Shrien Dewani and the Alsatian

Yes, I am a pampered spoilt little brat. I also pay for the privilege of my water and power, so when they stop I get a little miffed. I am a simple creature. I have simple pleasures, like a hot bath after a long, cold day. I know there are millions of people who live happily without this privilege, for whom a bucket of water comes at the end of a 2-mile hike, I am not one of them. I realise I take it for granted, but then I take switching the light on and having power for granted to – and 24 hour pizza delivery.

This morning I woke to find that I had water gushing happily from the taps once more. What I did not have was the necessary power to heat it up. Apparently Eskom does not like to be outdone in the poor service delivery stakes and decided to cut power to the entire neighbourhood again.

There is a knock-on effect to the nation’s GDP as a result, not to mention the poor people I have to deal with today. A smelly, grumpy, pissed off, sleepy person means pain and suffering for all she comes into connect with. This then leads to poor work performance and general bad attitude, which leads to a lack of income and a high staff turnover. Magnify this by the whole neighbourhood. This translates into a city wide go slow and higher incidents of road rage and office workers going postal. It can cause more damage to the economy then the ongoing fuel shortage.

This strike has some amusing qualities for me, most of which disappear in the reality of having no petrol, but they are there nonetheless. The industry are asking for people not to stockpile or be so selfish as to fill up their whole tanks and only to try and get more petrol when the red light has been on for a day. The thing is if you wait that long you will be going nowhere and if you happen to find a garage with full tanks – by the way Shell seems quite flush – you fill up because only God knows when you will be so lucky again.

Strike season comes at the same time every year and as the birds start their strange mating dances, so do the unions and the Government. The thing is everyone knows what the outcome will be, but they have to go through the ritual of it. Everyone loves a good strike, a good march and a place to go where you can practice your ululation. The unions come in with a totally bizarre demand like 20% increases, the Government offers 7% and then like an Mumbai bazaar they even out to the amount they both know going in they will accept, which is about 10%. They can’t just agree on this at the start and not strike at all, because then everyone would question why they belong to a union anyway if they don’t get to march and stuff.

Unions are a great way to make cash. You get some members who all pay you say 5% of their salary and all you have to do is arrange a strike sometime in the year. Like a party planner. Advertising is not really supported by any unions, we don’t earn enough and there are not enough of us to make it worthwhile. We’re lucky if we get a 5% raise at all each year, also our bosses would just laugh hysterically at us and then give us a pink slip. We’re also used to being in fierce competition with each other and couldn’t all work together if our lives depended on it.

In other news, that idiot Shrien Dewani is too depressed to stand trial. Dumbass. He’s scared of going to jail in the Western Cape. Oops. Maybe he should have thought about that before he hired someone to kill his wife there? Besides as daily reports of his extra-curricular activities filter in, he could be very happy in a jail cell with two large gay men from the Cape Flats. If he’s worried about HIV he needn’t be – prisoners get free condoms. It’s more than Anni got.

If the situations were reversed and a South African was arrested for offing his wife in London, he’d be on the next flight from OR Tambo to Heathrow end of story, bugger his depression. Instead this bastard gets to sit in a 5 star rehab facility, apparently the Prioiry wasn’t good enough for him so he’s gone to another one, and is treated like a Ming bloody vase. My advice is that he should rethink the mental incapacity thing. If he ends up back here with an insane plea and is sent to a State mental facility like Sterkfontein, he is in a for way worse than anything he can imagine in a State jail.

In another bizarre legal case, a dog in Ireland is standing trial for murder after he indulged in apparently consensual sex with a human woman and she died after an acute allergic reaction to the sex. The dog, an Alsatian, has been remanded in custody since 2006. Its owner will stand trial on its behalf. He, the owner, met the dead woman on a bestiality website and arranged the little rendezvous. In my opinion the dog is the victim here. How can raping a dog be termed consensual? My legal wise spouse informs me that this is some strange Roman law thing. Will the dog get the death sentence? Is he covered by basic human rights? It’s all very murky to me. Apparently you can rape a sheep, but not a dog.

Tell that to the Cape Flats guy, Shrien will sharing a cell with, who was arrested yesterday for doing the dirty with a Jack Russell named Stompie.

The Washerwoman and the Doughnut

Things fall apart. The centre cannot hold. These words have never rung so true. The bloody washing machine has packed up and shipped out. The door lock has some gimpy computerised thing on it that has died and apparently costs more than our annual deficit to replace.

The great white elephant is now lying ass upwards on the kitchen floor exposing its sordid underbelly to the world. I have to say that after 8 odd years of stationery existence the underbelly is pretty sordid. I spent much of the weekend ignoring the situation and promising myself a trip to the Laundromat.

Last night as I sat burning the midnight oil my spouse came down to see me.
(Aside: Oooh, my chair just made a horrible noise and seems to have turned into a Lazyboy.)
My spouse. He walks in very proud of himself:

Spouse: “I have put the laundry in the bath.”
Me: “You’re kidding me, right?”
Spouse: “No.”
Me: “What?”
Spouse: “I poured some shampoo over the lot and stamped around on it.”
Me: “Sorry? You did what?”
Spouse: “Think of the all the time it will save.”
Me: “For whom exactly?”
Spouse: “Bugger, you’re going to blog about this aren’t you?”

My feelings on the matter were underlined this morning when Small girl aged 5 came to me with a puzzled look on her face.
Small girl aged 5: “Mummy. I think Daddy has gone mad.”
Me: “You are only realising this now?”
No, actually, I said: “Why?”
Small girl aged 5: “He’s put all the clothes in the bath water.”
Me: “I know.”
Small girl aged 5: “Maybe he needs to go to the doctor?”

Maybe I need a strait jacket and a padded room. The washing machine, the staple gun air compressor thingie that blew up on my face on Saturday, La Bella Donna going nowhere slowly – what is it with me and appliances? Speaking of my classic car folly, La Bella has petrol, spark, compression and is still not showing signs of resuscitation. What gives? I think I’ll trade her in for the 2012 Ford Mustang, except that the Yanks will only make them in left hand drive. Bastards. Wave a dream in front of me and then cruelly snatch it away. I may well have to move to the home of the chilli dog just so I can have that car – and access to a Chinese Laundromat.

Damn, my cellphone just beeped manically at me to inform me that Small boy aged 9 has a hair and uniform check tomorrow. He currently looks like a Justin Bieber wannabe with bed head. What am I going to do? I offered to buy a clipper set and do it myself, but he reacted with such horror. Actually, I think he’s got my measure pretty well, but it still stings, the lack of trust. I am hoping that some creative combing and discrete concrete gel will disguise his innate scruffidom.

Today I have two reasons for celebration. Firstly, I got a full tank of petrol! Hopefully this means the strike is over. Secondly, I arrived at the Oaklands Seattle Coffee Company for my hot chocolate this morning just as freshly baked chocolate doughnuts came out of the oven. It would take a stronger person than I to ignore the message the universe was quite clearly giving me. It has sprinkles!

The Funny Girl and La Bella Donna

The relationship between man and his car is a complex and multi-faceted thing of beauty. I say man in a totally non-gender specific way, because God knows I love my car, but not in a creepy auto-erotica kind of way.

Someone got me thinking about cars and what they mean this weekend. Mine have occupied a strange mechanical shaped space in my heart. My first car belonged to my Grandpa. It was his pride and joy. No-one, but no-one drove it but him. He was so obsessive about this that he went with his car when it was serviced and stayed throughout the proceedings like an over-protective parent. Upon his death I painted it British racing green, put fur on her dashboard and embraced the road like a long lost lover. I am sure he did more than roll over in his grave. He probably stood straight up and roared.

She had no brakes, no radio (I had a portable tape player under the passenger seat), no air conditioning and certainly no power steering. She was the very essence of freedom and the keys to the city. The AA came to my home most days to start her up and in the afternoons I prowled the varsity parking lot with my jumper cables looking for some hapless first year to get her going again. I never went anywhere without those cables or a 2 litre bottle of water to refill the radiator. Once caught without it, a passing motorist kindly gave me her bottle of Evian.

Eventually I had to concede that I lacked the mechanical knowledge to keep her on the road. This coincided with my Grandmother passing away and my father telling me in no uncertain terms that it was time to get a car that might just on the off-chance pass roadworthy. We went together to the Ford dealership and I spent my inheritance on Funny Girl, named for her number plate FNY. She was a red Ford Fiesta with air conditioning and, oh glory, a cassette and radio built-in! My happiness knew no bounds.

She has served me well for many years, but with three children a two-seater car is not an option and I was sick of listening to old mix tapes. Sadly things came to a head last year in a head on collision that has rendered her into a heap of scrap metal in my back garden. I can’t bear to part with her. She may be unsalvageable, but her spirit will live on in my husband’s Triumph Herald.

She must have known my heart belonged to another. For shortly before the accident I had fallen head over heels in love with La Bella Donna. She is a 1976 3 litre VW Kombi. She’s been repainted, reupholstered and kitted with a sound system that can blast your head off at 20 paces. She has no power steering and no air-conditioning, but she is beautiful. Everyone smiles when I drive past. Arbitrary strangers try to buy her from me for ridiculous amounts of money.

She and I are the same age. This means we are slow to get going in the morning. We are a little creaky around the joints. We go a little slower these days. We can be a little cranky. We do not like to be rushed. We need a lot of tender loving care.

Sadly La Bella Donna is currently going nowhere slowly. Her compression is out and her steering column in shot. She is, like the best women, an artwork in progress. My father regards her as my folly. Then again his first car was the first Mini Cooper and his folly a 1960s Morgan. My older son regards both Bella and me with ill-concealed embarrassment amid the Z5s and SLKs in his parking lot at school. My younger two think she is marvellous.

Why did I fall so on love with her? Well, let me count the ways...

The most important is that she is a symbol of my childhood, my dreams for the future and the naiveté of youth in a design icon of her era. She is instantly recognisable on the road. People wave at me on the school run and daily commute like we are old friends. She doesn’t look like any other car smooched out of a sausage factory production line. She stands out, proud of her heritage, her age and her aging mutant hippiedom. She is a symbol of simpler days, simpler times and maybe happier ones.

Also, she is one of the few cars this week with petrol in her, because she doesn’t use this new fangled unleaded stuff, she’s an LRP girl all the way.

Oh yeah, and she paid back her carbon footprint in 1983. Boo sucks to you Prius.

Inner City Rejuvenation and Suburban Decay

Spring is in the air. I know this for a number of reasons. One, I keep sneezing like a cat making everyone around me erupt into gales of laughter. Secondly, I drove to work under a series of beautiful V’s as the geese come home. It was breathtaking.

This morning I travelled into the inner city. I haven’t ventured much past Empire Road in the past few years and had to get out the trusty Garmin to direct me through the maze of one-way streets. I ended up at 70 Juta Street in Braamfontein. This has to be one of the city’s hidden gems. It’s a small, eclectic group of stores and designers from the analogue LP salesman to the t-shirt designer. It also boasts a truly excellent coffee shop where I enjoyed the best hot chocolate I’ve ever had and an excellent breakfast for less than 30 bucks. Check it out here http://70jutastreet.wordpress.com/

I rediscovered my city on this little excursion. Sandton, Midrand, Fourways – these are soulless suburbs filled with identical little houses and sterile office spaces. Braamfontein is coming back to life. It is Africa. The area is being rejuvenated while retaining its character and soul.

The main Joburg Library is undergoing massive restructuring and is destined to become once more a centre for learning and literacy. Back in the day my mother would deposit me there after school and tell me that everything I needed to know was hidden in its books if only I dared seek it out. Now after years of neglect and budget cuts, it is going to offer other children access to a world beyond imagining.

If you are wondering what to do on Mandela Day with your 67 minutes, why not clear out your books and donate them to your public library? Find yours here: http://www.joburg.org.za/index2.php?option=com_content&do_pdf=1&id=68

All of this lightened my mood considerably. Especially since yesterday afternoon I was devastated to hear that another friend had become a statistic. If you were at News Café Sandton on Wednesday night you may know something that might help apprehend the gang of thieves responsible.

Stepping outside to make a phone call my friend was approached by a group of five or six well dressed African men. By the time his friend had paid the bill and entered the parking lot in front of News Café he was on the ground being systematically kicked in the face and gut. Both men had their shoes, clothes and wallets stolen. My friend’s car was taken from the scene.

Not a single person intervened to help. The security guards decided to turn their backs as well. My friend is now in hospital in ICU with concussion, possible internal injuries and the looming likelihood of facial reconstruction. Needless to say I doubt he’ll be in South Africa much longer. My guess is he’ll be on a plane back to India as soon as he can. I can’t blame him.

I cannot say how much this saddens me. This is beautiful country filled with beautiful people. Ubuntu doesn’t just live for big sporting events. Crime prevention and prosecution isn’t just a publicity stunt. How someone can willfully destroy the life of another, callously take what is not theirs and damage the reputation of our city and country with utter impunity fills me with ill concealed loathing. At least I can take comfort in the fact that the life span of people in their line of work is not particularly long. Pity I can’t do much about making that shorter.

One thing is sure. No-one will be going anywhere fast. There’s no bloody petrol in the city.