Thursday, December 3, 2015
The Trousers
"No! Please tell me no!” I screamed, somewhat like a girl, admittedly, but this was life or death….. well… almost.
“I'm afraid it's true,” said Mrs Ed “I tried to convince them otherwise, but they wouldn't listen. It's a done deal.” Her efforts to sound sympathetic were just like the last two thirds of that word – pathetic.
“But I can't. I just can't!” I wailed, pulling tufts of hair out of my head, “Don't you remember February 2007? I swear I died at that hotel…. If it hadn't been for that waitress reviving me with that jug of cold water, you'd have lost me forever!”
“Hmmmmm…” said Mrs Ed. Rather too uncommittedly I thought.
Alas, she was right. A few frantic phone calls later I realised - There was no going back. I couldn't even feign illness and pull out of the function, because in a moment of beer-fortified weakness a week or two before I had agreed to be the Master of Ceremonies. And now I learned, with only two days to go, that it was 'Black Tie'….
Which meant one darned, cursed thing. I would have to wear….The Trousers.
The Trousers.
Many men in the Garden Route will sympathise, I'm sure. In fact I might even be so bold as to say that many of you will own a pair of The Trousers. But for the benefit of those who don't, let me explain.
So rare is it that we Garden Route Coastal Dwellers go to anything with a stricter dress-code than 'Please wear shoes, and at least ARRIVE in a shirt', that we are not equipped at all when a 'posh do' comes up. But don't think we are completely useless - shirts we can manage, and it's easy enough to buy a tie (black or otherwise) at the nearest Hospice shop…
But when it comes to the southern side of our bodies there is a problem. All we have to fall back on… or squeeze into… are 'The Trousers'.
That pair of black longs which were bought back when we were twenty five, for a wedding or a Christening or something equally glamorous. The same Trousers that were then left sulking in the wardrobe, where they lurked for the next seven years, planning our agony when the need finally arose to take them out again….. like some polyester cotton Gollum.
“We 's going to tightens rounds his tummies, and cuts off his bloodflow, my Precious!” they promise themselves in the darkness.
I think The Trousers shrink on purpose.
And it gets worse with each wearing, because, well, somehow we get a little larger around the midriff, don't we gents?
And we forget! How easily we forget the pain. Really, getting into The Trousers is just like child birth, except infinitely more painful, ask any man. Why? Because the agony of putting them on, and wearing them for any length of time, is all but wiped out by that awesome, euphoric bloodrush when you get to take them off again. Oh the joy, the button-popping paradise of finally being untrousered on the couch.
Indeed, once untrousered the nightmare of pain-memory doesn't come flooding back until years later, when you realise that you have to wear them again…..
The Trousers.
So, last weekend I sat on the bed and stared at them, hanging in the dark depths, leering at me. Them NASTY Trousers. Of course my jeans, my trusty, loving, fit-me-like-a-glove jeans lay in a faded blue heap on the floor, beckoning me to forget the foreign black trouser folly .
“C'mon, me ol' mate,” they silently intimated, in a warm and comfortable fashion, “Forget this black tie do. Put me on and we'll just walk down to the pub together. You and me. Like it always is….”
But I couldn't. Mrs Ed had already spent the best part of the day (best part meaning the time I was in my jeans) trying on everything in the house, garden, garage and shed before deciding on an outfit, and there was only an hour left for me to get ready.
I leapt to my feet and snatched the offending trews off the rail. It really couldn't be that hard could it? They were only trousers for goodness sake. And I had somehow managed to get them on for my niece's wedding four or five years ago.... hadn't I?
Thirty five minutes later they were almost over my knees.
“Perhaps we should putting more butter on your legs?” suggested Mrs Ed. I had recruited her after the eighth solo attempt had resulted in blood on the bedspread from a nasty cut on my ear – I should have thought to turn the ceiling fan off before trying to put on The Trousers. She was already out of breath after her planned method of standing me on my head then dragging the offending garment down my legs towards my torso had literally back-fired (don't ask).
Eventually we won. It was a real family effort which included Mrs Ed, our son The REE (Resident Expert on Everything), various parts of the family home fittings such as the stairs, bedroom door and the toilet brush, and a well timed bite from the family dog which I believe finally sealed the deal, because that is what caused Mrs Ed to lose her footing on the chest of drawers and land on top of me.
Suddenly The Trousers were on.
We had to get The REE to drive us to the function, so that I could lie spread-eagled on the back seat and Mrs Ed could maintain pressure on my midriff – just until everything equalised of course. By the time we had got there all seemed to have settled into place, my blood had started reaching the tips of my fingers again (obviously I can't speak for my toes) and my face had lost some of its beetroot colouring…. Though that could have been down to the nosebleed.
Just as long as I didn't eat or drink anything, and made no sudden moves, everything would be just fine. It always is, once The Trousers are on.
But it wasn't a 'no sudden moves' and 'don't eat or drink anything' sort of evening…. And I wonder how many of the revellers realised that a potential weapon of mass destruction was sitting amongst them.
Fortunately it was quite late in the evening when The Button finally went. And the fact that I was on the dance floor treating everyone with the visual blessing of my highly acclaimed John Travolta 'Night Fever' moves (people do tend to stand back when I am doing this, possibly in awe) meant that there were no other casualties other than the unfortunate soul who got hit in the cheek by the flying high-velocity plastic disc (“I've been shot! I've been shot!” the silly woman kept screaming).
Having been waiting in trepidation for this moment, Mrs Ed stepped in and fireman-lifted me off the dance floor (to tumultuous applause – probably for afore-mentioned moves). The sudden equalisation of blood flow must have caused intense dizziness in my brain because the next thing I remember I was back at home, sitting on the couch, totally (and blissfully) trouserless.
“So, can I put these in the bin now, for once and for all?” asked Mrs Ed, holding aloft the offending trews.
“Don't be silly,” I answered, not quite believing the wastefulness of the woman, “I've only worn them … what… about six times….? Let's keep them for the next special occasion.”
“So… you want me to put them back in the cupboard….. Really?”
“Of course! They have plenty of wear in them yet. And we have two kids, both of whom are surely going to have a wedding anytime in the next ten years or so…"
Thursday, November 5, 2015
Phone sales people - they just don't understand....
.
“Hello, T'Ed residence, may I help you?”
“Good day Sir, how are you this fine day?”
“Well, now that you ask I'm actually a bit….'
“So nice to hear that Sir, and I'm fine too..”
“Oh…. So… Is there someone in particular you would like to sp…”
“You Sir!”
“I beg yo…”
“You Sir, I would like to speak to you. Just one question I would like you to answer. Would you say you are a decision-maker?”
“A what?”
“Decision-maker. Are you a decision maker Sir?”
“Well yes. I think so. Um….. hang on (Honey, would you say that I'm a decision maker? Uhuh… some guy on the phone wants to know if I'm a decision maker. What can I tell him? Yes? May I really? Oh good. Thanks) Yes! I am a decision maker.”
“Oh good Sir, I thought you sounded like just such a person. I'm very glad you said yes because I have got very good news for you!”
“Good news? Oh brilliant. It's time we had some of that, what with the geyser and the washing mach….. Haaaangggg on. Are you selling something? Because if you are I am really not….”
“No Sir! Absolutely not! I would never dream of approaching someone like yourself with any sort of sales gimmick call.”
“Good, because, for a moment I thought…”
“Aaah – you see Sir, it is such a pleasure to speak to a thinking man, who is also a decision maker.”
“Oh well, er… thank you… I think..”
<b>“So Sir, as the decision maker of your family I would like to put something to you.”
“Of the family? Ummm, I'm not sure if I'm the …. Hang on (Honey, now he says I'm the decision maker OF THE FAMILY…. And it…. Am I really? Are you sure? Oh wow!) Yes, I am our family's decision maker…. apparently.”
“I had no doubt whatsoever Sir. So what I would like to put to you, Sir, is this. Would Sir's family, of which Sir is obviously the head, be needing supplementary income?”
“Head of the family? My word, that's pushing it a bit, but I'll go along with it at the moment, (just don't say it too loudly. She's in the next room.) Now - what was the rest of it again?”
“Would Sir's family be needing extra money at the end of the month?”
“Waidaminnit. Is this Joe from the bottlestore? Look mate I told you that I would only be able to pay you by…”
“No sir. I am not from a bottle store. I just would like to know if your family is comfortable. Financially I mean.”
“Have you been talking to my bank manager? Because he has no right to release….”
“No Sir. Definitely not. We are not affiliated to any financial institution. Perhaps I should put it another way. How would Sir like to earn extra money every month … without actually working for it?”
“Earn extra money? Without working? This has got to be a prank call. Hey, is that you bro? I thought I recognised the….”
“You see Sir, I know of the perfect way in which a leader such as yourself, a dedicated, intelligent family man, who is obviously the sort of person who would like to maximise the time spent with his loved ones, can do just that. Tell me, does Sir have children?”
“Er yes… two. But if you are thinking of putting them to work, well, I wish you all the luck in the world….. because I seriously don't think….”
“Two children? Oh that is wonderful. Actually I could tell by Sir's voice. That's why I referred to Sir as a 'Family Man' earlier. Tell me Sir, these children, whom I'm sure you love dearly, does Sir want the best for them? Are they at school?”
“Actually they have finished school, one due to start studying next year…. Again…. and the other is… well…. In between contracts?”
“That is wonderful. Might I first congratulate Sir on getting them both through school?”
“Oh, thanks… very kind of you. Though I must say it certainly wasn't easy. Especially when The REE wanted to….”
“Yes sir, and may I also point out that now is when the REAL outlay comes, isn't it?”
“Are you sure you haven't been speaking to my bank manager….?”
“They will be wanting cars, rental deposits for a flat, books, extra tuition, college fees….. Am I right Sir?”
“(Sigh)”
“…Not to mention money for food and entertainment whilst they are living way from Sir's home…”
“Yes. You don't have to tell me. Sometimes I think they are eating Caviar every night. They must certainly be living better than us because the amount of money that…..”
“Which is why Sir has to enter the stock market.”
“The…. Stock ….. Market?”
“Yes indeed Sir. You have heard of the Johannesburg Stock Exchange, I'm sure?”
“Er yes… of course. But wha…”
“And though some people, people obviously without the leadership qualities and decision-making ability that Sir has, may find the JSE a little daunting, we have got the perfect product for Sir, to make his JSE experience, well - a walk in the park.”
“But doesn't it take mo….”
“And the best thing is, Sir, our product is GUARANTEED.”
“But…”
“Absolutely Sir. Because you are on our shortlist, we want you to try our state-of-the-art computer program, that stock market experts have been designing and testing over the last five years. Isn't that good news Sir? Imagine, you will be on the forefront of technology which, to put it simply, will show you EXACTLY when to buy and when to sell. Technology which will double, no TREBLE your initial investment in less than a year. How would Sir like to be able to pay of Sir's debt?”
“Well obviously I…”
“And Sir would probably be keen on going on an overseas holiday, now the kids are out the house?”
“Yes, but…”
“You know Sir, it is such a pleasure speaking to someone who knows what he wants. That is a rare quality these days. I must say Sir, you certainly do tick all the boxes and I am really excited to be working with you on this.”
“Can you just back up a bit. Did you say overseas holiday?”
“Ha ha, yes Sir, you are talking my language. And it really is so simple, Sir. Once we have captured all your details we will have you up and trading in a matter of days.”
“Are you sure about this…. An OVERSEAS HOLIDAY…. WITHOUT THE CHILDREN?”
“Indeed sir, indeed. Wherever you want. Right, now if I can just have Sir's details. You know, so that we can set the program up and running. The quicker we do this, the closer you'll be to booking that ticket to Europe. Let's start with full name, address, ID number and Credit Card details.”
“My full name is…… hang on – did you say Credit Card details?”
“Yes sir. Just for the cost of the program – which you will definitely earn back within your first two months of trading. And of course for the initial investment amount which goes from R45 000 upwards, depending on whether Sir would like to have Gold, Platinum or Diamond status”
“But we don't have a credit card. We used to but, well the bank manager cut …. HANG ON - HOW MUCH DID YOU SAY?”
"The entry level amount is only R45 000, but I'm sure someone of Sir's high standing would prefer to join at a higher level… May I suggest that Sir looks at the advantages of Diamond status? For only a kick off investment of R500 000 Sir will get the full on adv….. Sir? Sir? Why is Sir laughing?”
“R45 000? (Ha ha ha ha ha ha)”
“Sir, I am starting to think that Sir might not be taking me seriously?”
“R500 000? (Ha ha ha ha hahahahahahah)”
“Is Sir telling me that perhaps he is NOT the decision-maker of the family?”
“Di…. Di….. Diamond Status? (HAHAHAHAHAH),”
“Sir I think I am left with no choice but to end this call, if you aren't going to take….”
“Hahahaha NO PLEASE, don't go. Don't stop now. (Hehehehehe) Please just do me a favour – will you tell my wife the whole deal? Please!”
“Is SHE the decision-maker in the family?”
“No. .Yes. Actually I'm not sure. It's just that she's a bit down at the moment because she's doing the accounts and trying to decide which bills to pay. So if you could share the details of your proposal…. Especially the (gnmmmph) bit about the (mmmmphfff) minimum investment (MPHWAAHAHAHA) .”
“Very well then. Could you put her on the line?”
“Absolutely! .... “I'd be MA-(HAHAHAH)-AD if I didn't!”
“Hello, T'Ed residence, may I help you?”
“Good day Sir, how are you this fine day?”
“Well, now that you ask I'm actually a bit….'
“So nice to hear that Sir, and I'm fine too..”
“Oh…. So… Is there someone in particular you would like to sp…”
“You Sir!”
“I beg yo…”
“You Sir, I would like to speak to you. Just one question I would like you to answer. Would you say you are a decision-maker?”
“A what?”
“Decision-maker. Are you a decision maker Sir?”
“Well yes. I think so. Um….. hang on (Honey, would you say that I'm a decision maker? Uhuh… some guy on the phone wants to know if I'm a decision maker. What can I tell him? Yes? May I really? Oh good. Thanks) Yes! I am a decision maker.”
“Oh good Sir, I thought you sounded like just such a person. I'm very glad you said yes because I have got very good news for you!”
“Good news? Oh brilliant. It's time we had some of that, what with the geyser and the washing mach….. Haaaangggg on. Are you selling something? Because if you are I am really not….”
“No Sir! Absolutely not! I would never dream of approaching someone like yourself with any sort of sales gimmick call.”
“Good, because, for a moment I thought…”
“Aaah – you see Sir, it is such a pleasure to speak to a thinking man, who is also a decision maker.”
“Oh well, er… thank you… I think..”
<b>“So Sir, as the decision maker of your family I would like to put something to you.”
“Of the family? Ummm, I'm not sure if I'm the …. Hang on (Honey, now he says I'm the decision maker OF THE FAMILY…. And it…. Am I really? Are you sure? Oh wow!) Yes, I am our family's decision maker…. apparently.”
“I had no doubt whatsoever Sir. So what I would like to put to you, Sir, is this. Would Sir's family, of which Sir is obviously the head, be needing supplementary income?”
“Head of the family? My word, that's pushing it a bit, but I'll go along with it at the moment, (just don't say it too loudly. She's in the next room.) Now - what was the rest of it again?”
“Would Sir's family be needing extra money at the end of the month?”
“Waidaminnit. Is this Joe from the bottlestore? Look mate I told you that I would only be able to pay you by…”
“No sir. I am not from a bottle store. I just would like to know if your family is comfortable. Financially I mean.”
“Have you been talking to my bank manager? Because he has no right to release….”
“No Sir. Definitely not. We are not affiliated to any financial institution. Perhaps I should put it another way. How would Sir like to earn extra money every month … without actually working for it?”
“Earn extra money? Without working? This has got to be a prank call. Hey, is that you bro? I thought I recognised the….”
“You see Sir, I know of the perfect way in which a leader such as yourself, a dedicated, intelligent family man, who is obviously the sort of person who would like to maximise the time spent with his loved ones, can do just that. Tell me, does Sir have children?”
“Er yes… two. But if you are thinking of putting them to work, well, I wish you all the luck in the world….. because I seriously don't think….”
“Two children? Oh that is wonderful. Actually I could tell by Sir's voice. That's why I referred to Sir as a 'Family Man' earlier. Tell me Sir, these children, whom I'm sure you love dearly, does Sir want the best for them? Are they at school?”
“Actually they have finished school, one due to start studying next year…. Again…. and the other is… well…. In between contracts?”
“That is wonderful. Might I first congratulate Sir on getting them both through school?”
“Oh, thanks… very kind of you. Though I must say it certainly wasn't easy. Especially when The REE wanted to….”
“Yes sir, and may I also point out that now is when the REAL outlay comes, isn't it?”
“Are you sure you haven't been speaking to my bank manager….?”
“They will be wanting cars, rental deposits for a flat, books, extra tuition, college fees….. Am I right Sir?”
“(Sigh)”
“…Not to mention money for food and entertainment whilst they are living way from Sir's home…”
“Yes. You don't have to tell me. Sometimes I think they are eating Caviar every night. They must certainly be living better than us because the amount of money that…..”
“Which is why Sir has to enter the stock market.”
“The…. Stock ….. Market?”
“Yes indeed Sir. You have heard of the Johannesburg Stock Exchange, I'm sure?”
“Er yes… of course. But wha…”
“And though some people, people obviously without the leadership qualities and decision-making ability that Sir has, may find the JSE a little daunting, we have got the perfect product for Sir, to make his JSE experience, well - a walk in the park.”
“But doesn't it take mo….”
“And the best thing is, Sir, our product is GUARANTEED.”
“But…”
“Absolutely Sir. Because you are on our shortlist, we want you to try our state-of-the-art computer program, that stock market experts have been designing and testing over the last five years. Isn't that good news Sir? Imagine, you will be on the forefront of technology which, to put it simply, will show you EXACTLY when to buy and when to sell. Technology which will double, no TREBLE your initial investment in less than a year. How would Sir like to be able to pay of Sir's debt?”
“Well obviously I…”
“And Sir would probably be keen on going on an overseas holiday, now the kids are out the house?”
“Yes, but…”
“You know Sir, it is such a pleasure speaking to someone who knows what he wants. That is a rare quality these days. I must say Sir, you certainly do tick all the boxes and I am really excited to be working with you on this.”
“Can you just back up a bit. Did you say overseas holiday?”
“Ha ha, yes Sir, you are talking my language. And it really is so simple, Sir. Once we have captured all your details we will have you up and trading in a matter of days.”
“Are you sure about this…. An OVERSEAS HOLIDAY…. WITHOUT THE CHILDREN?”
“Indeed sir, indeed. Wherever you want. Right, now if I can just have Sir's details. You know, so that we can set the program up and running. The quicker we do this, the closer you'll be to booking that ticket to Europe. Let's start with full name, address, ID number and Credit Card details.”
“My full name is…… hang on – did you say Credit Card details?”
“Yes sir. Just for the cost of the program – which you will definitely earn back within your first two months of trading. And of course for the initial investment amount which goes from R45 000 upwards, depending on whether Sir would like to have Gold, Platinum or Diamond status”
“But we don't have a credit card. We used to but, well the bank manager cut …. HANG ON - HOW MUCH DID YOU SAY?”
"The entry level amount is only R45 000, but I'm sure someone of Sir's high standing would prefer to join at a higher level… May I suggest that Sir looks at the advantages of Diamond status? For only a kick off investment of R500 000 Sir will get the full on adv….. Sir? Sir? Why is Sir laughing?”
“R45 000? (Ha ha ha ha ha ha)”
“Sir, I am starting to think that Sir might not be taking me seriously?”
“R500 000? (Ha ha ha ha hahahahahahah)”
“Is Sir telling me that perhaps he is NOT the decision-maker of the family?”
“Di…. Di….. Diamond Status? (HAHAHAHAHAH),”
“Sir I think I am left with no choice but to end this call, if you aren't going to take….”
“Hahahaha NO PLEASE, don't go. Don't stop now. (Hehehehehe) Please just do me a favour – will you tell my wife the whole deal? Please!”
“Is SHE the decision-maker in the family?”
“No. .Yes. Actually I'm not sure. It's just that she's a bit down at the moment because she's doing the accounts and trying to decide which bills to pay. So if you could share the details of your proposal…. Especially the (gnmmmph) bit about the (mmmmphfff) minimum investment (MPHWAAHAHAHA) .”
“Very well then. Could you put her on the line?”
“Absolutely! .... “I'd be MA-(HAHAHAH)-AD if I didn't!”
Tuesday, October 13, 2015
Losing Winter Weight .... I wish I was a bear
.
I wish I was a bear.
Look I know you'll probably try and shoot me down, because bears aren't indigenous to the Garden Route…. or anywhere in South Africa, I suppose, – but I can cope with that because I'm not exactly 100% indigenous myself. (I didn't quite know how exotic I was until Saturday, when I mentioned, under my breath I thought, that it might be nice if England won their Rugby match like the Springboks had. Apparently that is the equivalent to pledging one's allegiance to the EFF in some circles).
But let's get back to the bear facts (heh heh).
Why do I crave to be a bear? A good question - because I'm really not partial to standing in icy rivers eating raw fish. Nor am I prone to walking on all fours, growling, salivating and sniffing the air for signs of a small victim upon which to pounce and rip into bite-size chunks (there's already one person too many doing that in our household).
But that's not all a bear does. Bears get to do other things, the best of which is, of course, sleeping all through Winter….. and waking up thin.
Can you imagine that? That's why I REALLY want to be a bear. I can't think of anything I would like to do more than climbing into bed around mid-April, after a few months of constant quaffing of meat pies, Bosun's bitter and other highly nutritional, organic foods, staying there fast asleep until September the first (or was it the second this year?) AND WAKING UP THIN!
You see I don't like Winter. Not one little bit. And as I am not a bear, and my family insists that I cannot stay under my duvet until Spring, it seems the only way I can survive the cold is to eat. Continuously.
And that's what I do.
In Winter I'm like a whale, storing blubber for central heating in the Arctic Circle. It is a no-holds-barred, high-fat, high-carb, high-protein, high-calorie, high GI, Hi waiter!, gluttony fest. I cannot control myself.
Of course I know this isn't healthy, and sometimes in those long months I feel so guilty I even think about exercise, but there simply aren't enough daylight hours in a day are there? What with the early morning snack, the pre-breakfast sandwich, breakfast cereal, breakfast bacon'n eggs, breakfast toast top up, ten o'clock tea 'n biscuits (ok, cakes), elevenses, pre-lunch crackers 'n cheese, lunch, more lunch, two o'clock doughnuts, afternoon tea 'n biscuits, meat-pie munchies for the road home, the after-work three-tier dagwood snackwich, dinner, pudding, supper, rusks 'n coffee, popcorn, then some cheese before bedtime, normally between two healthily generous slices of Sasko's finest white.
And as you can imagine, after four or so months of this omnivorous carnage and sincere lack of movement (apparently butter-spreading doesn't burn as many calories as I assumed), Spring burps me out like an obese ball of lard, and my family reads me the riot act about losing weight.
Why? Because they love me and care deeply about my wellbeing.
Actually no. It's because the shower leaks. Badly.
Perhaps I should explain, because I am sure that one or two of you out there might not make the connection. And the connection is where the problem lies really. It all goes back to when I built our house, and the building budget being somewhat tight (apparently I hugely overspent on the figure allowed for 'Bottled Stress Reliever'). So I decided to save money…… by not employing a plumber.
At the time I thought it was a stroke of pure genius:- doing all the plumbing myself, with the kind assistance of both my brother in law and a case of the afore-mentioned Bottled Stress Reliever. Why not? I mean plumbing isn't exactly rocket science is it?
Actually it is.
So…. To cut a long story (and, as it turned out, a vital length of copper piping) short, for the last fourteen years we have had a shower upstairs which leaks. Actually that is not the entire truth – it doesn't ALWAYS leak. Just in the second half of Winter, and then only when I am the one showering.
Of course I tried to reason that this is pure coincidence, but apparently Mrs Ed called a so-called 'expert' in, who signed an affidavit laying the blame totally on my shoulders…. And my waist…. And my stomach….. Something about excess weight on the fibre-glass shower tray pressing down on the pipe leading to the hot tap which puts undue pressure on a connection hidden somewhere in the dry (or not so dry) walling.
This same fellow says we should be able to fix it without a problem, just as soon as we win the European lottery, or the Nigerian prince sends me the money he promised.
Of course this leak would be okay, if the water quietly ran down the wall, gathered itself into a polite pool somewhere behind a cupboard, and was content with causing a small case of rising damp. But it doesn't. It pours through the ceiling boards and, as if auditioning for the part of Victoria Falls, crashes down into the kitchen, wreaking wet havoc with anything in a two metre radius underneath.
Of course this is just hearsay. I have never witnessed the phenomenon myself because, well I am usually showering at the time, but my family certainly give me no reason to believe that they are happy with the resultant mayhem.
“Dad! I was making one of my awesome, award winning sandwiches!” bellows my somewhat annoyed son, The REE (Resident Expert on Everything), when his multi-layer cheese, peanut butter, ham, lettuce, Bovril and bacon sarmie (You have learned well, Grasshopper,) has been reduced to a sogginess of mush proportions.
“Daddy can't you hurry?” Fear Factor, my daughter, shout-whispers through the bathroom door, “I'm trying to make breakfast for me and my friends, and whenever the water hits the toaster it sparks blue flames. It's, like, REALLY embarrassing!”
I suppose even I have been affected by it in an indirect way. The other evening I was eating dinner and I actually complimented Mrs Ed on her cooking. “Mmmmmm, this stew is surprisingly nice!” I said to her, “Is there perhaps something extra you added to your recipe?”
“Shower water?” she responded, nonplussed.
So where does this leave me? Well though it's nice that you should ask, I can't say I am in a happy place at all. In fact I'm probably as miserable as an English Rugby coach. It's all the deceit you see, it's playing on my conscience, but I swear it's not my fault:- Mrs Ed is the one who is insistent that I start jogging - to lose weight of course. And though I always intend to, it's just so hard to get going in the mornings, especially after a late night's rugby watching.
So what I normally do when the alarm clock goes off is take a quick shower to wake myself up….. and that's when the still-half-asleep Mrs Ed shouts “You may as well get back into bed, you can't run in this weather, you'll get soaked.”
I keep meaning to tell her that what she's hearing is the pitter-patter of shower-drops falling on the kitchen floor, and one day I will….. just not tomorrow, or the next day. In fact I'll keep it to myself just for one more week….. or maybe until the World Cup is over…..
....
I wish I was a bear.
Look I know you'll probably try and shoot me down, because bears aren't indigenous to the Garden Route…. or anywhere in South Africa, I suppose, – but I can cope with that because I'm not exactly 100% indigenous myself. (I didn't quite know how exotic I was until Saturday, when I mentioned, under my breath I thought, that it might be nice if England won their Rugby match like the Springboks had. Apparently that is the equivalent to pledging one's allegiance to the EFF in some circles).
But let's get back to the bear facts (heh heh).
Why do I crave to be a bear? A good question - because I'm really not partial to standing in icy rivers eating raw fish. Nor am I prone to walking on all fours, growling, salivating and sniffing the air for signs of a small victim upon which to pounce and rip into bite-size chunks (there's already one person too many doing that in our household).
But that's not all a bear does. Bears get to do other things, the best of which is, of course, sleeping all through Winter….. and waking up thin.
Can you imagine that? That's why I REALLY want to be a bear. I can't think of anything I would like to do more than climbing into bed around mid-April, after a few months of constant quaffing of meat pies, Bosun's bitter and other highly nutritional, organic foods, staying there fast asleep until September the first (or was it the second this year?) AND WAKING UP THIN!
You see I don't like Winter. Not one little bit. And as I am not a bear, and my family insists that I cannot stay under my duvet until Spring, it seems the only way I can survive the cold is to eat. Continuously.
And that's what I do.
In Winter I'm like a whale, storing blubber for central heating in the Arctic Circle. It is a no-holds-barred, high-fat, high-carb, high-protein, high-calorie, high GI, Hi waiter!, gluttony fest. I cannot control myself.
Of course I know this isn't healthy, and sometimes in those long months I feel so guilty I even think about exercise, but there simply aren't enough daylight hours in a day are there? What with the early morning snack, the pre-breakfast sandwich, breakfast cereal, breakfast bacon'n eggs, breakfast toast top up, ten o'clock tea 'n biscuits (ok, cakes), elevenses, pre-lunch crackers 'n cheese, lunch, more lunch, two o'clock doughnuts, afternoon tea 'n biscuits, meat-pie munchies for the road home, the after-work three-tier dagwood snackwich, dinner, pudding, supper, rusks 'n coffee, popcorn, then some cheese before bedtime, normally between two healthily generous slices of Sasko's finest white.
And as you can imagine, after four or so months of this omnivorous carnage and sincere lack of movement (apparently butter-spreading doesn't burn as many calories as I assumed), Spring burps me out like an obese ball of lard, and my family reads me the riot act about losing weight.
Why? Because they love me and care deeply about my wellbeing.
Actually no. It's because the shower leaks. Badly.
Perhaps I should explain, because I am sure that one or two of you out there might not make the connection. And the connection is where the problem lies really. It all goes back to when I built our house, and the building budget being somewhat tight (apparently I hugely overspent on the figure allowed for 'Bottled Stress Reliever'). So I decided to save money…… by not employing a plumber.
At the time I thought it was a stroke of pure genius:- doing all the plumbing myself, with the kind assistance of both my brother in law and a case of the afore-mentioned Bottled Stress Reliever. Why not? I mean plumbing isn't exactly rocket science is it?
Actually it is.
So…. To cut a long story (and, as it turned out, a vital length of copper piping) short, for the last fourteen years we have had a shower upstairs which leaks. Actually that is not the entire truth – it doesn't ALWAYS leak. Just in the second half of Winter, and then only when I am the one showering.
Of course I tried to reason that this is pure coincidence, but apparently Mrs Ed called a so-called 'expert' in, who signed an affidavit laying the blame totally on my shoulders…. And my waist…. And my stomach….. Something about excess weight on the fibre-glass shower tray pressing down on the pipe leading to the hot tap which puts undue pressure on a connection hidden somewhere in the dry (or not so dry) walling.
This same fellow says we should be able to fix it without a problem, just as soon as we win the European lottery, or the Nigerian prince sends me the money he promised.
Of course this leak would be okay, if the water quietly ran down the wall, gathered itself into a polite pool somewhere behind a cupboard, and was content with causing a small case of rising damp. But it doesn't. It pours through the ceiling boards and, as if auditioning for the part of Victoria Falls, crashes down into the kitchen, wreaking wet havoc with anything in a two metre radius underneath.
Of course this is just hearsay. I have never witnessed the phenomenon myself because, well I am usually showering at the time, but my family certainly give me no reason to believe that they are happy with the resultant mayhem.
“Dad! I was making one of my awesome, award winning sandwiches!” bellows my somewhat annoyed son, The REE (Resident Expert on Everything), when his multi-layer cheese, peanut butter, ham, lettuce, Bovril and bacon sarmie (You have learned well, Grasshopper,) has been reduced to a sogginess of mush proportions.
“Daddy can't you hurry?” Fear Factor, my daughter, shout-whispers through the bathroom door, “I'm trying to make breakfast for me and my friends, and whenever the water hits the toaster it sparks blue flames. It's, like, REALLY embarrassing!”
I suppose even I have been affected by it in an indirect way. The other evening I was eating dinner and I actually complimented Mrs Ed on her cooking. “Mmmmmm, this stew is surprisingly nice!” I said to her, “Is there perhaps something extra you added to your recipe?”
“Shower water?” she responded, nonplussed.
So where does this leave me? Well though it's nice that you should ask, I can't say I am in a happy place at all. In fact I'm probably as miserable as an English Rugby coach. It's all the deceit you see, it's playing on my conscience, but I swear it's not my fault:- Mrs Ed is the one who is insistent that I start jogging - to lose weight of course. And though I always intend to, it's just so hard to get going in the mornings, especially after a late night's rugby watching.
So what I normally do when the alarm clock goes off is take a quick shower to wake myself up….. and that's when the still-half-asleep Mrs Ed shouts “You may as well get back into bed, you can't run in this weather, you'll get soaked.”
I keep meaning to tell her that what she's hearing is the pitter-patter of shower-drops falling on the kitchen floor, and one day I will….. just not tomorrow, or the next day. In fact I'll keep it to myself just for one more week….. or maybe until the World Cup is over…..
....
Thursday, August 27, 2015
If Noah lived in the Garden Route today....
.
And so The Lord found Noah retired in Sedgefield and spaketh unto him.
“Noah, I am tired of the evil ways of the people of the Earth. In one year I am going to maketh it rain for forty days and forty nights and, lo, shall the whole world be covered in water until all flesh is destroyed.
"But harken this, Noah, I needeth thee to save the righteous people, and two of every kind of living thing that roameth on and flyeth above the Earth. Therefore I am commanding thee to build an ark.”
In a flash of lightening God delivered the specifications for the ark and, trembling in fear, Noah took up those measurements and vowed to commence the process.
“Remember,” spaketh the Lord, “Thou must complete the task in one year, upon which time I shall return.”
And verily, one year did pass. And, as the storm clouds didst gather above the Earth, God called upon Sedgefield to find Noah.
But lo and behold, there was no ark in site.
“Noah! Where is the ark?” boomed the voice of The Lord from on high.
Noah looked downcast and spaketh unto the Lord.
“ I'm afraid there isn't one. You see it isn't that simple. Making an ark I mean. Believe me Lord, I have tried and tried but….. Perhaps I should explain.
“I mentioned to a neighbour that I might need to borrow his saw for a project, and he asked me what it was. Foolishly I told him about the ark and next thing I knew I had a letter from him and the neighbours on the other side, stating that I had to submit plans to the municipality for a structure that size. So I submitted the plans you gave me but I’m sorry to say they were rejected. Apparently a cubit isn't a recognised measurement.
So then I got a draughtsman to redraw the plans and resubmitted.
“ Of course because I was then seen as a boat builder, it meant my garden had to be rezoned by the municipality as 'Light Industrial' and both neighbours objected. I asked what the problem was and they said the structure would block the sunlight. I told them they wouldn't have to be worried about the sunlight once the rain started – but this didn't help my case.
“Meanwhile I was having HUGE problems trying to source Gopher wood. It had been deemed an illegal alien so no-one would grow it. I tried to harvest some Gum trees locally but the Egrets were nesting again, so Cape Nature said I had to hold back until the chicks were big enough to fly. Then the Sedgefield Tree Committee refused permission anyway.
“When I finally did locate a source of timber (Sorry Lord but it is SA Pine) and started the process of cutting it into planks, Eskom started loadshedding, so I had to send all the carpenters home. The power was back on the next day but by then the carpenters had formed a union and went on strike. Whilst negotiating I employed some foreign nationals, but that only lasted until the Mossel Bay immigration officials came to Sedgefield and arrested them.
“Then the Sedgefield Flood Committee sent me an angry letter saying that instead of building an ark I should be campaigning to SANParks for the Swartvlei Rivermouth to be opened earlier because then there wouldn't be a flood. Then SANParks sent a ranger round to tell me I couldn't launch the ark until the estuary level had reached two metres.
Furthermore they said that according to their new tariffs a craft the size I was attempting to build would cost R4 000 000 to license, and that I would need at least 300 life jackets and 228 fire extinguishers on board.
“I started rounding up the animals but even that became a real circus. The entrance to my property was barricaded by protest groups who insisted it was wrong to keep animals in captivity for ANY length of time, and how did I know if I was taking the correct two of each species with me. It didn’t help matters when some American dentist shot one of my lions - that was all over Sedgefield Locals facebook page and soon there was an anti-ark petition started.
“By then the Department of Environmental Affairs had set the 'Green Scorpions' on me because they had got wind of what they called my ‘Proposed Flood’. They gave me a court order demanding I conduct an Environmental Impact Assessment so that Interested and Affected Parties could have the opportunity to object to the Proposed Flood if they felt so inclined.
“I employed an environmental consultant and, on her advice, a series of public meetings was held. It's probably a good thing you didn't attend any of them Lord, because chances are you might well have smote at least a dozen people there and then.
"They refused to accept that, as Creator of the Universe, you had total jurisdiction, and they demanded that, even if it did rain for forty days and forty nights, they would still have the right to walk their dogs on the beach.
“Obviously I couldn't give them any such guarantee, so they insisted the Municipality's Town Planning Department get involved again. I was asked to submit a detailed plan of the proposed new flood plain, so I gave them a globe. This did not go down well, Lord - apparently it should have been in at least three of South Africa's 11 national languages.
“As if this was not enough, the Ratepayers asked for written proof that the flood would not lower the market value of any properties; Tourism insisted that I put everything on hold until a marketing campaign be initiated to launch the brand 'KnysFlood'; and attorneys from both the DA and the ANC accused me of initiating a flood campaign to swing the demarcation process in favour of the other party (I must say I'm finding it very hard to cope with this).
“Furthermore SAARP asked for a 10% discount for any of their members wishing to buy what they called a 'cruise' ticket, and when I pointed out that it was only my family and their spouses who could come aboard, someone leaked it to the Sports Commission who demanded I implement a quota system so that the people saved would be a true reflection of South Africa's rainbow demography.
“And then someone started a Whatsapp group called Ark Lark and suddenly a huge argument broke out between some of the members and….”
“STOP!” Commanded The Lord. “I am losing my patience. Ist thou telling me that The Ark is not even complete?”
Noah sighed.
“Actually, Lord, I did manage to finish it last week but, well, I’m afraid that before I could get any of the animals on board…. something happened,”
“WHAT?” asked The Lord, and the whole world did shake with his frustration.
“One of the George taxi associations saw it as ‘passenger carrying competition, and, well, they held a protest march and burnt the ark."
“I think I am going to lie down,” said The Lord.
.
And so The Lord found Noah retired in Sedgefield and spaketh unto him.
“Noah, I am tired of the evil ways of the people of the Earth. In one year I am going to maketh it rain for forty days and forty nights and, lo, shall the whole world be covered in water until all flesh is destroyed.
"But harken this, Noah, I needeth thee to save the righteous people, and two of every kind of living thing that roameth on and flyeth above the Earth. Therefore I am commanding thee to build an ark.”
In a flash of lightening God delivered the specifications for the ark and, trembling in fear, Noah took up those measurements and vowed to commence the process.
“Remember,” spaketh the Lord, “Thou must complete the task in one year, upon which time I shall return.”
And verily, one year did pass. And, as the storm clouds didst gather above the Earth, God called upon Sedgefield to find Noah.
But lo and behold, there was no ark in site.
“Noah! Where is the ark?” boomed the voice of The Lord from on high.
Noah looked downcast and spaketh unto the Lord.
“ I'm afraid there isn't one. You see it isn't that simple. Making an ark I mean. Believe me Lord, I have tried and tried but….. Perhaps I should explain.
“I mentioned to a neighbour that I might need to borrow his saw for a project, and he asked me what it was. Foolishly I told him about the ark and next thing I knew I had a letter from him and the neighbours on the other side, stating that I had to submit plans to the municipality for a structure that size. So I submitted the plans you gave me but I’m sorry to say they were rejected. Apparently a cubit isn't a recognised measurement.
So then I got a draughtsman to redraw the plans and resubmitted.
“ Of course because I was then seen as a boat builder, it meant my garden had to be rezoned by the municipality as 'Light Industrial' and both neighbours objected. I asked what the problem was and they said the structure would block the sunlight. I told them they wouldn't have to be worried about the sunlight once the rain started – but this didn't help my case.
“Meanwhile I was having HUGE problems trying to source Gopher wood. It had been deemed an illegal alien so no-one would grow it. I tried to harvest some Gum trees locally but the Egrets were nesting again, so Cape Nature said I had to hold back until the chicks were big enough to fly. Then the Sedgefield Tree Committee refused permission anyway.
“When I finally did locate a source of timber (Sorry Lord but it is SA Pine) and started the process of cutting it into planks, Eskom started loadshedding, so I had to send all the carpenters home. The power was back on the next day but by then the carpenters had formed a union and went on strike. Whilst negotiating I employed some foreign nationals, but that only lasted until the Mossel Bay immigration officials came to Sedgefield and arrested them.
“Then the Sedgefield Flood Committee sent me an angry letter saying that instead of building an ark I should be campaigning to SANParks for the Swartvlei Rivermouth to be opened earlier because then there wouldn't be a flood. Then SANParks sent a ranger round to tell me I couldn't launch the ark until the estuary level had reached two metres.
Furthermore they said that according to their new tariffs a craft the size I was attempting to build would cost R4 000 000 to license, and that I would need at least 300 life jackets and 228 fire extinguishers on board.
“I started rounding up the animals but even that became a real circus. The entrance to my property was barricaded by protest groups who insisted it was wrong to keep animals in captivity for ANY length of time, and how did I know if I was taking the correct two of each species with me. It didn’t help matters when some American dentist shot one of my lions - that was all over Sedgefield Locals facebook page and soon there was an anti-ark petition started.
“By then the Department of Environmental Affairs had set the 'Green Scorpions' on me because they had got wind of what they called my ‘Proposed Flood’. They gave me a court order demanding I conduct an Environmental Impact Assessment so that Interested and Affected Parties could have the opportunity to object to the Proposed Flood if they felt so inclined.
“I employed an environmental consultant and, on her advice, a series of public meetings was held. It's probably a good thing you didn't attend any of them Lord, because chances are you might well have smote at least a dozen people there and then.
"They refused to accept that, as Creator of the Universe, you had total jurisdiction, and they demanded that, even if it did rain for forty days and forty nights, they would still have the right to walk their dogs on the beach.
“Obviously I couldn't give them any such guarantee, so they insisted the Municipality's Town Planning Department get involved again. I was asked to submit a detailed plan of the proposed new flood plain, so I gave them a globe. This did not go down well, Lord - apparently it should have been in at least three of South Africa's 11 national languages.
“As if this was not enough, the Ratepayers asked for written proof that the flood would not lower the market value of any properties; Tourism insisted that I put everything on hold until a marketing campaign be initiated to launch the brand 'KnysFlood'; and attorneys from both the DA and the ANC accused me of initiating a flood campaign to swing the demarcation process in favour of the other party (I must say I'm finding it very hard to cope with this).
“Furthermore SAARP asked for a 10% discount for any of their members wishing to buy what they called a 'cruise' ticket, and when I pointed out that it was only my family and their spouses who could come aboard, someone leaked it to the Sports Commission who demanded I implement a quota system so that the people saved would be a true reflection of South Africa's rainbow demography.
“And then someone started a Whatsapp group called Ark Lark and suddenly a huge argument broke out between some of the members and….”
“STOP!” Commanded The Lord. “I am losing my patience. Ist thou telling me that The Ark is not even complete?”
Noah sighed.
“Actually, Lord, I did manage to finish it last week but, well, I’m afraid that before I could get any of the animals on board…. something happened,”
“WHAT?” asked The Lord, and the whole world did shake with his frustration.
“One of the George taxi associations saw it as ‘passenger carrying competition, and, well, they held a protest march and burnt the ark."
“I think I am going to lie down,” said The Lord.
.
Thursday, August 13, 2015
Leaving home
So she has gone. Our youngest child. Our baby. She has flown the coop. Left the nest. Spread her wings and taken to the skies.
I can't believe it! Imagine someone so young (it seems it was only yesterday she started at Sedge Primary) getting on a plane all by herself, and jetting off to see the world?
Actually it's probably a good thing that 'spreading her wings' is just a metaphor, because the amount of clothing she packed in her suitcase - or ‘The Bag’ as it became known - would have necessitated the pectoral muscles of a pre-historic dragon. I do hope British Airways has the common sense to stow The Bag in the exact centre of the plane's underside storage.
Leading up to her departure has been highly emotional to say the least. There has been numerous times that I have sat cringing downstairs, with hands over ears, trying to block out the heartbreaking wails and sobs emanating from her bedroom. Mrs Ed is braver than I – she actually sat upstairs, clutching our daughter to her ample bosom in an attempt to somehow ease the agonising pain the girl had to go through each time she realised that ANOTHER pair of shoes would have to stay behind.
Not that we are a jet-setting sort of family (for years I had my kids convinced that driving over the White Bridge to Knysna was 'going overseas') but I do know that if you are travelling by plane, fitting everything into your luggage is quite stressful at the best of times, especially when the trip is a six-month long working holiday.
And that stress can be multiplied by 400 for our daughter, who had only one bag. One VERY BIG bag. The Bag.
You see, as I may have mentioned before, Fear Factor (that's a nickname we have given her since she started learning to drive) (it comes from the look on other drivers' and pedestrians' and cyclists' and dogs' faces as she drives past, putting on her mascara, drinking coffee, answering her cell phone and taking a selfie as she goes) is not just fond of her clothes, she's not just attached to them…
She IS them.
And they are her.
Seriously, at twenty years old, Fear Factor has never, ever thrown out a piece of clothing. Why? Because she considers her clothes an all important, life-giving part of her soul. And you can't just casually throw away your soul, can you?
That would be like… like… going on holiday without it....
“No Mom! Not this shirt. You can't ask me to leave this shirt behind – it's my Grade 8 school shirt. It's what I wore for my FIRST YEAR IN HIGH SCHOOL MOM!”
So we finally got The Bag closed with minutes to spare. It wasn't easy, and eventually we had to ask Mrs Ed to sit on it WITH HER DINNER PLATE, just so we could close the zip and fasten the buckles. I'm not claiming to have ever seen what a puff adder looks like after it has just consumed a Brahman Bull, but I imagine it would be something similar.
Even then another pair of shoes and some extra clothes were stuffed into the side pouches, just in case.
Fortunately seventeen of Fear Factor's friends had come to say good bye, so with their help along with a rather nifty pulley system and the steel elastic from Mrs Ed's drawers, we could swing The Bag out the window and lower it down into the unsuspecting car's boot. (I swear I heard it say “Ow! My back!” in fluent Toyota.)
Then, after waiting until we would be predictably late, we sped off for the airport with the poor car's front wheels only intermittently making contact with the tar. It looked like the old Camry was attempting to take to the skies herself.
Swinging into the car park with seconds to spare, we had to pull up and consider our methodology of getting The Bag onto the plane. Obviously we didn't want to pay for excess luggage, so we couldn't use a forklift or camel to carry it in from the car because that would surely give the game away to the eagle eyed checker-inners. (Apart from that, I thought they were both splendid options, and certainly not worth the disdainful glare I got from Mrs Ed's good eye when I had the wisdom to suggest them).
And the security officers swiftly kyboshed my attempts to reverse the car through the automatic sliding doors. (I did think diving onto my bonnet with a tazer pointed towards my forehead and shouting 'FREEZE! AIRPORT SECURITY' was a bit melodramatic) .
So, we had to grit out teeth and let Mrs Ed carry the thing.
Hoping that by some miracle, the young check-in man would look the other way when The Bag went onto the scale, I suggested that Fear Factor bat her eyelashes and flash a smile at him as she handed over her ticket. She did this particularly well, (if I hadn't known better I might have thought she had done it before) , and in her most husky, little girl voice she offered.
“I'm afraid I'm a little overweight.”
In knee-jerk reaction I added “I think she looks just fine, don't you?” (One never knows when one may be looking at a potential spouse for one's child… and apparently airport staff get discounted flights for the whole family!).
I don't know who kicked which shin the hardest, but I have no doubt that Mrs Ed has been giving Fear Factor lessons on the quiet. Eventually the pain subsided enough to get back on my feet whilst Mrs Ed and Fear Factor, under instruction from the non-plussed check-in man, emptied the side pouches of The Bag, just to make it a little lighter.
And so, a few minutes later, as our darling daughter strode through the departure gate, she stopped, turned around and gave a final wave good bye.
And then something strange happened. It was as if, in that moment, she’d had a sudden realisation.
“I love you. Both of you,” she mewed, seemingly avoiding eye contact so we wouldn't see the tears welling up. My heart warmed and, with my own eyes wet and a lump in my throat, I turned around to share this special moment with her mother….
And then I realised.
Fear Factor wasn't talking to us at all.
In fact she was looking directly at the shoes Mrs Ed was holding, the pair she had taken from the side pouch in an effort to lighten The Bag.
“I'll miss you guys,” Fear Factor sobbed at them. Then she turned around and was gone.
I think I'm going to rent out her bedroom sooner rather than later.
I can't believe it! Imagine someone so young (it seems it was only yesterday she started at Sedge Primary) getting on a plane all by herself, and jetting off to see the world?
Actually it's probably a good thing that 'spreading her wings' is just a metaphor, because the amount of clothing she packed in her suitcase - or ‘The Bag’ as it became known - would have necessitated the pectoral muscles of a pre-historic dragon. I do hope British Airways has the common sense to stow The Bag in the exact centre of the plane's underside storage.
Leading up to her departure has been highly emotional to say the least. There has been numerous times that I have sat cringing downstairs, with hands over ears, trying to block out the heartbreaking wails and sobs emanating from her bedroom. Mrs Ed is braver than I – she actually sat upstairs, clutching our daughter to her ample bosom in an attempt to somehow ease the agonising pain the girl had to go through each time she realised that ANOTHER pair of shoes would have to stay behind.
Not that we are a jet-setting sort of family (for years I had my kids convinced that driving over the White Bridge to Knysna was 'going overseas') but I do know that if you are travelling by plane, fitting everything into your luggage is quite stressful at the best of times, especially when the trip is a six-month long working holiday.
And that stress can be multiplied by 400 for our daughter, who had only one bag. One VERY BIG bag. The Bag.
You see, as I may have mentioned before, Fear Factor (that's a nickname we have given her since she started learning to drive) (it comes from the look on other drivers' and pedestrians' and cyclists' and dogs' faces as she drives past, putting on her mascara, drinking coffee, answering her cell phone and taking a selfie as she goes) is not just fond of her clothes, she's not just attached to them…
She IS them.
And they are her.
Seriously, at twenty years old, Fear Factor has never, ever thrown out a piece of clothing. Why? Because she considers her clothes an all important, life-giving part of her soul. And you can't just casually throw away your soul, can you?
That would be like… like… going on holiday without it....
“No Mom! Not this shirt. You can't ask me to leave this shirt behind – it's my Grade 8 school shirt. It's what I wore for my FIRST YEAR IN HIGH SCHOOL MOM!”
So we finally got The Bag closed with minutes to spare. It wasn't easy, and eventually we had to ask Mrs Ed to sit on it WITH HER DINNER PLATE, just so we could close the zip and fasten the buckles. I'm not claiming to have ever seen what a puff adder looks like after it has just consumed a Brahman Bull, but I imagine it would be something similar.
Even then another pair of shoes and some extra clothes were stuffed into the side pouches, just in case.
Fortunately seventeen of Fear Factor's friends had come to say good bye, so with their help along with a rather nifty pulley system and the steel elastic from Mrs Ed's drawers, we could swing The Bag out the window and lower it down into the unsuspecting car's boot. (I swear I heard it say “Ow! My back!” in fluent Toyota.)
Then, after waiting until we would be predictably late, we sped off for the airport with the poor car's front wheels only intermittently making contact with the tar. It looked like the old Camry was attempting to take to the skies herself.
Swinging into the car park with seconds to spare, we had to pull up and consider our methodology of getting The Bag onto the plane. Obviously we didn't want to pay for excess luggage, so we couldn't use a forklift or camel to carry it in from the car because that would surely give the game away to the eagle eyed checker-inners. (Apart from that, I thought they were both splendid options, and certainly not worth the disdainful glare I got from Mrs Ed's good eye when I had the wisdom to suggest them).
And the security officers swiftly kyboshed my attempts to reverse the car through the automatic sliding doors. (I did think diving onto my bonnet with a tazer pointed towards my forehead and shouting 'FREEZE! AIRPORT SECURITY' was a bit melodramatic) .
So, we had to grit out teeth and let Mrs Ed carry the thing.
Hoping that by some miracle, the young check-in man would look the other way when The Bag went onto the scale, I suggested that Fear Factor bat her eyelashes and flash a smile at him as she handed over her ticket. She did this particularly well, (if I hadn't known better I might have thought she had done it before) , and in her most husky, little girl voice she offered.
“I'm afraid I'm a little overweight.”
In knee-jerk reaction I added “I think she looks just fine, don't you?” (One never knows when one may be looking at a potential spouse for one's child… and apparently airport staff get discounted flights for the whole family!).
I don't know who kicked which shin the hardest, but I have no doubt that Mrs Ed has been giving Fear Factor lessons on the quiet. Eventually the pain subsided enough to get back on my feet whilst Mrs Ed and Fear Factor, under instruction from the non-plussed check-in man, emptied the side pouches of The Bag, just to make it a little lighter.
And so, a few minutes later, as our darling daughter strode through the departure gate, she stopped, turned around and gave a final wave good bye.
And then something strange happened. It was as if, in that moment, she’d had a sudden realisation.
“I love you. Both of you,” she mewed, seemingly avoiding eye contact so we wouldn't see the tears welling up. My heart warmed and, with my own eyes wet and a lump in my throat, I turned around to share this special moment with her mother….
And then I realised.
Fear Factor wasn't talking to us at all.
In fact she was looking directly at the shoes Mrs Ed was holding, the pair she had taken from the side pouch in an effort to lighten The Bag.
“I'll miss you guys,” Fear Factor sobbed at them. Then she turned around and was gone.
I think I'm going to rent out her bedroom sooner rather than later.
Thursday, July 2, 2015
I would like to announce that, as of August, Sedgefield's roads may be declared officially 97.5% safer, as our daughter, AKA Fear Factor, (because she is still learning to drive) is heading off for a five month soirée to the United Kingdom.
Fortunately for the rest of Africa she is going by plane, not driving.
We have notified the Disaster Management division of Scotland Yard, plus the Metropolitan Police, but, just in case, we would be grateful if those of you with family or friends living in London, Manchester or Northern Grimsby could warn them to stay off the roads wherever possible.
Of course since the decision to embark on this epic trip was made earlier this year, the poor lass has been doing as much as possible to raise funds to pay for the air ticket, spending money, and of course the most important, her farewell parties.
Yes I do realise that she is only going for less than half a year, but I must tell you that Fear Factor and her friends specialise in 'Farewell Parties' or 'Farewell Gatherings' or 'Farewell Braais' … they hold them practically every week.
I think the fault is ours – of course it is. I think we once told her that she shouldn't just party for the sake of it – there should always be a reason…. So that's what she and her friends do – they have farewells.
“Mom? I'm just going to So-and-so's for the farewell braai – she's going to Varsity next month….”
“Dad, can you give me a lift to Thingy's house? - We're having a farewell dinner for him because he's going to PE for a camp for a whole week….”
“Dear Mom n Dad, hope work was ok. You'll see I haven't tidied my room yet. Sorry but there was an emergency - I had to rush round to the Whoojamaflip's for the going away party because they are leaving with their parents on Friday for a weekend in Oudtshoorn.”
“Hi Dad – sorry to call you at work – but can I use the car to Go For Coffee with the girls? They are having a shopping day in George with their aunt so I wanted to catch them before they go to say goodbye…”
“Mom, Pls can I take this money from the envelope marked 'Electricity' on top of the fridge? I have to buy a goodbye gift for Whatsisname – he's got a bad cold and we are all going round there for a farewell bowl of chicken soup, just in case he might have to go to hospital sometime soon….”
What? Me exaggerate? No, never!
So…..Fear Factor's impending trip to Mud Island will no doubt necessitate countless gigs of the 'cheery-bye' kind, even if she is only going for ALMOST five months.
“You never know, Dad,” she keeps reminding me, “I may meet a handsome guy over there with millions of pounds, and decide to stay!” I doubt this will happen, but just in case she does meet such a man I have ordered her 17 t-shirts with my bank account details emblazoned on the front.
There are other things that need sorting as well, like her 'travelling gear'. When she first announced her travelling plans I was very excited for the simple reason that 'Ol Betsy' would be put to use again. Indeed I could hardly quell my enthusiasm as I rushed to the cupboard-behind-the-cupboard (that's where I store all the valuable things that Mrs Ed throws out) to fetch the old girl.
Perhaps I should explain, lest you start spreading rumours that I have an aging aunt kept in captivity. 'Ol Betsy is, in fact, my wonderful travelling back-pack, which I used when Mrs Ed and I did our DINKY* 'World Travels' of 1990 (*Double Income No Kids Yet).
Ol Betsy is BEAUTIFUL, in an old dame-ish kind of way, and I always knew that one day one of my children would have the honour of using her....
Admittedly she isn't small, and her somewhat rusted metal frame certainly isn't made from that new-fangled, carbon-based lightweight material that the world- wandering-wimps of today have been spoiled with.
Likewise her military green canvas has faded to a sort of bread-mould hue, and there is a patch or three, and a section where I foolishly pushed a dozen or so fish-hooks through – thinking I would be able to retrieve them when I finally got to the Yangtze Kiang. But I didn't for one moment think that any of this would interfere with the joy my daughter would have in being able to take with her part of my own personal history, nay, a piece of my very soul.
It was all I could do to hold back the tears as I ceremoniously presented her with 'Ol Betsy'.
“Look after her,” I sniffed, “She still smells of that bus trip through Chang Mai.”
“But…. That….. ?” whimpered Fear Factor (I somehow knew she was going to break into floods of emotional tears,)
“Mom! Please don't make me take that old thing! It's horrible and heavy and huge and … and…. Look there's a mouse still living in it! AND , OH GROSS, A DIRTY PAIR OF....... DAD!!”
Mrs Ed was totally unsympathetic to my cause. In fact before I could even remind her that 'that old thing' had been on MY back carrying HER sleeping mat, her HER wellington boots, HER handpainted 2metre (when closed) Thai-crafted fan with the painting of an old villager smoking an opium pipe on it AND HER autographed Village People sweatshirt, through Thailand AND right down the East coast of Australia, she turned on me, quite viciously I thought. I don't know whatever happened to the notion of parents providing a united front.
“I threw that out fourteen years ago!” she boomed, spittle flying into her 11 o’clock stubble.
"Yes," I retorted (which was odd, because I can't remember ever torting in the first place),"But you also chucked out my old dart board with the wire missing, my original 'Welcome to Harare' roadsign AND my Best Baywatch Characters Duvet set, and I've still got all of them in the back of the cupboard behind the......."
Fortunately in the ensuing sprint I got the better of her with a particularly well-aimed ankle tap as she was halfway up the stairs, so was able to position myself with my back flat against the cupboard door and fend off any marauding attacks....
Now it’s 11pm, and she's sitting on the bed facing me, determined to gain access to my treasure trove, but I'm sure she will eventually fall asleep so I can nip out and fetch a padlock.... Quite important considering she doesn't even know about the two metre high Brandy Brewing Apparatus (inherited from my dad) that I smuggled through when we moved down...
Fortunately for the rest of Africa she is going by plane, not driving.
We have notified the Disaster Management division of Scotland Yard, plus the Metropolitan Police, but, just in case, we would be grateful if those of you with family or friends living in London, Manchester or Northern Grimsby could warn them to stay off the roads wherever possible.
Of course since the decision to embark on this epic trip was made earlier this year, the poor lass has been doing as much as possible to raise funds to pay for the air ticket, spending money, and of course the most important, her farewell parties.
Yes I do realise that she is only going for less than half a year, but I must tell you that Fear Factor and her friends specialise in 'Farewell Parties' or 'Farewell Gatherings' or 'Farewell Braais' … they hold them practically every week.
I think the fault is ours – of course it is. I think we once told her that she shouldn't just party for the sake of it – there should always be a reason…. So that's what she and her friends do – they have farewells.
“Mom? I'm just going to So-and-so's for the farewell braai – she's going to Varsity next month….”
“Dad, can you give me a lift to Thingy's house? - We're having a farewell dinner for him because he's going to PE for a camp for a whole week….”
“Dear Mom n Dad, hope work was ok. You'll see I haven't tidied my room yet. Sorry but there was an emergency - I had to rush round to the Whoojamaflip's for the going away party because they are leaving with their parents on Friday for a weekend in Oudtshoorn.”
“Hi Dad – sorry to call you at work – but can I use the car to Go For Coffee with the girls? They are having a shopping day in George with their aunt so I wanted to catch them before they go to say goodbye…”
“Mom, Pls can I take this money from the envelope marked 'Electricity' on top of the fridge? I have to buy a goodbye gift for Whatsisname – he's got a bad cold and we are all going round there for a farewell bowl of chicken soup, just in case he might have to go to hospital sometime soon….”
What? Me exaggerate? No, never!
So…..Fear Factor's impending trip to Mud Island will no doubt necessitate countless gigs of the 'cheery-bye' kind, even if she is only going for ALMOST five months.
“You never know, Dad,” she keeps reminding me, “I may meet a handsome guy over there with millions of pounds, and decide to stay!” I doubt this will happen, but just in case she does meet such a man I have ordered her 17 t-shirts with my bank account details emblazoned on the front.
There are other things that need sorting as well, like her 'travelling gear'. When she first announced her travelling plans I was very excited for the simple reason that 'Ol Betsy' would be put to use again. Indeed I could hardly quell my enthusiasm as I rushed to the cupboard-behind-the-cupboard (that's where I store all the valuable things that Mrs Ed throws out) to fetch the old girl.
Perhaps I should explain, lest you start spreading rumours that I have an aging aunt kept in captivity. 'Ol Betsy is, in fact, my wonderful travelling back-pack, which I used when Mrs Ed and I did our DINKY* 'World Travels' of 1990 (*Double Income No Kids Yet).
Ol Betsy is BEAUTIFUL, in an old dame-ish kind of way, and I always knew that one day one of my children would have the honour of using her....
Admittedly she isn't small, and her somewhat rusted metal frame certainly isn't made from that new-fangled, carbon-based lightweight material that the world- wandering-wimps of today have been spoiled with.
Likewise her military green canvas has faded to a sort of bread-mould hue, and there is a patch or three, and a section where I foolishly pushed a dozen or so fish-hooks through – thinking I would be able to retrieve them when I finally got to the Yangtze Kiang. But I didn't for one moment think that any of this would interfere with the joy my daughter would have in being able to take with her part of my own personal history, nay, a piece of my very soul.
It was all I could do to hold back the tears as I ceremoniously presented her with 'Ol Betsy'.
“Look after her,” I sniffed, “She still smells of that bus trip through Chang Mai.”
“But…. That….. ?” whimpered Fear Factor (I somehow knew she was going to break into floods of emotional tears,)
“Mom! Please don't make me take that old thing! It's horrible and heavy and huge and … and…. Look there's a mouse still living in it! AND , OH GROSS, A DIRTY PAIR OF....... DAD!!”
Mrs Ed was totally unsympathetic to my cause. In fact before I could even remind her that 'that old thing' had been on MY back carrying HER sleeping mat, her HER wellington boots, HER handpainted 2metre (when closed) Thai-crafted fan with the painting of an old villager smoking an opium pipe on it AND HER autographed Village People sweatshirt, through Thailand AND right down the East coast of Australia, she turned on me, quite viciously I thought. I don't know whatever happened to the notion of parents providing a united front.
“I threw that out fourteen years ago!” she boomed, spittle flying into her 11 o’clock stubble.
"Yes," I retorted (which was odd, because I can't remember ever torting in the first place),"But you also chucked out my old dart board with the wire missing, my original 'Welcome to Harare' roadsign AND my Best Baywatch Characters Duvet set, and I've still got all of them in the back of the cupboard behind the......."
Fortunately in the ensuing sprint I got the better of her with a particularly well-aimed ankle tap as she was halfway up the stairs, so was able to position myself with my back flat against the cupboard door and fend off any marauding attacks....
Now it’s 11pm, and she's sitting on the bed facing me, determined to gain access to my treasure trove, but I'm sure she will eventually fall asleep so I can nip out and fetch a padlock.... Quite important considering she doesn't even know about the two metre high Brandy Brewing Apparatus (inherited from my dad) that I smuggled through when we moved down...
Thursday, June 4, 2015
.
“So, I want to chat about our retirement,” said Mrs Ed, out of the blue. I almost choked on my pie and the hot spillings of coffee scalded my leg so badly I almost swerved across the road. Worse yet, I couldn't even cry out in agony – Mrs Ed has always insisted it's dangerous to eat and drink whilst cycling, and there is nothing more scary than one of her 'I Told You So,' looks – which have been known to fell century-old yellowwoods.
“Retirement?” I gasped, stopping my bike and dropping the pie back into the packet balanced on the handlebars, saying a quick silent prayer that it wouldn't contaminate the doughnuts.
“I'm only twenty nine-ish – how can I think of retirement now?”
Shaking her head like an oversized, wet Boerbul she gruffly tsked at me and pedalled on ahead, so as to avoid colliding with the octogenarian gentleman screaming towards us in the red car at about 50kph (who knows what speed he might reach when he found second gear). Slipping into her ample slip-stream, I reflected to myself (it's safer that way) that the conversation would definitely not be over, so for the rest of the mammoth ride to the bottle-store I stayed behind her (though it was much darker there) and pretended I didn't hear what she was ranting on about. Eventually she gave up, but the conversation restarted once we had got home, just as I had adopted the recovery position in my hammock.
“We have to make plans sooner, rather than later,” Mrs Ed insisted rather profoundly. This of course didn't make sense to me. I am the man who put the professional 'pro' in procrastinator. I got my cum laude in procrastination, and plan to do a thesis on the subject … one day….
Yes. I must admit, my version of 'planning for our future' is making sure there's a pack of bacon in the freezer for Sunday. I think life is far less stressful that way, but Mrs Ed tends to disagree. In fact, ever since we tied the noose, er… knot, she has regularly asked for confirmation that I have sufficient finances in place for when we retire – and my answer has always been the same.
“Of course I have. What sort of a cretin do you think I am?” I say, “ There is DEFINITELY enough money put away for when that day comes.” It was only more recently when I quietly added “I just don't know what we are going to do the NEXT day,” that she started panicking… I can't think why. We have bacon.
But the long and the short of it is that Mrs Ed now feels that she has to come up with a cunning plan for our retirement. Perhaps it's the fact that our kids are sort of moving out (I say 'sort of' because they seem to be taunting us with some sort of home-stay relay – the first one moves out, then, just when the second one is leaving, the first comes back….for a few months, until the second one returns… so the first one can leave again….. Good grief. I don't mean to be funny but I am so grateful I only have two children, otherwise we would have to replace the front door with a turnstile!)
So what is her latest cunning plan? Wait for it….
She wants to open a B&B…..
For those of you who don't know Mrs Ed – give me a moment and I will explain why this is, perhaps, Not Such a Brilliant Idea. For those of you who DO know Mrs Ed, yes – you heard right. I DID say she wants to open a B&B. (You'll find that if you pinch your nose between your thumb and your forefinger and dig your nails in deep enough it will help control the laughter….)
You see Mrs Ed is not really a morning person. At all. Actually that is quite an understatement. A bit like saying Atilla the Hun wasn't really a compassionate person…. In fact, whilst we are on the subject of bloodlusting barbarians, you could say that, first thing in the morning at least, Mrs Ed is probably very similar to Mrs Hun, the hen-pecking wife who used to drive him mad enough to go out and do his barbarianistic bit. In fact I have always believed that if we can make sure World War 3 happens anytime before 11am, then I could hire Mrs Ed out as a mercenary to the highest bidder. It would all be over so quickly the troops would be home for lunch, never mind Christmas.
Now I may be being pedantic here, but in my ever-so-humble opinion when a weary traveller sees the motif 'B&B' , he or she would probably expect a nice spot to rest his or her head, with crisp, clean sheets, followed by (at say, somewhere between 7.30 and 10.30am) the welcome vision of a hot plate of bacon and eggs and a nice fresh cup of coffee,…..
……not a haphazardly curlered ogre in a crumpled, pre-Boer War, battle stained dressing gown, with freshly sharpened incisor teeth peering threateningly from under a morning moustache of such magnitude that even Magnum would have thought it magnificent, shouting blue murder about how the weatherman should be lashed and why doesn't anyone have the intelligence to hang up a towel when they are done with it and what does a woman have to do to get something as simple as a cup of coffee to drink with her first cigarette ….
Of course I see what is happening in this Mrs Ed Master Plan. There is Method in her Madness. I have absolutely no doubt that Muggins here (that's me folks) would end up doing absolutely EVERYTHING, just so that I could prevent anything dangerous happening to an unsuspecting guest, and the inevitable lawsuit that would follow, not to mention the visitation by the SAICF (Sedgefield Alien Invasion Conspiracy Forum).
So, as my own special service to the tourism industry, I am going to put any 'retirement plans' (especially those involving a B&B) on hold until such time as I am well and truly ready to start living the 'South African Dream'. You know the one – it involves giving up the hard slog of the normal working life, relocating to a small coastal village, perhaps setting up a small family business – like a community newspaper, exchanging the suit and tie for a crumpled pair of jeans and t-shirt, spending every second morning in a coffee shop and every third evening in a tavern….
Now THAT's what I call a retirement plan…
“So, I want to chat about our retirement,” said Mrs Ed, out of the blue. I almost choked on my pie and the hot spillings of coffee scalded my leg so badly I almost swerved across the road. Worse yet, I couldn't even cry out in agony – Mrs Ed has always insisted it's dangerous to eat and drink whilst cycling, and there is nothing more scary than one of her 'I Told You So,' looks – which have been known to fell century-old yellowwoods.
“Retirement?” I gasped, stopping my bike and dropping the pie back into the packet balanced on the handlebars, saying a quick silent prayer that it wouldn't contaminate the doughnuts.
“I'm only twenty nine-ish – how can I think of retirement now?”
Shaking her head like an oversized, wet Boerbul she gruffly tsked at me and pedalled on ahead, so as to avoid colliding with the octogenarian gentleman screaming towards us in the red car at about 50kph (who knows what speed he might reach when he found second gear). Slipping into her ample slip-stream, I reflected to myself (it's safer that way) that the conversation would definitely not be over, so for the rest of the mammoth ride to the bottle-store I stayed behind her (though it was much darker there) and pretended I didn't hear what she was ranting on about. Eventually she gave up, but the conversation restarted once we had got home, just as I had adopted the recovery position in my hammock.
“We have to make plans sooner, rather than later,” Mrs Ed insisted rather profoundly. This of course didn't make sense to me. I am the man who put the professional 'pro' in procrastinator. I got my cum laude in procrastination, and plan to do a thesis on the subject … one day….
Yes. I must admit, my version of 'planning for our future' is making sure there's a pack of bacon in the freezer for Sunday. I think life is far less stressful that way, but Mrs Ed tends to disagree. In fact, ever since we tied the noose, er… knot, she has regularly asked for confirmation that I have sufficient finances in place for when we retire – and my answer has always been the same.
“Of course I have. What sort of a cretin do you think I am?” I say, “ There is DEFINITELY enough money put away for when that day comes.” It was only more recently when I quietly added “I just don't know what we are going to do the NEXT day,” that she started panicking… I can't think why. We have bacon.
But the long and the short of it is that Mrs Ed now feels that she has to come up with a cunning plan for our retirement. Perhaps it's the fact that our kids are sort of moving out (I say 'sort of' because they seem to be taunting us with some sort of home-stay relay – the first one moves out, then, just when the second one is leaving, the first comes back….for a few months, until the second one returns… so the first one can leave again….. Good grief. I don't mean to be funny but I am so grateful I only have two children, otherwise we would have to replace the front door with a turnstile!)
So what is her latest cunning plan? Wait for it….
She wants to open a B&B…..
For those of you who don't know Mrs Ed – give me a moment and I will explain why this is, perhaps, Not Such a Brilliant Idea. For those of you who DO know Mrs Ed, yes – you heard right. I DID say she wants to open a B&B. (You'll find that if you pinch your nose between your thumb and your forefinger and dig your nails in deep enough it will help control the laughter….)
You see Mrs Ed is not really a morning person. At all. Actually that is quite an understatement. A bit like saying Atilla the Hun wasn't really a compassionate person…. In fact, whilst we are on the subject of bloodlusting barbarians, you could say that, first thing in the morning at least, Mrs Ed is probably very similar to Mrs Hun, the hen-pecking wife who used to drive him mad enough to go out and do his barbarianistic bit. In fact I have always believed that if we can make sure World War 3 happens anytime before 11am, then I could hire Mrs Ed out as a mercenary to the highest bidder. It would all be over so quickly the troops would be home for lunch, never mind Christmas.
Now I may be being pedantic here, but in my ever-so-humble opinion when a weary traveller sees the motif 'B&B' , he or she would probably expect a nice spot to rest his or her head, with crisp, clean sheets, followed by (at say, somewhere between 7.30 and 10.30am) the welcome vision of a hot plate of bacon and eggs and a nice fresh cup of coffee,…..
……not a haphazardly curlered ogre in a crumpled, pre-Boer War, battle stained dressing gown, with freshly sharpened incisor teeth peering threateningly from under a morning moustache of such magnitude that even Magnum would have thought it magnificent, shouting blue murder about how the weatherman should be lashed and why doesn't anyone have the intelligence to hang up a towel when they are done with it and what does a woman have to do to get something as simple as a cup of coffee to drink with her first cigarette ….
Of course I see what is happening in this Mrs Ed Master Plan. There is Method in her Madness. I have absolutely no doubt that Muggins here (that's me folks) would end up doing absolutely EVERYTHING, just so that I could prevent anything dangerous happening to an unsuspecting guest, and the inevitable lawsuit that would follow, not to mention the visitation by the SAICF (Sedgefield Alien Invasion Conspiracy Forum).
So, as my own special service to the tourism industry, I am going to put any 'retirement plans' (especially those involving a B&B) on hold until such time as I am well and truly ready to start living the 'South African Dream'. You know the one – it involves giving up the hard slog of the normal working life, relocating to a small coastal village, perhaps setting up a small family business – like a community newspaper, exchanging the suit and tie for a crumpled pair of jeans and t-shirt, spending every second morning in a coffee shop and every third evening in a tavern….
Now THAT's what I call a retirement plan…
Friday, March 20, 2015
Making Money
.
Hmmmmm. It gets very quiet, doesn’t it. These months when Sedgefield sits back on its haunches, nervously chewing on its fingernails for sustenance whilst waiting in eager (and hopeful) anticipation of the arrival of the next batch of visitors.
Of course this is when the Ed family is at its busiest, because it is, after all, THAT Time. The time that we embark on our various plans and missions to survive until The BIG Break.
It’s going to happen soon – The BIG Break. I can feel it in my bones.
Yes, I know I’ve been saying it every year, but really – one can only buy so many lotto tickets before a win becomes almost a dead cert. We buy at least one a month… most months.
Mind you, don’t think for one moment that I would be foolish enough to put all my eggs in one lottery basket. That would be absolute madness, wouldn’t it? No. I’m quite sensible about things like this. I realise that there’s no such thing as an easy way to make a million, so I work hard to ensure that Mrs Ed also picks up Powerball tickets AND enters the Readers’ Digest Sweepstakes, not to mention the lengthy email communication I have embarked on with Prince Omhlangarango of Central Africa.
Have you heard of him? I must admit I hadn’t, nor even the Kingdom of Bandabanda – but according to the facts on a ‘pdf’ The Prince sent me, it was actually the fourth richest oil country in the world…. Before the military coup that is.
Strange actually, that of all people he could have contacted, His Royal Highness chose me. Perhaps it was fate. Or maybe some sort of North African intuition he had that I would be sympathetic to his cause. And I AM sympathetic.
Imagine it – being deposed and chased away from his monarchy and not even being able to open a bank account for fear of persecution?
So yes, Prince Omhlangarango’s instincts were correct and I was only too happy to share my bank account with him. And please don’t for a single minute think that my decision to make this generous international gesture was swayed by the promise of fifty percent of his money (though the ‘489 000 000 Great British Pounds’ will certainly help pay off the bottle store account).
But of course no good deed goes unpunished, and needless to say we have been faced with no end of red tape. Only minutes after I sent him the details of my bank account – along with the pin number and pass words (apparently all that information is needed in Bandabanda – even if you are just making a deposit) he replied that he couldn’t use that account at all.
He asked if I perhaps had another one with some money in it (there’s such strict ‘minimum balance’ laws in Bandabanda – no wonder the people decided to revolt) but of course that’s not really something anyone in my family has. And my attempts to extend the overdraft resulted in the usual failure, and guffawing of the bank manager. (I can’t wait for the Great British Pounds to come through so I can buy out Standard – and then I PROMISE I’ll open a branch in Sedgefield).
Anyway I must admit, I’m not 100% sure anything is going to come of this. I’m actually starting to suspect all is not as it seems. Since my fifth email to The Prince about the bank account still being empty and apologies for my family’s strange reluctance to lend me R400 000 just to put it in a positive balance (which The Prince would of course pay back with interest), the tone of his emails has changed somewhat - He’s even used some words which I am convinced might be Bandabandese expletives. I have suspicions that General Nyathamampala (the fellow who led the military coup) has intercepted The Prince’s emails and is trying to get in on the deal…..
So where, you ask (it really is so nice that you care, thank you), does that leave us? Well, whilst we sit waiting for The Prince to sort his money out, it is THAT Time. The time we have to make ends meet here in the Garden Route.
You may remember that whilst my daughter, aka Fear Factor (still learning to drive) is away studying in Cape Town (she swears blind the fire had nothing to do with her clutch burning out), her older brother The REE (Resident Expert on Everything) is back home, ostensibly to spend quality time with us, though I suspect he is just fattening himself up for his next sojourn to the Mother City.
So THAT Time involves all three of us – because he has quickly learned that eating at home isn’t quite as pleasant after the chicken bones have been boiled for the fourth day in a row.
Not that we are getting any quality input from The REE, ideas-wise. After instructing him to have a good hard look at his talents and how he can utilize them for putting bread on the table, his response was “People should pay me for being totally awesome.”
I told him he should really raise the bar. He said he had already approached most of the bars in Sedgefield but none of them had agreed on his ‘Appearance Fee’ . Indeed most of them asked HIM for money – apparently someone in his immediate family has left a few tabs unpaid…..
Mrs Ed has gone back to the drawing board after her home-made bread samples did not pass the criteria set by her (ex) friends at the Bricklayers Guild (something to do with the excess weight), and for a while I too was really battling to find motivation since all the forms for my Sponsored Beer-Drink have been returned blank.
But then it hit me. The Perfect Plan! The more I thought about it the more I knew, it was IT! The BMMI (BIG Money Making Idea). It’s infallible. Brilliant. And so easy too!
Obviously I can’t go into it here in too much detail, because then EVERYONE will want to try it. But there certainly is room for a few others who would like to make some moolah with me..
So what I thought is that I would choose just a few of my loyal readers to share my fantastic money making plan.
If you are interested, (who wouldn’t be?) and want me to send full details of this amazingly foolproof plan, all you have to do is drop a self addressed envelope containing R1500 in cash at The EDGE offices, clearly marked with ‘Ted’s BIG Money Making Idea’ …..
.
Hmmmmm. It gets very quiet, doesn’t it. These months when Sedgefield sits back on its haunches, nervously chewing on its fingernails for sustenance whilst waiting in eager (and hopeful) anticipation of the arrival of the next batch of visitors.
Of course this is when the Ed family is at its busiest, because it is, after all, THAT Time. The time that we embark on our various plans and missions to survive until The BIG Break.
It’s going to happen soon – The BIG Break. I can feel it in my bones.
Yes, I know I’ve been saying it every year, but really – one can only buy so many lotto tickets before a win becomes almost a dead cert. We buy at least one a month… most months.
Mind you, don’t think for one moment that I would be foolish enough to put all my eggs in one lottery basket. That would be absolute madness, wouldn’t it? No. I’m quite sensible about things like this. I realise that there’s no such thing as an easy way to make a million, so I work hard to ensure that Mrs Ed also picks up Powerball tickets AND enters the Readers’ Digest Sweepstakes, not to mention the lengthy email communication I have embarked on with Prince Omhlangarango of Central Africa.
Have you heard of him? I must admit I hadn’t, nor even the Kingdom of Bandabanda – but according to the facts on a ‘pdf’ The Prince sent me, it was actually the fourth richest oil country in the world…. Before the military coup that is.
Strange actually, that of all people he could have contacted, His Royal Highness chose me. Perhaps it was fate. Or maybe some sort of North African intuition he had that I would be sympathetic to his cause. And I AM sympathetic.
Imagine it – being deposed and chased away from his monarchy and not even being able to open a bank account for fear of persecution?
So yes, Prince Omhlangarango’s instincts were correct and I was only too happy to share my bank account with him. And please don’t for a single minute think that my decision to make this generous international gesture was swayed by the promise of fifty percent of his money (though the ‘489 000 000 Great British Pounds’ will certainly help pay off the bottle store account).
But of course no good deed goes unpunished, and needless to say we have been faced with no end of red tape. Only minutes after I sent him the details of my bank account – along with the pin number and pass words (apparently all that information is needed in Bandabanda – even if you are just making a deposit) he replied that he couldn’t use that account at all.
He asked if I perhaps had another one with some money in it (there’s such strict ‘minimum balance’ laws in Bandabanda – no wonder the people decided to revolt) but of course that’s not really something anyone in my family has. And my attempts to extend the overdraft resulted in the usual failure, and guffawing of the bank manager. (I can’t wait for the Great British Pounds to come through so I can buy out Standard – and then I PROMISE I’ll open a branch in Sedgefield).
Anyway I must admit, I’m not 100% sure anything is going to come of this. I’m actually starting to suspect all is not as it seems. Since my fifth email to The Prince about the bank account still being empty and apologies for my family’s strange reluctance to lend me R400 000 just to put it in a positive balance (which The Prince would of course pay back with interest), the tone of his emails has changed somewhat - He’s even used some words which I am convinced might be Bandabandese expletives. I have suspicions that General Nyathamampala (the fellow who led the military coup) has intercepted The Prince’s emails and is trying to get in on the deal…..
So where, you ask (it really is so nice that you care, thank you), does that leave us? Well, whilst we sit waiting for The Prince to sort his money out, it is THAT Time. The time we have to make ends meet here in the Garden Route.
You may remember that whilst my daughter, aka Fear Factor (still learning to drive) is away studying in Cape Town (she swears blind the fire had nothing to do with her clutch burning out), her older brother The REE (Resident Expert on Everything) is back home, ostensibly to spend quality time with us, though I suspect he is just fattening himself up for his next sojourn to the Mother City.
So THAT Time involves all three of us – because he has quickly learned that eating at home isn’t quite as pleasant after the chicken bones have been boiled for the fourth day in a row.
Not that we are getting any quality input from The REE, ideas-wise. After instructing him to have a good hard look at his talents and how he can utilize them for putting bread on the table, his response was “People should pay me for being totally awesome.”
I told him he should really raise the bar. He said he had already approached most of the bars in Sedgefield but none of them had agreed on his ‘Appearance Fee’ . Indeed most of them asked HIM for money – apparently someone in his immediate family has left a few tabs unpaid…..
Mrs Ed has gone back to the drawing board after her home-made bread samples did not pass the criteria set by her (ex) friends at the Bricklayers Guild (something to do with the excess weight), and for a while I too was really battling to find motivation since all the forms for my Sponsored Beer-Drink have been returned blank.
But then it hit me. The Perfect Plan! The more I thought about it the more I knew, it was IT! The BMMI (BIG Money Making Idea). It’s infallible. Brilliant. And so easy too!
Obviously I can’t go into it here in too much detail, because then EVERYONE will want to try it. But there certainly is room for a few others who would like to make some moolah with me..
So what I thought is that I would choose just a few of my loyal readers to share my fantastic money making plan.
If you are interested, (who wouldn’t be?) and want me to send full details of this amazingly foolproof plan, all you have to do is drop a self addressed envelope containing R1500 in cash at The EDGE offices, clearly marked with ‘Ted’s BIG Money Making Idea’ …..
.
Thursday, February 26, 2015
Being the youngest in the family
The other day I heard two kids arguing over whose life was worse. They were obviously brothers, because the bigger one was whining about how spoilt the little one was, and how being the oldest was so much more difficult… so I quickly sidled up to the younger one and offered my help.
“Let's take him out,” I suggested in a clandestine whisper, “I reckon I'm strong enough to hold him down while you hit him.” The boy looked at me with alarm in his eyes, then back at his older brother. In a split second the two of them grabbed one another's hands and scampered away as fast as their little legs could carry them.
I'm not embarrassed. If I can score a point for the 'Youngest in the family' club then I won't hesitate to do it. We have to stick together, us 'Youngests', we've had it hard enough already.
No come on, really. I can hear all you 'middle children' leaping to your feet to protest, probably complaining bitterly about how hard you've had it and how us 'Youngests' got spoiled and favourited and molly-coddled and blah blah blah…
No really I'm serious, I can actually hear you. Sit down and give the youngest a chance to say something for once in your lives, will you?
Let's get this out in the open, shall we? LIFE IS NOT BETTER FOR THE YOUNGEST KID IN THE FAMILY! Really, it wasn't, isn't and never will be!
Yes I agree, we youngest ones might have gotten to go on an extra family trip with mom and dad after you guys had left home, probably to some flower show or historical mine tour or something equally riveting. And maybe, just maybe, we got to have our own bedrooms....
But do you really think that bore any weight on the scales of justice in comparison to the trauma we went through? Yes trauma. T.R.A.U.M.A. I bet you it hasn’t even crossed you mind, has it?
I'm not talking about simple things, like always getting the smallest pork chop, or having all our sweets stolen whilst we were asleep (bedtime is 8pm for the youngest), or being called 'Poppet' by mom and 'Poopants' by our older siblings….even at the age of 27.
I'm not even talking about having to wear the worn-out, hand-me-down clothing of our older brothers AND sisters …. including that dreaded bottle-green, bubbly, lycra swimming costume (to this day I despise swimming in public …) In fact if I think about it, wearing hand-me-downs is a 'scarred for life' subject all of its own, isn't it? I mean how do people still recognize that I am a youngest child? Why is it that at just over 40 years of age, people are still giving me their hand-me-down clothes? Worse yet, why do I still accept them gladly, with a warm buzz of excitement filling my heart?
“But you youngest children had it so easy,” I hear the middle and oldest-born taunt, “We had to be the pioneers, all you had to do was follow in our footsteps…”
True, true. But from my experience they were hard footsteps to follow when you'd dressed me up as a little girl, sprayed my butt with mud so it looked like I'd had an 'accident', and taped over my mouth so I couldn't call mom and dad....
I think the worst thing about growing up as the youngest kid in the family was The Fear. I'm sure other Youngest Children will agree. We were never far from The Fear. Obviously the cause varied, but The Fear was always there….
The Fear that my world's biggest Lego tower, carefully and painstakingly built over several weeks, could be destroyed in seconds by an 'accidently' thrown cushion….
The Fear that at any time one of my brothers could hold me down whilst the other brother squatted down and er… 'let one rip' as close to my nose as possible, then tickle me until I gasped for breath....
The Fear that would steal my sleep at night, because my siblings had spent hours convincing me that I wasn't really part of the family, but a stray Goblin that mom and dad (who were really a witch and wizard) had taken in to fatten up for Christmas…
The Fear that the conversation with the first girl I had the courage to actually speak to would be interrupted at any second by my brother telling her about my fictitious Barbie doll collection. ….
The Fear.
Us 'Youngest Kids' never knew what was going to happen. The Fear was ever-present.
And do you know what? Even when we're grown up there's The Fear. The Fear of a conspiracy against us… I read the results of a survey recently (obviously a survey done by a middle / older child), which stated that 90% of the Youngest Kids of this world will grow up to be rebels without any self worth.
Self worth? Your kidding, right? Of course we won't have self-worth. Our parents had to go through a list of seventeen names (including all three dogs, the royal family and Aunt Sally's tortoise) before they could remember ours.
And how can a person who has no photographic evidence of a childhood have any self worth? We aren't idiots. We know full well that the novelty of taking pictures always wears off after the first couple of children have walked their first steps, ridden their first bikes, dressed up for their first day at school etc etc. By the time the last child is doing anything memorable, it's just too much of a pain to get the camera out.
“Look mom, look dad, I've mastered a triple somersault with inward pike and double negative, wide-armed spin and I'm poised to do it off the garage roof into the paddling pool, blindfolded!”
“Sorry son, your older brother has just sewn on his first button and we're trying to get 17 close up photographs of his smug expression…”
I kid you not. Ask any Youngest Child.
I remember when the future Mrs Ed and I were first dating and I had invited her to a family get-together. I unfortunately hadn’t realised that the dog had dug up the box of family slides where I'd buried them under the garden shed and Mom thought watching them would be a good way to spend the evening (oh the joys!). After about three hours I heard a whisper in the darkness.
“So… were you adopted?.... Like… when you were fifteen?”
“No!” I answered from my seat on the floor, “Why would you say that?”
“Well,” the new love of my life quietly observed, “there has been 1475 pictures of your sister, 302 of your elder brother, 93 of your middle brother and well… none of you… unless you count that bit of someone's shoulder in one of the 79 pictures of your sister's Brownie graduation.”
My mother must have overheard, because she proudly exclaimed as the projector clicked and the image of the next slide appeared on the wall.
“Aaah, HERE's one of you Nic, no Jem, no Mark, no Charles, no Diane, no Rover, no Mountbatten, er.. no Poppet, YES! POPPET! There you are in the paddling pool!”
I beamed proudly, but my joy was cut short on hearing my future wife's next observation.
“Actually it isn't him,” she said “That's a little girl. If you look closely there's pink ribbons in her hair…”
Close scrutiny proved her correct. What's more, the tiny child in the slide was a skinny wisp of a thing, and I vaguely remembered being a somewhat pudgy and round little boy, though I had no way to prove it.
“Mom!,” I whined, exceptionally disappointed, “She's wearing my green bubbly costume! How could you?”
My mother sighed.
“Oh I remember now. The neighbour had brought her child Beatrice over for a swim, and I suddenly remembered the overseas family had asked us to send a picture of you and… well… somehow we didn't have any. So we thought…. as Beatrice was such a good looking child…. and your dad had the camera out anyway…
Thursday, February 12, 2015
Valentine's Day
So....… It’s Valentine’s day soon.
Who knows what extravagant gift Mrs Ed will be bestowing upon me this year?
I must say, to be honest (and you know that I seldom if ever sway from the truth), that aging spouse of mine has been somewhat slacking in the last year or two when it comes to the art of ‘romancing’.
Gift wise that is.
I’m even starting to suspect that she doesn’t feel quite so endeared to me as she did back then, when I could afford enough vodka to convince her to marry me.
If I think back to the first half of the life-sentence we’ve been betrothed, she was much more of a romantic soul. I remember when the kids were toddlers and sometimes the pressure of running the household became almost overbearing for me (if it wasn’t the continuous chatter of the young whippersnappers disturbing my afternoon naps on the couch, it was Mrs Ed shifting the furniture around to vacuum up the trail of mess they left in their wake) she always made the effort to try and make Valentine’s Day something special. There were times when she used to pack a picnic basket with sandwiches and a few bottles of Amber Nectar, put a blanket in the car and drive me to Jubilee Creek, where she would blindfold me and lead me deep into the forest for a sunset picnic…. Mind you even that was a bit strange, because she always forgot to pack a torch so it would take me ages to find my way back home afterwards. I remember how, as I staggered up the driveway hours later, I would always find her standing at the kitchen window, with that feigned look of disappointment on her face.
But alas, no more. The last few years have become totally humdrum when it comes to Valentine’s day.
It’s not that I don’t try from my side, I really do. Last year I put a big red ribbon around the new wheelbarrow (well, it was almost new – apart from the buckled wheel that tended to clang-clang a lot when she has a full load) but Mrs Ed barely noticed my efforts. And I think I told you about the year before, when she had mentioned she wanted me to go to the clothing store and get her something black and lacy for Valentine’s Day “to spice up our relationship”...
Apparently the safety boots weren’t what she had in mind…. Sigh…
(Worse yet, when I mentioned we couldn’t take them back because of the Hospice Shop’s no return policy she accidently let one of them slip out her hand and it flew across the room and almost broke my nose!)
Am I wrong in thinking that Valentine’s Day becomes more of a challenge as one gets older?
Perhaps it is coming up with something different every year that makes it harder, but one would think that we would get better and better at buying gifts for our loved ones as time goes on. Indeed I know of people who do. My brother-in-law has the whole Valentine’s thing waxed, I must say. Like most of us men he is inclined to forget until the last minute, but this certainly doesn’t deter him from being the best Valentine’s gift producer in the world…..
As the realization hits him (like it hits so many of us men on Valentine’s Day morning) he sprints down to his workshop and, after a general buzzing and whirring of powertools which lasts mere minutes, suddenly he’s back in the kitchen, presenting his deliriously appreciative wife a beautifully created wooden heart with both of their initials carved in the centre, or an Oregon pine coffee table with a cedar wood inlay of figures, remarkably resembling their entire family, or a bunch of roses expertly and oh so delicately welded out of metal…. with the buds sprayed a delicious crimson red…. (I won’t mention this brother in law's name for fear of recrimination by the rest of the world’s population of men).
But I am seriously not that quick thinking…. And there seems to be a large area of no-man’s land between my brain and my hands when it comes to making anything worthwhile. I have tried, of course, but it’s easy to tell that the home-made horrors I create aren’t quite up to the mark.
One year I thought I cracked it. Following the lead of my bro-in-law, I used the resources available to me in the garage, and created a beautiful bed-side cabinet for Mrs ED. She had been complaining that all her Brick-layers’ Guild magazines and her erotic novels were always in a messy pile next to her bed….
Actually, that’s a fib.
I had been complaining that all her Brick-layers’ Guild magazines and erotic novels were always in a messy pile next to her bed, and she had pointed out that there was simply nowhere to put them.
“I need a bedside cabinet” she had said.
Well, on the morning of Valentine’s Day I led her to the garage and pulled off the sheet covering my creation.
“Ta daaaaa!” I sang.
She was speechless…. For an embarrassingly long moment.
“Ta daaaaaaaaaa!” I said again, figuring she may not have heard the first time.
Still no sound. Admittedly, looking at it through her eyes, I suppose it wasn’t immediately obvious what it was.
“You’ve... painted our old washing machine…” she muttered, in more of a matter-o’-fact tone than an ‘I’m forever grateful’ gush.
“Yes! er... No!” I cried. “It WAS our old washing machine…. Now it’s your NEW BOOK CABINET…. For next to your bed…. It’s what you always wanted….for your eroti.. er… romantic books… and your magazines….?” I showed her how cleverly I had split the inside cylinder into two by wedging an old fridge shelf in.
“The top is for magazines, and the bottom for books." I explained, “You’ll have to be careful because it still turns a bit if its unbalanced…”
“Next to my bed?” she asked….. was she even listening to me?
“Look,” I said, hoping that a bit of romantic flair would save the moment. It really wasn’t going as I’d planned. “I’ve painted it red for Valentine’s, and I’ve written something special on the side…”
“That’s brown, not red. Actually it’s the left over creosote from when I did the fence,” she stated, as blandly as if she was at a Bland Union's press conference, “And that’s not how you spell my name.”
Huh! Anyone would have thought that she was the best valentine buyer in the world. Well she isn’t.
If I remember rightly, that was the same year she got me the mushroom book. Loving mushrooms as much as I do, at first I thought she had scored a real winner – the book was a big, hard-back affair, with colour photographs and all. It looked new but I soon realized it must have been second hand because of the mistake. You see, whilst the outer dust jacket of the book (which for some reason had been glued on to the hard cover) bore the title ‘Edible Mushrooms of the Knysna Forest’ , reading the small print inside on one of the first pages, I realized it was actually called ‘Eden’s Most Poisonous Fungi’.
I still haven’t told Mrs Ed - it would break her heart to know that the book shop had made such a terrible error. In fact still to this day, every time I mention I might be anywhere near the forest she always reminds me to keep a look out for mushrooms.
“You might find some really delicious ones,” she says “So take that lovely reference book I got you…...
Who knows what extravagant gift Mrs Ed will be bestowing upon me this year?
I must say, to be honest (and you know that I seldom if ever sway from the truth), that aging spouse of mine has been somewhat slacking in the last year or two when it comes to the art of ‘romancing’.
Gift wise that is.
I’m even starting to suspect that she doesn’t feel quite so endeared to me as she did back then, when I could afford enough vodka to convince her to marry me.
If I think back to the first half of the life-sentence we’ve been betrothed, she was much more of a romantic soul. I remember when the kids were toddlers and sometimes the pressure of running the household became almost overbearing for me (if it wasn’t the continuous chatter of the young whippersnappers disturbing my afternoon naps on the couch, it was Mrs Ed shifting the furniture around to vacuum up the trail of mess they left in their wake) she always made the effort to try and make Valentine’s Day something special. There were times when she used to pack a picnic basket with sandwiches and a few bottles of Amber Nectar, put a blanket in the car and drive me to Jubilee Creek, where she would blindfold me and lead me deep into the forest for a sunset picnic…. Mind you even that was a bit strange, because she always forgot to pack a torch so it would take me ages to find my way back home afterwards. I remember how, as I staggered up the driveway hours later, I would always find her standing at the kitchen window, with that feigned look of disappointment on her face.
But alas, no more. The last few years have become totally humdrum when it comes to Valentine’s day.
It’s not that I don’t try from my side, I really do. Last year I put a big red ribbon around the new wheelbarrow (well, it was almost new – apart from the buckled wheel that tended to clang-clang a lot when she has a full load) but Mrs Ed barely noticed my efforts. And I think I told you about the year before, when she had mentioned she wanted me to go to the clothing store and get her something black and lacy for Valentine’s Day “to spice up our relationship”...
Apparently the safety boots weren’t what she had in mind…. Sigh…
(Worse yet, when I mentioned we couldn’t take them back because of the Hospice Shop’s no return policy she accidently let one of them slip out her hand and it flew across the room and almost broke my nose!)
Am I wrong in thinking that Valentine’s Day becomes more of a challenge as one gets older?
Perhaps it is coming up with something different every year that makes it harder, but one would think that we would get better and better at buying gifts for our loved ones as time goes on. Indeed I know of people who do. My brother-in-law has the whole Valentine’s thing waxed, I must say. Like most of us men he is inclined to forget until the last minute, but this certainly doesn’t deter him from being the best Valentine’s gift producer in the world…..
As the realization hits him (like it hits so many of us men on Valentine’s Day morning) he sprints down to his workshop and, after a general buzzing and whirring of powertools which lasts mere minutes, suddenly he’s back in the kitchen, presenting his deliriously appreciative wife a beautifully created wooden heart with both of their initials carved in the centre, or an Oregon pine coffee table with a cedar wood inlay of figures, remarkably resembling their entire family, or a bunch of roses expertly and oh so delicately welded out of metal…. with the buds sprayed a delicious crimson red…. (I won’t mention this brother in law's name for fear of recrimination by the rest of the world’s population of men).
But I am seriously not that quick thinking…. And there seems to be a large area of no-man’s land between my brain and my hands when it comes to making anything worthwhile. I have tried, of course, but it’s easy to tell that the home-made horrors I create aren’t quite up to the mark.
One year I thought I cracked it. Following the lead of my bro-in-law, I used the resources available to me in the garage, and created a beautiful bed-side cabinet for Mrs ED. She had been complaining that all her Brick-layers’ Guild magazines and her erotic novels were always in a messy pile next to her bed….
Actually, that’s a fib.
I had been complaining that all her Brick-layers’ Guild magazines and erotic novels were always in a messy pile next to her bed, and she had pointed out that there was simply nowhere to put them.
“I need a bedside cabinet” she had said.
Well, on the morning of Valentine’s Day I led her to the garage and pulled off the sheet covering my creation.
“Ta daaaaa!” I sang.
She was speechless…. For an embarrassingly long moment.
“Ta daaaaaaaaaa!” I said again, figuring she may not have heard the first time.
Still no sound. Admittedly, looking at it through her eyes, I suppose it wasn’t immediately obvious what it was.
“You’ve... painted our old washing machine…” she muttered, in more of a matter-o’-fact tone than an ‘I’m forever grateful’ gush.
“Yes! er... No!” I cried. “It WAS our old washing machine…. Now it’s your NEW BOOK CABINET…. For next to your bed…. It’s what you always wanted….for your eroti.. er… romantic books… and your magazines….?” I showed her how cleverly I had split the inside cylinder into two by wedging an old fridge shelf in.
“The top is for magazines, and the bottom for books." I explained, “You’ll have to be careful because it still turns a bit if its unbalanced…”
“Next to my bed?” she asked….. was she even listening to me?
“Look,” I said, hoping that a bit of romantic flair would save the moment. It really wasn’t going as I’d planned. “I’ve painted it red for Valentine’s, and I’ve written something special on the side…”
“That’s brown, not red. Actually it’s the left over creosote from when I did the fence,” she stated, as blandly as if she was at a Bland Union's press conference, “And that’s not how you spell my name.”
Huh! Anyone would have thought that she was the best valentine buyer in the world. Well she isn’t.
If I remember rightly, that was the same year she got me the mushroom book. Loving mushrooms as much as I do, at first I thought she had scored a real winner – the book was a big, hard-back affair, with colour photographs and all. It looked new but I soon realized it must have been second hand because of the mistake. You see, whilst the outer dust jacket of the book (which for some reason had been glued on to the hard cover) bore the title ‘Edible Mushrooms of the Knysna Forest’ , reading the small print inside on one of the first pages, I realized it was actually called ‘Eden’s Most Poisonous Fungi’.
I still haven’t told Mrs Ed - it would break her heart to know that the book shop had made such a terrible error. In fact still to this day, every time I mention I might be anywhere near the forest she always reminds me to keep a look out for mushrooms.
“You might find some really delicious ones,” she says “So take that lovely reference book I got you…...
Monday, February 2, 2015
Empty nest? NOT!
If you love something, set it free. If it comes back to you, charge it rent and make sure it does its fair share of washing up.
What happened? I was supposed to be wallowing in that warm and fuzzy, sunshiny spot between 'Empty Nest Syndrome' and 'My goodness, look at all this extra space!'.
Alas, this is not the case. I don't think I am EVER going to get there….
You see, this January saw the departure of my dear daughter 'Fear Factor'* to the Mother City (*yes she is STILL learning to drive, despite the efforts of the traffic department to have her declared 'Steeringly Challenged' … come to think of it, I reckon they may have made that up I can't find it in any of Mrs Ed's medical encyclopaedias).
I won't go into detail about the move, other than it involving an impressive convoy of trailers and bakkies packed so high that the lifting of power lines was necessary.... and our arrival at the quaint little flatlet instantly causing the collapse of one poor landlord. Poor, poor man.
But the deed is done and Fear Factor is now firmly ensconced in a small unsuspecting suburb called Parow. We await reports as to how quickly the drivers and pedestrians residing in that area manage to initiate a class action restraining order against her.
So. You would have thought that this move would mean a little extra room in the T'ED household, wouldn't you? Any logically thinking person with more common sense than a taxidermist's squirrel can do the maths:-
Family of four, minus one child (2012) = Family of three.
Family of three, minus one child (2015) = Family of two = Just me and Mrs Ed = a lot of empty rooms and cupboards and spare towels.
And I have to shamefully admit, it wasn't four minutes after the last tearful promise to keep Fear Factor's room exactly as she left it (which, if you think about it would be like leaving London exactly as it was just after the Blitz) that I started mentally planning the installation of the two-storey micro brewery - which would undoubtedly save us a huge amount of money over the years, and, once we had sold it to SAB, would probably make me infinitely wealthy.
But that was just my idea, and I knew it wouldn't be plain sailing. Mrs Ed had her heart set on the ridiculous notion of opening a B&B.
“Think of the people we'll meet,” she had mused, “It will be such a nice way of making new friends from all over the world.”
Now call me anything you like, but I'm no idiot. The thought of anyone paying good money to stay amidst the chaos of our home, actually socialize with (and look at) the 7am version of Mrs Ed (when her temper AND teeth are at their sharpest), then sit at a breakfast table and eat food prepared by her calloused, oil-stained hands…. Well it just went against any smidgeon of logic I had.
But I needn't have worried.
Because then the unexpected happened....
'The REE' came back.
You might call it The REE-TURN.
Just in case you have forgotten, The REE (Resident Expert on Everything) is our son, who we packed off to study in Cape Town in 2012. At the time I had thought, perhaps foolishly, that that was it. Once qualified the lad would land a high-paying job, move into a large apartment in Constantia, and invite Mrs Ed and me down to spoil us for weeks at a time.
I had even rehearsed my acceptance speech for the brand new 750cc Honda Africa Twin he would no doubt be buying me 'Just as a thank you for everything you and mom have done'….
Apparently not. He's home.
It was quite unnerving actually. Firstly Mrs Ed insisted I change all the family photos back (I had pasted cut out pictures of a better looking young man - WITHOUT tattoos, stretcher earrings and a pierced tongue - over The REE’s photographs. Nothing sinister about this action of course, it just made conversations with visitors that much more relaxed). And then, because I hadn't had to use the combination lock on the fridge for so long, I only realized I had forgotten the code once I'd locked it.
I got myself into a huge panic and was about to see if I could break through the back of the fridge with a four pound hammer and chisel, when The REE came home, opened the padlock and started tucking into everything he could lay his hands on. Apparently the young whippersnapper had cracked the combination years ago! No wonder my amber nectar had started tasting a little watery.
“Is it legal? Can they actually do that? You know… just move back in?” I asked my father in law later, as I took the last Windhoek from his fridge. We had just popped round to borrow some of his power tools and return the ones I'd broken, and Mrs Ed was busy packing some of the meat from their deepfreeze into her basket (they always had SO much!) whilst her mom was hanging up the last few loads of our washing (she does get the whites that much whiter).
“I mean, surely,” I mused, popping a nice wedge of Gorgonzola into my mouth, and chewing it thoughtfully, (my in-laws did have a great taste in cheese) “Surely there should be some sort of law protecting parents from that sort of thing? Otherwise it could carry on forever?”
The wise old man just stared at me. It was such a strange, deep stare, if I hadn't known better I would have sworn he had actually WANTED the half lasagna I had found on the second shelf half an hour earlier. Admittedly it had tasted very, VERY good - even cold.
He grabbed my arm, quite tightly for a man of his years, actually. “The best thing you can do,” he whispered hoarsely (he's always been a hoarsey person),
“The best thing you can do ….” Now he was pulling me in closer, digging his fingers so deep into my flesh I almost dropped the bowl of fruit-salad
“…is EMIGRATE!”
Putting his lips to my ears he continued, and if the truth be told I thought I detected a hint of desperation in his voice…..
“...somewhere far, far away, like Australia… or Peru…. and…. ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME?” he glanced over to where Mrs Ed's mother was busy ironing one of my shirts, then turned back to me, and positively hissed.
“Make sure you do EVERYTHING YOU CAN to stop your wife telling them where you are! YOU UNDERSTAND? This is most important. You have to convince her that it's A SECRET!”
I mulled over this as I dolloped four generous scoops of icecream into my bowl...
“You know what dad? I think you’re right,” I mused, finishing the last bit of chocolate sauce, “In fact I might even go so far as to say..
I’d be mad if I didn’t!”
Wednesday, January 21, 2015
New Year Resolutions
So....... It’s 2015 then.
Wow.
I could, of course, rabbit on about how fast 2014 went and doesn’t time fly and before we know it, it will be Easter… yaddah yaddah yaddah, blah blah fishpaste… . But I won’t mention a word of it – because you will no doubt be sick of hearing such stuff by now.
Instead I’m going to write about RESOLUTIONS! You see one day, towards the end of December, I was sitting on my deckchair at the Sedgefield traffic lights thinking. I had been there an hour or two and gotten bored of smiling and waving and trying to hawk Mrs Ed’s clothing to anyone driving a vehicle with foreign number plates, and my mind started wandering....
Or was it wondering….?
Or both?
I suppose my wandering mind was wondering what it could wonder about whilst wandering about….. Then it suddenly dawned on me. I needed to work on my New Year’s resolutions.
“Wait!” I exclaimed out loud (hence the exclamation mark. Impressed?), “How can I work on my New Year’s Resolutions for 2015 without assessing how I did in 2014?” (It may have been my rather high-pitched squeal that made the Gauteng lady in the exceedingly posh 4x4 (they must have heard about our roads) zap up her electric windows and hit the central locking button. I could see her telling her children that I was probably just ‘special’ and that they shouldn’t stare.)
But I cared not – with this new train of thought steaming along I started looking back to last year and seeing whether or not any of the 2014 resolutions were worth carrying forward…..
Of course my first resolution was a given – it’s the same every year. Resolution Numero Uno, as they say in Parys, will always be “To become wealthy enough to live in a manner (or manor) to which I would like to become accustomed.”
Not filthy rich, of course. It’s not like I intend to go into politics or anything like that. I fully understand that money is something that should be earned with toil and sweat – that’s why last year I made sure Mrs Ed always walked to the shops to buy the lotto tickets.
The next resolution? Like many others, last year I resolved To Reduce My Carbon Footprint. But I have to admit, whilst this was a politically correct resolution, I found it presented a bit of a dichotomy....
In order to leave a footprint, one surely has to walk… or run… or even stagger (perhaps after being over-served with amber nectar).
And walking / running / staggering are pretty well known as non-pollutive occupations aren’t they? Or, to put it in ‘carbon’ terms, they don’t use any. Carbon I mean. Do they? Unless of course you run very, VERY fast….. then stop suddenly, causing your shoes to skid….. and thus the rubber soles to smoulder acrid blue, ozone-damaging smoke. And of course the REPLACEMENT of such soles would require the use of at least some fossil fuel*.
(*For those under 30 like my son, it should be pointed out that ‘Fossil Fuel’ is not the beer anyone over 40 drinks before dancing).
The long and the short of it is this year I am going to reduce my carbon footprint by not walking anywhere, and more importantly reduce my carbon TYREPRINT by getting Mrs Ed to run to the bottle-store with the wheelbarrow…. Barefoot.
In 2014 I also resolved to exercise more. And this is a resolution I am using again this year, with a slight addendum. (sounds like part of the digestive system doesn’t it? “The small intestine had a bit of an addendum on the side’).
This ‘addendum’ comes following last year’s early January attempt at jogging, which caused quite a stir when I blacked out and collapsed on the grass, only forty metres from home. The reason for this sudden downfall was, of course, my over-competitive spirit, which caused me to launch into a brief sprint to prevent another athlete catching me.
Fortunately after collapsing I wasn’t lying there long – Mrs Ed found me minutes later on her way home from the bottle store and loaded me into the wheel barrow, pausing only to scold my athletic adversary (at 89 he really should have known better than to challenge a new runner to a sprint). He apologized, but reasoned that he had, in fact, simply been trimming his hedge, though perhaps he may have misled me into thinking he was running when moving his ladder.
So in 2015 there will be a slight difference. I resolve to ‘Exercise More (caution when exercising)’
But it wasn’t ALL bad in 2014. One of my most successful resolutions was to not have any more children – something which I achieved with flying colours. I make the same resolution for 2015. (I just wanted it in writing)
And there is another of my 2014’s resolutions worthy of repeating. Notice the apostrophe in the ‘2014’s’? Well, “Improve the Planet Earth’s Punctuation” is my quest for this year as well. You may see me out at night – I’m the guy on the ladder wearing the mask and cape as I paint over the sign-writer’s misplaced apostrophes in Pizza’s and DVD’s and ‘Special’s.
On the other side of the coin, despite Mrs Ed’s claims, I don’t think I did well on my 2014 Resolution No5. “To be appropriately eccentric”, and for this I must truly apologise to the community. Especially the visitors.
No one wants to holiday in a village of totally normal people. There should at least be one or two wild-eyed, drooling locals who are obviously one-pothole-short-of-a-full-intersection. Otherwise what sort of holiday memories will our visitors be left with? That’s why, as a service to the community, I started early this year. You may have seen me at the bank’s ATM, shouting “YES!!! Come to Mamma!” in my best Brooklyn accent and doing a victory dance after the machine actually spat out a R50 note. (It only happened twice last year).
One 2014 resolution I’m not sure I’ll repeat is “To whistle more”. To be honest I was hoping to restart a trend, maybe even earn some money out of it, but it really didn’t work. Whistling is a dying art. Blame it on Facebook or Whatsapp or whatever – nobody is bored anymore, so no one whistles (what do they teach kids at school these days?)
Indeed, despite hours spent last year walking up and down the supermarket aisles, whistling a most talented rendition of Simple Minds’ ‘Don’t you forget about me’ at the top of my cheeks, not one person stopped and offered to pay me for lessons.
Sigh.
My last resolution of 2014 will DEFINITELY be one I carry on with this year:- ‘To be more cool with technology’. (I was going to use the term ‘au fait’ but apparently that would be counter-productive in my quest for ‘hipness’…) ( actually I think that’s the last time I’ll use the term ‘hipness’ too).
Having got tired of being ridiculed by younger members of my family, who endlessly (and quite cruelly) whisper amongst themselves that I have the technological savvy of an inebriated squid, DESPITE the fact that I got my phone to talk once… (admittedly by mistake...), last year I decided to do something about it. Whenever I was alone in the bathroom or car, I would practice using phrases like
‘Hey, Check out this trending insterjam on my eyepad’ and ‘Dude, bluetruth me a screensnot’. I got quite convincing actually. So much so that my daughter would often purposefully engage me in ‘techno-talk’ in front of her friends - and they were so impressed they used to giggle about it.
So by the end of this year I am determined to go a big step further. I will work out how to store ichoons on my phone so I can listen to music. Until then I’ll continue hiding my ignorance by plugging in my headphones and nodding my head in rhythm..... to my ringtone (it’s the only song my phone has).
Sometimes I carry on even though nothing is playing.
– The whistling helps….
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