The mermaid and the missionary

The wind is whistling through the cracks in the office windows much like a demented banshee. The ambient temperature is 16 degrees in here and falling. I had an amusing chat to a Swede in Stockholm (where else?) yesterday. Swedes are very polite and he began the conversation by asking me about the weather. I thought about it and then replied: “Well, I think it’s bloody freezing, but you’d probably think it was a nice summer day.” He laughed. Turned out it was two degrees colder in Sweden and it was a nice summer day. Africa is just not geared to the cold. You try and ask for double-glazing here, people laugh at you, or central heating, central air conditioning maybe. I’m taking refuge inside my Sharks XXXL hoodie, I look like a mix between a gangsta rapper and a tortoise, but at least the shivers are abating.

Yesterday marked not only Youth Day, (which apparently was marked by mayhem), but also my 11th wedding anniversary. We played hookie and went to watch Pirates of the Caribbean in 3D. What could be better way to spend a chilly morning then with Johnny Depp in 3D glory? Don’t answer that, a myriad better things just popped into my head and all of them definitely not PG rated. It was a fabulous movie although the drippy mermaid and the insipid missionary seemed a bit superfluous. Although, I must say if more missionaries had bodies like that, a lot more nubile young wenches would convert. It could be the saviour of organised religion. Of course we disagreed on the ending when the mermaid swims off with the missionary. Does she kill and eat him? Do they live happily ever after? And was old Blackbeard really Columbo? He must be ancient.

Now, Keith Richards as the father of Captain Jack Sparrow inspired me to finally try and read his autobiography, Life. I bought it when I went into hospital, but the morphine made it hard to keep the words on the page and it lay abandoned until yesterday. Now I can’t put it down. It’s a wonderful flow of unedited truth, unsullied by political correctness and unnecessary adjectives. I keep reading parts of it out loud to the aspiring young guitarist in the family. Apparently young Keith went for an interview at the great J Walter Thompson in London and when asked if he could make tea said, “Yes, but not for you.” He then stalked (I can’t imagine him ever doing something so banal as just walking) downstairs and threw his portie into the bin. For all of you who work in the fickle world of advertising that thought probably invokes a gut clenching nausea. Our porties are the one thing we’d save in fire, forget the dog and baby pictures. Even cynical old hacks like me are obsessively attached to the career trajectory of our precious portie. Hell, I know people who will buried with it in case they need some affirmation in the after life. Perhaps God will care they once worked on a Coca Cola campaign. Hell, maybe God for advertising people is David Ogilvy.

All in all it was a very nice anniversary, marred only by the snot-gobbling chef at the Chinese Restaurant and Supermarket at the Morningside Wedge. I don’t seem to have much luck at Chinese eateries. During my noteworthy 48 hours at Fiat, the Chinese restaurant I tried to get lunch from, was shut down by the Health and Safety Directorate while making my spring rolls. I took it as a sign and went running back to the safety of a chaotic creative studio.

Of course, the high point of the day was the breakfast cooked by Small people aged 9, 6 and 5. Scrambled egg, Bovril toast and tea. That’s love for you.

Image from: http://www.getthebigpicture.net/blog/2011/5/19/fearless-forecast-move-over-thor-jack-sparrow-has-arrived.html

A word of advice from a woman to men married to one

No matter how bizarre a woman may act. No matter how irrational. No matter how illogical. A man must never ever use the words “premenstrual”, “hormonal” or “time” “of” “the” and “month”. This will turn a highly agitato woman into a two legged, fanged and clawed beast of fire spitting pure bloody murder.

It is a fact and all men should take care to acknowledge its truth. I am not of those women who mark my diary with little red dots on the pertinent dates. However, I advise men to do just that for the women in their lives. This will mean in the preceding week they can deftly sidestep any inflammatory commentary.

My poor husband caught the brunt of it this morning. Over a tea cup. He accused me of taking it to work and losing it. I didn’t. I haven’t seen said green thermal cup for over a week and assumed he had it with him. Apparently not. I might have mentioned that I wouldn’t use it if it were the last cup on earth due to its tendency to drip all over your chest.

Somewhat bemused he asked for a lift to work before the school run. I took this as my cue to go ballistic. I grabbed this fairly innocuous ball and ran for it. I might have scored a touchdown too, but then he tackled me with an apology. Of course I tried to rebut it and continue my crazed descent into madness, but his terse, “Don’t argue” cut that in the bud.

All the time I was raging and going on about the sheer selfishness of wanting to go work early (I mean have you ever! Go to work early! What is the world coming to?”), there was a small sane part of me wondering what on earth was going on. The thing is that when in full hormonal rage logic just does not feature. Just don’t actually make the mistake of telling me that.

The last big blowout of these proportions took place over socks of all things. He couldn’t find any. I went crazy.

Sometimes I wonder how he has survived 11 years of matrimony, but as my mother says, at least someone is prepared to put up with me. Let's see how he handles a teenage daughter going through puberty and a wife going through menopause together. We'll have to wait ten years and see.


Image from: chrisscalf.com