Why was I asking for a new car?
 
Aaaahhhh. Because we have been struck with bad news.

Alas!  Alack! 'Tis  with a heavy heart that I have to tell you that The EDGEMOBILE is no more.  Yes!  Our lovely old, white (and rust) family / business Toyota Stallion was involved in an accident (or 'a little bump' as the driver called it at the time) on the way back from her fortnightly soirée to Port Elizabeth where she fetches our newspapers.   I won't go into the oil-thirsty details, but she and the barrier at the toll booth had a disagreement, and our old girl lost.

And I must say I do feel rather guilty…. Why?

Well, in last issue of this paper, indeed in this very column, I frivolously mentioned her without the due respect she deserved, without even the inkling of a hint of the love we have for her, for the special place she held in our hearts….

That was the same issue of The EDGE she was carrying when she took that fateful 'shot left' and rammed her front end into the merciless metal barrier.  Perhaps it was intentional?  Perhaps she was tired and thought that the 300 000km+ she had on the clock was enough mileage for one 1800cc motor  and, with no retirement in sight, it was time for her to take drastic measures....?

The driver called me early in the morning to tell me the tale, but instead of shocking me out of my deep slumber with such tragic news, he 'Zimmed' it for me.  I'm not even sure if he is a Zimbabwean, - maybe he knew I was, and did it as a sign of respect.

“Zimmed”? 
 
Oh.  Let me explain.  We Zimbabweans hate bad news.  Obviously there's been a fair amount of it in Zim for the past 20 years, in fact, world over, life has refrained from being a  'bowl of cherries' for some time now, but that doesn't mean we have to like it just because we are used to it. Bad news, that is.

 No, we still hate it.  And there's only one thing a Zimbabwean hates more than bad news (actually there's two, but I have to refrain from saying 'Robert Mugabe' in print in case I get into trouble)  and that is giving bad news. So we avoid it all costs.  We look on the brighter side wherever possible,
“Well at least your OTHER eye is still in its socket!” you'll hear us say. 
Or “What about ALL THE OTHER buildings in New York that DIDN'T get hit by planes?”

But what do we do when we get caught in a position where we HAVE TO deliver bad news?  Well,  then we simply modify it so that it is 'mildly bad news' , or 'a little annoying news'.

For example: When living in Zimbabwe, one should not ask about distance.  I remember once, when I was about 20, running out of petrol (actually I remember doing it at least 28 times, but that's just me).  After climbing out of the car and rummaging round in the boot for an old coke bottle, I  stood on the road wondering whether I should hitch hike or walk to find fuel.

The problem was that I had no idea where the nearest petrol station was.  Indeed, if the truth be told, I had no idea where I was:- Sometime the evening before I had been persuaded by a rather drunk friend-of-a-friend to drive us to a fantastic, free-beer, whopper of a party on a fantastic, whopper of a farm* in a place called Marandellas, just outside Harare, and now I was just trying to get home. 

*(PUBLIC HEALTH WARNING: If by chance you ever get told, late at night, about a fantastic,free-beer, whopper of a party somewhere out of town, chances are it's just some swine wanting a lift home. So be warned - you may end up being thrown out by his rather peeved, pajama-clad and pistol-bearing parents, because spotty cousin Beatrice found you in the kitchen innocently wolfing down their precious port and the three old sausages from the fridge.)

Any way I digress.  Again.  Where was I?  Oh yes, standing next to my car.  So I asked a man going past on a bicycle where the nearest petrol station was, and his cheerful answer was
 'It's just around the corner, sir!”
And off he went.  Off I went too.  A quick walk would do my port-pounding head the world of good, I thought. 

Of course you will have guessed by now that the petrol station was not just around that particular corner.  In fact it was about 15km away. 15 long, hot, blistering kilometers.  But it gave me time to ponder his motives for telling me such an untruth, and, after getting a few dozen profanities out of my system, I ended up thinking he had merit.  I had asked him a question and he had two choices- to make me unhappy or to make me happy.  He had chosen the latter, and been rewarded with a brief smile of appreciation.

It was the same with the Edgemobile.  “Mr Webb,” the driver had said on the phone, “You need to come here.  We had a little bump with the car.” So off I went, thinking oh my word, I hope he hasn't cracked a headlight or something.

I suppose it was a little bump -  sort of like the Second World War was a small argument.

 We towed her back to my brother-in-law's workshop, poor thing. And, though we did all we could, the insurance assessor had the final say, and he could not be convinced.  Like a hardened battlefield medic he simply looked at her front end, shook his head and growled “It's no good, she's gone.”
“No!  I cried, jamming the keys into the ignition and frantically cranking her over “She'll be ok!  She has to be!”

The engine barely turned once, and a grinding metallic noise choked out,

“You don't understand!” I wept, “ She's not just a van, she's one of the family….
she's…..   
 …. our…..
….. edgemobile…..”
But he strode off into the sunset,  (actually it was into the Wimpy, but that doesn't make for good romantic writing, does it?)  and as Mrs Ed put her comforting arm around my shoulders,  I slumped into a dejected heap. 

The assessor had been right about the Edgemobile, of course, there was nothing we could do.  It was beyond our bank balance to repair her, and even if we did, she would never be the same again.  It just wouldn't be fair on her, would it?
 
But I had also been right.  That assessor really didn't understand.  I guess in his line of work he has to steel himself against getting too personally involved with the lame and dying vehicles he sees everyday, but I'm sure if he knew that she had been a close family member for 11 years, he would have been more understanding of the tears in my eyes ….

So did I get a car for Father's Day?  No!  Though Mrs Ed generously suggested we 'just get one and put it on the credit card',  and my son and daughter said that if we went to a dealership and bought three - we would probably get enough discount to pay for a holiday.
 
But obviously I have to look at it from the more serious, adult angle.  We need a car, and as the head of the household I should come up with a plan to make sure that happens.  Fully prepared to sacrifice my own personal time and energy to solve the problem,  I have sent off an official letter of request to someone who I know has the means to provide us one.

After all, she’s a mega star, and I have no doubt that a week together in Mauritius will be plenty enough time to persuade Katie to buy me any car I desire....

Our Appliance Graveyard

We've had guests for the last couple of weeks -   old family friends who popped down from Zimbabwe for a visit.  During their fortnight-long stay I learned that there's quite a few habits we’ve developed living here in Sedgefield that might seem somewhat strange to the average outsider.
In fact the more I think about it, the more I realize that our home has become, over the years, its own micro eco-system in which we have all evolved into doing things somewhat differently …. 

For example, one of the deep and meaningful questions asked by our guests was
“When are you planning to take the washing off the line?”

At first this struck me as an exceptionally queer query.  Of course the answer is an obvious, resounding:- “When it's dry”,  but then I realized that they were only asking because said washing had been on the line since their arrival, and they'd already been staying with us for nine days (actually, if the truth be told, it had been hanging there a week prior as well, but I wasn't going to admit that).
  Now I understand that wet washing is not the most exciting topic, in fact it’s probably more yawn-inducing than a politician’s promise, but bear with me, I feel a need in my very core to explain our heartfelt dilemma.  

You see, when we leave for work the washing on the line is understandably wet.  In fact at this time of the year it's more likely frozen. You can't blame it.  If I was in its place I'd be more than a bit miffed about being left on the line all night  -  and call me a wet blanket if you wish but the last thing I'd be doing in the first hour after sunrise is concentrating on being dry. 

Of course during the day the wind blows nicely, the sun shines and, at approximately three minutes past something around earlyish afternoon, Whoop Whoop! Our washing is dry!  But of course both Mrs Ed and I are at work.  We don't get to witness this seven minute spectacle, though we have oft heard people talking of it. By the time we get home the dew has descended and the washing is damp. Again.

Our wet washing record (you can check with Guinness) is six weeks, three days and 18 hours.... I’m thinking of writing a country and western song about it.

“Why don't you use your tumble dryer?” Is the next question our guests asked (I'm surprised they were still awake actually). Which led to the next realization.  Yes we do have appliances - probably as many as most people do in this town…. But do they work?  No, not all of them.  In fact most of them don't. .  But they will one day.  We think.

You see fixing appliances costs money.  It does.  And if you are trying to make a living in Sedgefield, chances are you won't have the money at hand, so you hang on, with the appliance remaining in its favoured position, until
a) a lotto win
b) a municipal 'Appliance Fixing Subsidy' is initiated,
c) a tax rebate
d) a long lost wealthy uncle sends a cheque

Being a particularly creative family, whilst our appliances are hanging about either dormant, or, as is the case with our one sided, timer-challenged toaster, on 'light duties', we waste no time in finding new uses for them.  Or more to the point, we put stuff on them… or in them.
And the more comfortable we get with their new-found duties, the less likely we are to fix or replace the appliance. Let's face it, even if money miraculously appears, the toss up between going out for a slap up meal with real meat and  'getting someone in to replace the magnet strips on the fridge door' is pretty much a no-brainer.

So, we have a lovely dish-washer which has become a dish-watcher:-  Particularly useful for storing crockery that we keep for special occasions (when our children are not within a 5km radius).   We also have a dormant tumbledryer in which we hide our day to day shoes…. so the dog can't steal them to bury in the garden.  Oh, and there's the white box in the kitchen which we like to call our Mic-no-ways oven - it’s the perfect thing to put a pot plant on top and we get to store spices, oxo cubes etc inside.
 
Some appliances are purely decorative and we just keep them around because, well, they’re like old friends... and we get to have a joke at their expense... like our seized borehole 'pimp' (it's going to need quite a bit of money  before it provides service of any sort).

But before you start thinking that our home is a veritable graveyard of appliances, I must add that though it's missing four out of five knobs, our stove works fine…. as long as Mrs Ed stays away from it.  And our home computer boots up very efficiently, we hear,  …. except the screen… doesn't.
 
The strange thing is that we just get used to these non-functioning devices.  As one by one they give up performing, we somehow learn to carry on without them, or at least make a plan so that we don't have to pay to fix them.

Our car radio is a prime example.

  One day, during our guests' stay, we decided to go along to watch a movie at the mall.  To save fuel we all clambered into the 'Edgemobile' which, as discovered by my son last December, can snugly accommodate 27 people and their surfboards and a banana each.

During a most surprising lull in conversation, visitor Darryn, who was in front, precariously perched on the patched up passenger seat, innocently leant forward and pushed the 'On' button on the  radio.  Of course nothing but crackling and hissing resulted:- how was he to know that our car sound system had some sort of short in the wiring ?

I decided to explain the drill. “Just wind down your window  exactly two and a half turns - you can use the vice grips under the seat.”  Meanwhile, in the rearview mirror I winked at my daughter and Mrs Ed who were each sat on the outer side of the back seat.  In conditioned reflex they grabbed their respective door handles and pulled (right door) or pushed (left door), - after all it was second nature to them.  For my part I took my right hand off the steering wheel and wedged my finger into the gap under the speaker cover on the door panel next to my knee (there's a clothes peg already there which makes it easier to get your finger in). 
With this combined initiative the wiring somewhere in the depths of the car all fell into place, the crackling and hissing stopped and the trusty old radio proudly spewed forth music. 

Of course it did, it works perfectly well, thank you!.

But somehow our guests were quite bemused by all this. 
“Why don't you just get it fixed?” one stammered a few minutes later, watching in white-knuckled disbelief as I steadied the steering wheel with my chin so I could change gear without interrupting the news.

This was a good question. I couldn't really say “Because we can't afford to,” could I?  Especially seeing the trip to the movies would probably cover the repair cost and more. 

How does one explain that somehow, over time, sorting out the car radio had simply dropped too far down the priority list to be worth spending the money on. 

And for goodness sake, Iron Man III was showing!

I must say, the guests had the last laugh in the end.  With my finger still in the speaker, I had had to slow down a bit as we entered Kaaiman's Pass, with only my remaining hand available to negotiate the bends. After tightening her seatbelt another notch (Mrs Ed showed her how to adjust it using the corkscrew provided) Darryn's mother checked her watch.  In the rearview mirror I saw her lips curl into a mischievous smile.
“The movie's going to start in seven minutes,” she said,  “If you don't want to miss the beginning, you'd better pull finger! "