The Tiger Effect

Secret Santa - Encore

2011-12-19T14:49:00.000+13:00

Christmas is gathering quickly on the horizon - much like a greatcumulonimbus moving in stealthily from the south.

Sure, it looks fluffy enough as you admire its shapely form.Comfortable, even. You imagine somersaulting into it with child-like frivolitysending tufts of white foamy flotsam and jetsam into the endless blue. Butthen, as it gathers, it takes on a more menacing demeanor. Panic ensues:hideously early Christmas adverts. Last minute Christmas shopping. Boney M. Andfinally.... the most blood-curdling of all: Secret Santa.

Readers of my blog (me) will recall an earlier post in which I revealedmy distaste for this nasty corporate Christmas routine which seems to permeateevery organisation at this time of year. And this year was no different.

Again, I have to wonder aloud what pleasure people seem to be persuingthrough this Secret Santa mechanism?

Giving a gift to someone in THAT team who (other than the bespoke 'goodday' counterpoint you may have shared during the year) you would otherwiserather bludgeon with your stapler than buy a gift for does NOT bestow theChristmas spirit on anyone. Especially when said gift is purchased within the infinite realms of a$5 spending cap. Add to this poisonous mix the anonyminity of the giver, and you have,ladies and gentlemen, the perfect storm.

~~At Santas sweatshop~~ Where I work, we made it a week-long affair. Peoplecould bestow their $5 nugget to the unwitting recipient at anytime during the 5day ~~ordeal~~ week. This not only meant that you had no idea WHAT you might getfrom WHOM, but also WHEN the nasty deal would be done. Essentially, a $5 secretsanta trifecta.

For three days I watched. Waited. A hapless duck on open water waitingfor my fate. Scanning every movement on the bank, every swaying reed. For threedays there was nothing. And then.

Apon returning from the photocopying machine (grinning stupidly with theafterglow only multiple pages of colour-copying can bestow) there it was.Sitting there like a wrapped scar apon an otherwise untouched landscape. A.Bar. Of. Soap.

And lo my darling boys and girls! Not just any kind of soap. This wassomething special.

Manuka Honey GARDENERS soap. And left on my swivel chair - no doubt anextra added touch. It will come in very handy at my apartment where the onlyhint of 'garden' is my struggling parsely pot. No matter, I often need something fairlyround, smooth and weighty to lob at loud pedestrians on the street below. And if it leaves ahoney-scented slipstream - all the better.

I have to confess that while my allergy to Secret Santa was againcemented into every fibre of my being this year, I was not alone.

My lovely colleague B returned to her desk to find a non-descript memopad staring back at her - with a smug look that suggested it had come from ourvery own stationary cupboard no less! At times like these we, the mass affectedcan only gather. We had coffee. We swapped Secret Santa war stories - holdingour trophies to the light, marvelling at the sheer incompetence that broughtthem to us. And we laughed.

Perhaps, I was not given a bar of honey soap this year. Perhaps I wasgiven the chance to sit with someone special: to laugh and joke and rememberthat Christmas is not about what you find on your swivel chair - but those whosit in the ones around you.

Merry Christmas everyone.

Happy New Year

2011-01-11T10:32:00.000+13:00

After a short hiatus, it's back to work, back to school and back to reality.

Did you hear the thud ?

I strayed a bit from my usual 'holiday formula' at the end of last year, swapping my normally compulsive drive to 'always do something' and make the most of every last scrap of free time I have, to simply vegging out.

In fact, I couch potatoed my entire holiday away, and I can safely say it was a great decision.

I slept in, I mooched around. I watched glorious episodes of innocuous daytime TV and wore my socks twice in a row. In fact I did whatever the hell I pleased within the boundaries of the law and physics. Mostly I simply succumbed to the pull of gravity.

And the result? I'm feeling really refreshed! A little lacking when it comes to swapping holiday adventure stories around the old water cooler may be, but a whole lot more bright eyed and bushy tailed than the rest of my colleagues.

So there really is something to be said about chilling out - completely.

I see now the lure of those white beaches and miles of blue ocean somewhere in the pacific where you have little else to do but work on your tan and consider your navel. I think I'll look into that.

What did you get up to. Did you go on a wild adventure? Or did you, like me, assume the couch potato position too ?

Mind Your Manners

2010-12-08T09:55:00.001+13:00

Wow. Now there are barricades going up on Manners Street - I guess in an attempt to herd all of us sheep out there who still cant understand why it is we get hit by busses when we decide to cross the street without bothering to look. And who needs to look anyway? I mean, its only a dedicated two way bus lane in one of the busiest areas of the city. All you need to do is make a blind dash for it, and the rest will take care of itself.

In reaction to the mass stupidity and ensuing bloodshed over the last few weeks, bus drivers are now threatening to boycott the route. And I dont blame them. These guys are getting the raw end of the deal, having to dodge stray pedestrians who fling themselves onto the tarmac like lemmings. Someone likened the new lane to a bowling alley, and I think they were onto something, with all these human skittles around.
It must be a traumatic experience hitting someone with your big yellow bus, and I fully sympathise with the drivers. No one wants a lemming for a hood ornament, let alone the emotional stress that follows.

Not even the yellow tape, strung along the sidewalk in desperation, could deter these would-be lemmings, determined to flirt with death. No sir, tape is not going to stop them from crossing. Ducking under the tape or pulling it down completely has been the order of the day and still the stupidity continues. I'm waiting for another strike.

So with the situation now escalating as the number of hits and near misses racks up, the council and other stakeholders have decided to hold an emergency meeting, to discuss what could possibly be done to stop the spread of stupidity resolve the situation, before the bus drivers throw in the proverbial towel, and all that time and money gets wasted because the route has to be redirected somehow.

And walking to work, the outcome was obvious: hideously ugly barricades being bolted to the road side, like cattle gates, to ensure that the only people able to cross the road would be olympic hurdle jumpers and giraffe.

I am dismayed. Not only at how people can fail to look both ways before crossing a busy road, but also that everyone else has to put up with being treated like herded sheep. And whats more, the barricades are Absolutely Positively Ugly. Come on people. We deserve better than this.

Two Ply Sentence

2010-12-07T14:06:00.001+13:00

No longer do you see any of our able-bodied prisoners working on literally reconstructing their lives, but rather they are learning the fine art of paper mache - a key skill we should all foster, should the urge to whip up a giant paper mache forest troll for the backyard suddenly hit.

If you find yourself admiring some of the more historic structures in your city, chances are they were all made possible by criminals. Thats right - that lovely old stone bridge you walk over everyday or the cathedral you kneel in on Sundays, could all possibly be the handiwork of theives, rapists and boy-racers (in an ideal world, of course).

You see, in the 'old days' hardened criminals were'nt given a room with cable, gym facilities and a well thought out diet-specific menu.

Going to prison meant doing time - not 'getting away from it all'. If you went to prison, it meant you weren't going to enjoy life a whole bunch.

Now I'm not saying we should start thinking about regressing in terms of human rights - we have certainly come a long way since Joan of Arc landed on the barbie. It just seems to me that we seem to be getting rather soft in the name of political correctness. Two ply kind of soft.

Nope, these guys are now servin' time making toilet paper.

What kind of criminals are these ? Were they put away after stealing candy from a baby?

And I have to ask the question: How do they get the paper so thin? Did they have a lot of of spare pasta machines that were simply collecting dust? These are serious questions. Is there someone who has the dedicated task of putting in the perforations?

To be honest, I think it would be great to see these guys out in the open, working on some big project. Sure there would be some logistics to work out - you know, so we dont have them escaping and all, but I think under the right circumstances it could really work.

Toilet paper is fundamental, we know this, but wouldnt you rather have a cool cable car in your city than prisoner made bog rolls ? In lieu, so to speak.

Secret Hell

2010-12-06T14:33:00.002+13:00

Christmas really is starting to creep up on us, and while I do love this tineselled time of year, there are certain things about it that make me cringe more than David Hasselhoff's chest hair.

Secret Santa is one of them.

Secret Santa seems to be something of a workplace tradition around the country, and I'm just wondering if there are any more secret santas out there who, like me, would rather pull a hamstring than pull a name from the jolly santa hat.

In fact, I am willing to bet there are probably thousands of us, all over the world who smile like the Angel Gabriel, while dipping our hands into the mix of names - all the while secretly fantasising about feigning a sudden seizure.
And if you could have just one Christmas wish come true this year, it would be that you don't pick Dave from Accounts.
Not Dave, please. Not. Dave.
You say this several times in a hypnotic mental mantra kind of way as you gingerly unfold the little slip of paper.
This whole charade only takes a few seconds to complete, but it takes considerable skill to look convincingly pleased that you are participating. And even more so to look the picture of zen once you've read 'Dave' on the little piece of fekkin' paper.

'Dave'.

You smile. Maybe bat your eyelids.a bit

You consider throwing your stapler at the organiser's head as he/she turns to go to the next lucky person to draw a name. They may as well be wearing a long black cloak and carrying a sickle.
I dont know. There are some people who absolutely love this part of Christmas, and seem to delight in organising the perfect gift to the value of $5. I do not pretend to understand them, nor do I make direct eye contact with them.
Me, I'm not a big fan of forced fun. Being obliged to buy something completely random for someone even more random doesn't exactly inspire my inner santa.

But more than that: what really drains the life out of this activity for me is the sombre thought that somewhere out there, amongst the tinsel and lights that bedeck our open plan office, MY secret santa may just be going through their own private nightmare after dipping their hands into the hat.

And why the HELL is Dave batting his eyelids at me ?

Are you like me, do you secretly detest secret santa? Any ideas on some good secret santa gifts?

Good Form

2010-12-05T09:39:00.006+13:00

Were you at the Bon Jovi concert last night ? I was, and boy what a cracker.
Every bogan within a 100 kilometer radius was there - it was like a great rocking bogan nest, and Bon Jovi was the queen bee.
Speaking of bogan nests, I havent seen so many mullets gathered together in one place at once. It was like being at a national McGyver lookalike convention.

But beyond the prerequisite flannel shirts, faded denim and leather jackets, lets not forget it was Bon Jovi we were there to see. And see him we did.

From the stands he looked more like a little bogan figurine than the international superstar he is - but when you're singing along to the raspy lyrics of It's my Life, it doesn't really matter. Unlike so many singers these days who seem to get catapulted to stardom through winning a singing contest on TV, Bon Jovi is one authentic rock star. No one txt'ed his name on a Friday night to help him get through to the next round. This guy did it himself and it shows. The sounds were slick, the video projections were fluid and professional, and the entire show was thoroughly entertaining. These guys have clearly done this before.

And I commend that:

The hair, the faded denim, the leather jacket - the classic coarse voice that lends itself equally well to the touching Bed of Roses (which was noticeably absent from the line-up) to the rebellious Bad Medicine, BonJovi delivers exactly what's expected from his fans. And that's more than I can say about most products you pay for these days, which leave you more living on a prayer than he does.

Anyone else at the concert?

Left, Right and Left again

2010-12-03T09:02:00.002+13:00

So, after many months of construction work, barricades and pedestrian mayhem, the new bus route in the city is finally complete.
The bus route in question saw the conversion of a pedestrain mall into a two lane bus route to help speed up the circuit. The leftist pedestrians came out in full force early on in a bid to save their precious mall. These tree hugging hippies would write screeds of waffling text in pink chalk all along the mall, sprouting damnation to the government who apparently had forgotten the common man.

Personally I didn't subscribe to that ilk, and rather looked forward to the busses which would replace the deliquints who loitered in the mall and enhance the area generally with new paving, benches and trees.
Now that its all complete, I think its a huge improvement all around.
There are trees planted down the road, which now hosts two new bus lanes, instead of the once cracked and rather tired looking mall with its grey paving and weathered benches. The new paving along both sides looks fantastic and has already given the whole place a new lift. Even the dodgy turkish joint looks almost appealing. New benches have been installed and everything is fresh and new. I like it, and I dont care if the hippies dont.

Of course, it didnt take long for graffiti to show up on the new benches, and that beloved pink chalk to once again proclaim (on the new road surface) that someone is going to be killed by a bus. It amazes me how narrow minded people are. Graffiti in particular I think is the purest form of non-appreciation for what we have and a complete disregard for our neighbours.
The pink chalk I can tolerate - it washes away within a couple of days and does no harm. I have to confess too that 3 people in the last 5 days have been knocked by a bus, which does in some way vindicate the incessant ramblings of the chalk man. Though I do have to make the point that it's not the new route - or the busses that pass through it - that are at fault.

The city council has done a commendable job of making people aware of the new changes. Signs are everywhere, people have been out in full force handing out pamphlets, and there are clear markings on the sidewalk. With all this spoonfeeding, how anyone can be hit by a bus is beyond me. Did our brains shrivel in the last 6 months or what ? This may be just me, but I dont care where in the world you are, or what road you are about to cross - you look both ways before putting your little toe onto the tarmac - that's just common sense. If someone is so stupid as to walk into a road without checking their left and right for traffic, Im afraid the ensuing bump on the head will probably not do any damage anyway.

And another thing chalkman, the new route and changes didnt happen overnight as if the traffic fairy waved her luminous baton. Construction took months to complete. Did people just not notice? Who were these three people that were hit by a bus? And more importantly, who the hell let them out of the house ?

Gym

2010-11-24T10:07:00.001+13:00

So, I've started going to gym.
Again.

I mean, I belong to a gym. And its great: I live with the peace of mind that anytime I wish - anytime at all, I can indeed get off my lazy ass, and get ... whats that mythical thing of which I hear people speak... 'fit'.
Which is also good news for the donkey.

Now before you go all 'what a waste of money' on me, let me say that I used to be pretty good about taking full advantage of my membership.
Three times a week pretty good, in fact. Then I went overseas for a month and thats when things started to go *ahem* pear-shaped.

Now, 'overseas' really means I went back home to visit family. Not a glamarous getaway to some idyllic location where I spent my days wasting away on some bejewelled beach sipping sangrias and working on my hammock technique.

Nay.

I went home.

Going home of course means spending quality time with family, great food, not having to do a whole lot. The perfect storm for blossoming into a human blimp.

It also means getting told how very thin you are and how you need to put some meat on those bones, as mothers the world over tend to do when their prodigal returns from overseas.
And so it was, that my mother took on the responsibility of reaffirming her matriarchial dominance in the family hierarchy, the role of caretaker. Awesome!

I had the most amazing home-cooked meals made for me. Every. Single. Day. And let me tell you, my mother is a great believer in the deep fryer. If it can be dipped in hot oil and sizzled to a golden crisp, it will be. Watching her cook is like watching a sacrificial rite where some pour soul is surrendered into the bubbling wrath of the deep-fryer volcano.

And so, after a month long sojourn at home, being served everything under the sun, (all beautifully crisped, of course) I came home a couple of kilograms heavier, and with a big fat smile on my face and a belly to match.

Gym, was the furtherest thing from my mind.

And this remained so until last week Saturday when I decided to venture out to the gym once more - 2 months on. Ironically, this coincided with panicked realistion that I no longer fitted into my jeans unless I wore them with the button undone, which I can resolutely say is not a good look (unless your going for the whole 'I'm a beer toting trucker' look).

So instead of buying new wind socks erm, I mean jeans, I decided that I already had an investment at the gym and dammit, I would use it. Saturday was the natural choice, given that I knew the gym would be relatively empty. Perfect for refamiliarising myself with where everything was.
It also meant I could adjust the weight down to a couple of bars (to avoid the risk of an annurism) without being scoffed at. Needless to say, after my inaugural workout, I barely made it home, and as I type this, I feel as though I have recently been involved in a severe car collision. I have a new apprecaition of muscles I never knew I had.

Despite the pain, it feels good to feel like I've put some effort in. Each painful letter I type is a testament to the fact that I have made a start, and when it comes to gym, that’s the most difficult part of all.

Resurrection

2010-09-07T16:17:00.005+12:00

Hi everyone - after a long absence I am back here at TigerEffect.

Something keeps pulling me back here - its like a great big fridge magnet.
I'm not going to make hollow promises about being sure to post something new everyday, or that the quality of my incessant ramblings will always be of a particular thouroughbred standard.
No dear readers. What I can tell you however is that I shall post when I can, and what I can, and live in the desperate hope that its packaged in such a way that I can hold on to whatever small following I have. Even if thats just the one of you (love you mom).

Much has happened since my last posting - a move across the world, the start of a new career and moving upstairs from a brothel. Yes indeed, its a very spicey life I lead boys and girls.
So hold on to your hats, Im blogging again...

Fear Factor

2008-03-18T03:30:00.000+13:00

OK!

All you faithful little tigers out there can at last heave a sigh of
relief: The tigereffect is back in the blogging seat.

Don’t roll your eyes boys and girls I know you want it.

It’s been a while, I admit and I take full responsibility for any
reader's deaths caused through the sustained pining away for more
insightful blog entries. Life can be cruel.

Today’s blopic concerns our innate tendency towards fear as we age.
In English, that means that our propensity to crap in our pants
increases in correlation with our age. And I’m not talking about
incontinence or the origins of Dr Whites. No, ladies and gentlemen,
Im talking about fearing more as we age.

For example, a 10 year old child will blissfully board an airplane,
his only concern being the sweet old lady next to him who smells
vaguely of potpourri and who seems to be going for the
how-many-mints-fit-in-a-10-year-old world record.

(The answer, by the way is 31 567 set by little Jimmy 'Roundmouth'
Jenkins on a British Airways flight from New York to London in 1992.
But more on that in another blog.)

In thirty years time, our same specimen is clutching his seat with
whitened knuckles and sweat beads forming on his forehead. And that’s
just in the taxi on the way to the airport.

At the tender age of 10, the thought of the engine falling off the
left wing, and the plane plummeting 30 000 feet in a blaze of fire
simply doesn’t cross his mind. At at the age of 30, we start having to
drug ourselves before we board so that we can bypass the horrors of
dying in a great fiery inferno. Instead the only drug induced dream
we have is of teletubbies. I’m not sure which is worse.

Nevertheless it seems that as we age we all tend to become more
cautious of life, and in doing, we start restricting possibility. And
what is life without possibility? Its arriving at your destination
all sweaty palmed - wishing you were that little mint smelling ten
year old whistling blissfully through customs.

Spring Cleaning

2007-04-17T21:38:00.000+12:00

Saturday proved the perfect day for a Spring clean. It was the first time in a long time that I finally had some time to myself. A breathing space to sort out my mind, my thoughts and generally, my ‘stuff’. I got stuck in. Unlike some of the other members of my family, I am ruthless when it comes to clearing up. I don’t generally cling to things for posterity, or the off chance that I may need them in 53 years time. My mother on the other hand has a crusty tube of ‘Burnol’ that is estimated to be 15 years old. Apparently, it’s very good.
After clearing away most of the unwanted clutter I came across a blue bag. I knew what it was; I just hadn’t opened it for a long time. Life had just been too busy. At least, that’s the excuse.

Taking the bag through to the bedroom, I sat on my bed and opened the flap. Inside, was the familiar black case. Although it looked a little dustier than I remembered. A little sadder somehow. I drew it from the bag, and pulled back the small clasps that fastened it closed. I drew a breath as I opened the lid.
There inside it lay, like a forgotten child. The once dark and rich wood was now cold, and covered with a thin film of loneliness. The music it once played only an echo of a memory.
Looking down at the instrument was a glimpse at a corner of my soul. A part of me that I had allowed to be forgotten, which was now hidden, shrouded in darkness. It was like meeting a stranger on a bus. At least, you recognise the face, but you battle with the name. Taking each piece from the casing, and holding them in my hands in turn, was an elephant ritual.; turning the bones of the dead. Remembering.

Sitting on my bed that sunny afternoon, I remembered the joy and fulfilment the instrument had given me. It was time I remembered the things that are precious to me. It was time I stopped being so busy. It was time to play again.

Sitting on my bed that day, it was me that needed the spring clean.

Desperately Seeking

2007-03-28T01:16:00.000+12:00

I need to get this off my chest. ..
It’s something I have been agonizing over for the last few days and I can no longer hold it inside of me anymore!

Well, to tell you the truth, I am desperately seeking.

I’m seeking the end of broken promises.
I’m seeking the day they phone me back like they said they would.
I want to know what its like to be told the truth.
To be treated like I’m the only person in the world.

People make promises but furnish shattered dreams.
They tell you they’ll call you but they never do.
They make you believe them; you can rely on them they say.
They look you in the eye.
Then they let you down, they crush you.

I am desperately seeking….. service delivery.

With the current saturation of possums, minks and imbeciles in business these days, I already turn a delightful shade of flamingo pink thinking of the upcoming 2010 soccer world cup to be hosted here in South Africa
That’s what I am when it comes to service delivery in this country: an embarrassed pink flamingo with my head planted firmly under my wing. Wake me up when it’s all over I say!

I decided in desperation one day to call a customer care line number.

I can say with absolute certainty that this particular call center is run by a wood goblin, because all I got on my side was panpipe music. I hate panpipe music. And I hate wood goblins. It was enough to make you want to drive a blunt pencil through your forehead.
An hour later, I managed to complete my query, after which I was compelled to book myself into therapy.

Yes, we need to upgrade our stadiums, and yes we desperately need to address public transport, crime and a host of other concerns. But if South Africa wants to compete at an international level, she needs to pick service levels back up from around her ankles lest she trips over them in 2010, otherwise she is going to be caught with her knickers down. I don’t care how good her legs look.

It’s going to be story’s of the lack of care, empathy and interest in our guests that will be told back home, rather than the fact that they sat in the new section of green point stadium.

In the meantime, I’ll be at the edge of the water on one leg, siphoning for freshwater plankton.

No Omlets Here

2007-03-05T22:39:00.000+13:00

It’s been a while, I apologize. ..

For Himmler

She was sitting there at the table, with her flaming red hair. Her Coca-Cola making a ring of perspiration in the morning heat; I think it was her breakfast. I wouldn’t be surprised.
This is someone who used to race the little wooden book cart down the aisles of the school library.
With me on it.
No sensible omelets here.

I think I borrowed her tip-ex during an accounting class (don’t ask). I made a friend in return. It was all downhill from there.

11 years later, we find ourselves at the table, a little older, a little calmer. A little.

We don’t Xerox our faces anymore, or hold wild karaoke extravaganza evenings. We don’t have pizza binges and have given up our addiction for chocolate tumbles. We don’t sit in our comfy beanbags at the Zanzibar; we no longer sip our favorite wine.

But we do have coke for breakfast. And what a lovely coke it was.

I’m so glad I ran out of tip-ex.

Happy Endings

2007-02-06T01:31:00.001+13:00

I read an interesting article in the newspaper yesterday about movie fans being able to change the endings of their favorite films using special software.
I would definitely have Leonardo Di Caprio toss Kate Winslet overboard right after saying “Do you trust me?” in Titanic. Yip that could definitely work. I’m seeing her washing up somewhere in Poland. Or being rescued by a fur seal. Or Vikings. Or having her toes nibbled off by surface feeders. The possibilities are endless.
And that’s what I like – the ability to exercise freedom of expression and get the creative juices flowing. So, in the true spirit of giving I thought Id hand over the reins to my devoted readers (I know you’re out there) to finish the ending of the story.

Post your one stanza comment, and let the story unfold.

Rules:
- No obscenity
- No foul language
- No testing on animals.

There is a place, down on the coast
Where the sea and river meet
The days are hot, the winds blow cool
And the fragrant blossoms sweet.

One fine day, a traveler came
With the northern breeze
A long grey beard and walking cane
(To help his failing knees)

He wandered into the nearest inn
And leaned against the bar
His eyes glowed like winter storms
And his voice as thick as tar

“A pint good man” he paused a while
His voice now strangely soft
“20 years in shackles I bin
And missed the liquid oft”

He told his story of long ago
Of when he was a lad
How he became a prisoner
The adventures he had had…

Heaven and Back Again

2007-01-31T02:47:00.000+13:00

I’d like to hear from all of you who have (or say you have) experienced some kind of near death experience. By that I don’t mean the time you almost ate a green potato chip. I’m talking about the time where you experienced floating out of your body – you know with the white light and deep baritone voice accompanied by harps and panpipe lift music.

While there is no real scientific proof that life after death does in fact exist, there are so many people with compelling stories of their near death experiences. One such story -although not a first-hand account of a near death experience- comes from a good family friend. She tells her story from a few years ago when she was undergoing chemotherapy sessions for cancer. It certainly is food for thought and makes you wonder what really lies beyond the unknown…

I have known Cathy* for almost 20 years and you couldn’t wish to meet a more down to earth, happy and full-of-life person. She is vivacious, positive and fun and when you are with her you can feel the contagious warmth of her personality.
While undergoing chemotherapy in hospital, she recalls waking up one day in her bed and seeing her brother sitting at her feet.
She recalls his beard had grown thick and full and he looked radiantly healthy sitting there at the end of the bed. He assured her she was going to be alright.
Her brother, an avid pilot, had died in an airplane crash years ago.

When asked whether it could not have been the affect of medication, she remains absolute. It was clear, lucid, and certainly not a figment of her drugged mind. And I believe her.

Today, monthly checkups and scans confirm she is cancer free.

What’s your story?

(* Name changed)

Windows Of Opportunity

2007-01-26T20:26:00.001+13:00

You know, we should all count our blessings. No matter what meandering path your life has led you down, there is always someone who has gone down a road with even more pot holes than yours. In some cases, they have veered off the straight and narrow and wandered into a bramble bush and in some severe cases, they have been flattened by passing traffic.

I was talking to someone last night about taking stock of what you have been blessed with in this world. It’s a worthwhile exercise, and once you start counting the good things in your life instead of always focusing on the bad, you will be astonished at how blessed you really are.

Imagine starting your life in a garbage bag.

Thousands of babies all over South Africa are literally thrown away with the garbage every year. This is because they are either unwanted, or the mothers cannot afford to keep them. Even worse, some babies are flushed down the toilet. Its part of the more gruesome reality of South Africa; a reality we don’t like to talk about. But, with a huge unemployment rate, and a huge chunk of the population living in squalid conditions, it’s a reality that many have to face everyday. And what a way to start your life: amongst the banana peels, maggots and rotting waste, under the hot African sun.

One organisation, ‘Hole in the Wall’, works tirelessly to help the many babies who are abandoned every year, left alone to die. The charity operates a ‘drop off’ spot – a hole in the wall – where mothers can leave their babies instead of throwing them away in the trash like an unwanted trinket. Its anonymous, it’s safe, and it’s a life saver.
Special sensors alert charity officials that a baby has been left at the hole in the wall. The baby is then collected and taken to safety and, where possible sent to a good foster home.
These babies are born again. They are reborn, passing through a second hole into a world with a brighter future and bluer sky.
They have been blessed.
You have been blessed.
I have been blessed.
Some
are
not
so
lucky.

Racism? What garbage.

2007-01-25T19:47:00.000+13:00

After a nice long holiday break, it feels good to be back in the blogging seat.

I thought I would begin the new blogging year with a post on racism.
(Always a good ice breaker I always say…)

A few days ago…

There I was, driving along the freeway the other day, behind a dilapidated old truck, complete with smoky exhaust pipe and cracked tail lights.
Singing along with the lighthouse family, I was pretty happy until, all of a sudden, the unspeakable happened.
The driver of the pickup (in this case a black middle aged man), in his infinite wisdom, decided to throw out an empty 2liter plastic cola bottle into the road.

The events of the next 2 seconds unfolded as follows:
1. I had to swerve to avoid the litter- now hurtling towards my windscreen
2. I passed a kidney stone
3. I completely forgot the lyrics of the song in my fit of rage
4. I passed numerous expletives befitting of littering black people.

Once my blood pressure normalized however, I started to think over the incident with a bit more circumspection and objectivity.

Initially, I had thought “yeah, typical”, although not because I am racist. I know some truly wonderful and brilliant black people.
Here in South Africa, black people – generally speaking, litter. Don’t believe me? Come and visit.
It is common to hear stories of black people throwing out entire packets of leftover Kentucky Fried Chicken as they drive along the road – bones, boxes and plastic being strewn everywhere. Black areas of town are so filthy with litter you can hardly walk along the pavement. So it’s no wonder that black people in this country have earned themselves this reputation. It has nothing to do with racism – and everything to do with mass social behavior.

Generally speaking any country with a white population majority is spotless, while a country that is populated with a black majority is strewn with litter. Compare New Zealand, Canada, Australia with Kenya, India, and yes, South Africa. It’s not racist, it’s the truth.

I understand that the latter countries are developing countries – the unemployment rates, economic prowess and poverty levels cannot be compared to those of first world countries. However, placing an empty coke bottle in a rubbish bin costs nothing. It’s a matter of self pride, and pride in your country and environment. And if you can afford Kentucky Fried Chicken, you are hardly on the breadline.

Of course, white people litter too. Had the driver of the truck been a white person – or any other color for that matter, I would have been equally disgusted.

So why is this kind of environmental and social degradation allowed to continue? Surely we all have a right to live in a clean place? And surely we all have a personal responsibility to conduct ourselves that shows pride in the country we live in and respect for the people with whom we live?

I think one of the reasons there has been such a decline in these regards is that white people all over the globe are so scared to stand up for themselves in the fear of being called racists. Racism has become a comfortable scapegoat for unacceptable behavior. If S.A. truly was a rainbow nation, we as a people would be more demanding of each other – regardless of color.

I for one would love a clean, litter free country. But hey, call me a racist.

Ornithology 101

2006-12-19T19:37:00.000+13:00

My grandmother passed away a few years ago.

She was a sprightly, eccentric, eighty year old. In her hey day had been a consummate musician, playing first desk violin in symphony orchestras, and teaching music right into her old age.  She was a grande olde dame - an actress – a drama queen and known by everyone in the little town she lived in

In her last years though, 60 years of smoking started to take its toll. She had taken up the habit as a young girl, when it was fashionable and trendy. In the end, she battled to breathe. She always had an asthma pump close by, and finally an oxygen tank towards the end.

She had also started to go senile, and started asking the same questions repeatedly until it drove us completely and utterly mental.

One question in particular comes to mind. She always asked it while she sat on a comfortable couch in our lounge, gazing out into the garden, sipping her wine (she always had to have a glass of wine) and eating her lunch.

“What is that” She would ask – a bony finger extended towards the glass door panes,
“– hanging in the tree down there? Is it a bird’s nest?”

“No gran” one of us would reply, “that is an air plant.”

My mother had a bunch of wispy air plants which she liked to hang in a tree which stood directly in front of our glass doors. They looked like Gandalf’s flowing beard hanging there, grey and delicate swaying gently in the wind.

A few minutes would pass. Gran would sip her wine and gaze out at the garden. And then…

“What is that – hanging in the tree down there? Is it a bird’s nest?” Again with the finger.

Eyes would roll in our heads. “No gran, it’s an air plant.”
After the 5th time we were all restraining ourselves from screaming deliriously like possessed banshees.

This would carry on for half an hour until the wine glass needed refilling. And then the question would resume unabated.

Everyday would be the same. Lunch would be served, gran would get her glass of wine, and while we sat around her, she would repeatedly ask:

“What is that – hanging in the tree down there? Is it a bird’s nest?”

And every time, we would take it in turns to answer. It was not a bird’s nest, it is an air plant. We did it in relays, just for the sake of sanity. By the end of lunch we had bulging veins in our foreheads. It wasn’t a pretty sight.

One afternoon however, we sat as we always did. My gran was in her spot on the couch, with a glass of sweet white on the coffee table beside her. Her lunch was on a tray, complete with condiments and napkin and we all silently prepared ourselves for the inevitable. My mother took her Valium®, I took my Calmettes™.

Sure enough, after a few minutes, the inevitable persistence began.

“What is that – hanging in the tree down there? Is it a bird’s nest?”

“YES!” my father burst out like a popped balloon “YES! YES! YES!”

We all looked at other, stunned. We were all wide awake now, sitting wide eyed on the edge of our seats, waiting in anticipation of what would happen next. The room had gone suddenly silent.

“OH!” replied my gran unperturbed, taking another sip of wine. “Well it’s a very strange looking bird’s nest.”  Another sip. “What kind of bird is it?”

“A red breasted coastal chook” my dad replied, with the calm of human kindness.

We all looked at each other.

“Oh,” muttered my gran “I’ve never heard of that one before.”

She never asked about the nest again.

Today, any anomalies we come across in our family are known as red breasted coastal chooks or sub species thereof.

Go For Green

2006-11-30T04:05:00.000+13:00

Life is the most complicated, intricate, cruel and beautiful creature I have ever met. It’s quite beguiling. It can hold you tenderly in its hand and nurture you. It can also squeeze you till your very last breath is all but spent and the fire has faded from your eyes.
There is no beast as cold and unforgiving. Yet there is nothing so fragile and vulnerable. There is nothing more robust, and full of hope and potential, yet nothing more fleeting.
Above all however, there is no taming this beast. No cage or whip exists that could bring this Flaming Tiger into submission. It’s utterly fascinating,

One story which has stayed with me since I first heard it is a perfect example of the Tiger Effect. It makes you realize that we are more than the sum of our parts, that what we do today – however ordinary we may think it may be - could change the face of the Earth tomorrow. It shows that we are all interconnected and that we are all a part of the Tiger.

SEPTEMBER 10 2001
A young woman shops in a downtown Manhattan department store. It is her husband’s birthday and she wants to buy him a new golfing shirt.
He always looks so good in them, she thinks to herself, running her hand down the rack. She narrows her choice to two final colors – green, and orange.
She pauses for a few seconds and holds the two shirts at arms length. She decides to go for green – it will complement his eyes.
He can always change it if he doesn’t like it, after all…

SEPTEMBER 11 2001A young man walks through the main entrance of a department store in downtown Manhattan. He walks straight to the inquiry desk. His pace is brisk – he is late for work already – but this should only take a few minutes.
Placing the plastic bag he is carrying with him on the counter, he explains to the assistant that he would like to exchange his green golfing shirt for an orange one.

Moments later, an explosion is heard as the first of two commercial jet liners slam into the World Trade Center, where he worked on one of the topmost floors.

* * *

Who could have guessed that in those few casual seconds, as she waived her hand from golf shirt to golf shirt, the woman was deciding whether her husband would live or die.

Orange, Green, Orange, Green. This is the TigerEffect.

Friday Nirvana

2006-11-25T02:41:00.000+13:00

Friday Nirvana

“Lying straight facing upward
Limbs sore, stiff and cold
Soul flying towards heaven”

Thursday Mantra

2006-11-23T21:24:00.000+13:00

Thursday Mantra

“Glinting stars upon the sea
Hypnotizing me
Away from electric glare”

Wednesday Vista

2006-11-23T02:27:00.000+13:00

Wednesday Vista

“Golden orb at twelve above
The climber’s summit
The view before the descent”

Tuesday

2006-11-22T04:02:00.000+13:00

Tuesday

“The world spins ever faster
Commerce spinning round
High above a sea gull soars”

Black Monday

2006-11-21T03:29:00.000+13:00

Monday

“Black dawns over the mindscape
The only beacon
A pinprick in the distance”

Pass Me My Kimono

2006-11-17T21:20:00.000+13:00

I just love haikus. They have a certain charm about them. They are so just so damn cute. They are like little bubbles of flavored words that are simply bursting with meaning and emotion. You can almost put one of these raspberry flavored tidbits into your mouth and feel it pop against your tongue.
Haiku tasty, berry tasty.

Traditionally, the Haiku originates from Japan, being written for thousands of years by long bearded Japanese sages as they sat under the magnificent flamingo canopies of peach blossoms, the dappled sun upon their silken Kimonos.
It’s no wonder that most portray images of the nature, perfection, emotion and beauty so evident in the incredible vistas and cultures of ancient Japan.

The Japanese with their bonsais have an incredible fascination with petite perfection – small reflections of a greater beauty. So it is with the Haiku.
Only three lines of 7, 5 and 7 syllables, Haikus are capsules of inspiration.
Words are chosen with utmost care and it’s not unusual for those three lines to leave an indelible impression on your mind, long after the last words are read.

These are some of the reasons why I love haiku and why I have decided to start a mini blogthology based on a ‘days of the week’ theme.

Readers are welcome to submit their own little bursts of joy.

Here is the first of the series:

Friday

“Smile inside a cubicle
Sparkle in the eye
The face of liberation”

All Things Bright and Beautiful

2006-11-15T22:23:00.000+13:00

“All things bright and beautiful,
All creatures great and small,
All things wise and wonderful,
The Lord God made them all…”

Snigger. It’s this thing I have started doing lately…I just can’t help myself.
Every time someone starts talking to me, my mind automatically begins assessing which animal they most closely resemble. And let me tell you, sometimes the likenesses are uncanny.

I wish I could stop but I just cant, and its severely impeding my focusing skills.
How am I supposed to concentrate on a conversation when it’s coming from the horse’s mouth, so to speak?
So far today, I’ve had close encounters with a hippopotamus, a lemur, a skunk, and a dingo. And its only 11am. Where are the FENCES?

I can just imagine some of these people, ferreting about, eating berries and nuts. Gathering nuts. Licking their nuts.
And, just like their animal counterparts, some people are furry, some are poisonous, some are highly strung and some people are completely slimy and loathsome.
Like Big Toad sitting over there near the photocopier machine. Ribbit.

Yes ladies and gentlemen we certainly live in a menagerie of creatures great and small.
And what matters is not so much that we should tolerate and embrace the fact that everyone is different and unique. It’s not that we need to learn to respect the incredible variety of our species, which reflects the amazing diversity of our cultures, our heritage, and our history.
What matters today is where you sit on the food chain. What drives the world is money, greed and power.

What a sad indictment for a creature that has more possibility in a fingertip than all the animals in the world.

Calling all Kooks

2006-11-10T21:53:00.000+13:00

My mother. She’s as kooky as ever she could be. I sometimes just stand there, mouth agog at some of the hair brained schemes she comes up with – all with complete conviction. Every plan she hatches is to her a stroke of pure genius, such that would bring a tear to her eye should it ever make the shift from the conceptual to 3D reality.
Truth be told however, the vast majority of these schemes leave most people a little pale or at the least, feeling slightly uneasy. Stomach cramps and the like.
The latest plan she gleefully shared with us the other day was another sparkling gem of insanity. And it weighed about 82 carats.

“Lets make a huge aviary out of that great chasm !!!”
She points ecstatically over the lawn to a huge fissure on our farm carved out of the ground from millions of years of erosion.

An uneasy silence hangs in the room as we all look at each other nervously. Somewhere in the distance a dog barks. Time passes.

The site of this proposed aviary is probably big enough to engulf a whaling boat, a double decker school bus and the British Armed Forces with a few spaces to spare. Its bottom is filled with water, which in turn is inhabited by crawly things and legavaans [sic] (which are huge komodo type dragon reptiles with forked tongues and an appetite for little fluffy creatures. And birds. And bird eggs.)

The fact that you would need about 5 kilometers of netting, 300 tons of pre-stressed steel, 3000 pine trees in decking, a rifle (for the dragons) and a Masters degree in engineering to get the job done doesn’t seem to enter her mind at this point.

My father looks vaguely stressed. I would imagine he’s feeling pretty much the same as an Egyptian slave whose just been shown a copy of the blueprints for the pyramids of Giza.

At the end of the day however, these golden nuggets are what make her the person she is – they are her idiosyncratic fingerprints which no one else (God willing) could ever come close to replicating. To think of her as completely sane and practical would be stripping away the gloss from her personality. And trust me; we need glossy people in this world of ours.

If it weren’t for these people we would probably not have half the amazing inventions we take for granted today, that in the beginning were greeted with animosity and cries of “preposterous!”

Things like the telephone, flight, and wonderbras™

So to all you kooky people out there: I thank you.

The Traffic of Life

2006-10-03T22:24:00.000+13:00

Everyone does it every now and again. The house is quiet and empty. Perhaps you are going through an album of old photographs. You find an old letter you wrote years ago, or you hear a song on the radio that ignites that hazy sense of nostalgia. Whatever it is, we all get these poignant moments of introspection. We find ourselves staring back at our reflection in the mirror of life past, thinking: “Whoa - what the hell happened to you”.
Your only tan comes from the glare of a PC monitor, and your only exercise involves trying to scratch that pesky itch between your shoulder blades.

And so there you are. Just look at you.  Are those crow’s feet?

You are a little bewildered as to why you never ended up being that bronze gazillionaire Adonis you had originally planned to be.  I mean where did it all go wrong? At what point did you suddenly veer of the path of greatness? One minute you’re walking a road of golden pavers, and the next you’re simply just another average pedestrian beside the highway.
Traffic passes regardless of whether you walk, run or highland fling yourself along the oft potholed pavement – it’s a constant flow of go.
It’s the traffic of life - a great slithering eel of multi-colored scales working its way through the streets, lanes, highways and byways of this world. No heed for a lonely traveler.

Look at you. There you are. Those are crows feet.

The Great Bungle

2006-08-29T02:33:00.000+12:00

At last, my life has calmed down to the point where I can blog again.
Blogging has become a new measure of my spare time these days.
If I have time to blog, it means the ol’ Crap-o-Meter™ has dropped down to “Medium Turd”. That, or I am simply just ignoring all the things I need to get done today – cheating the Crap-o-Meter™ so to speak.
Cheating the Crap-o-Meter™ however, is not always a good idea, because in the end, you are just cheating yourself. When you look again, the dial has suddenly jumped from “Medium Turd” to full throttle “Cistern Cracker” – which is never a good thing.
Pass the blog roll please.
Onto today’s blog:

While driving into work the other morning, I heard on the radio that NASA has inadvertently LOST the original audio tape of mans first lunar walk.
Needless to say, I swerved off the road, narrowly missed a fire hydrant and squashed a couple of pedestrians who looked like they needed the rest anyway.

Once I had eventually lost the pursuing police, my mind wandered back to the tapes.
Please can someone explain how the worlds most powerful, respected and influential space agency loses such an irreplaceable piece of history – a piece of history that marks perhaps the greatest moment in the history of mankind no less.

Hmmmmmm

Maybe they used it to copy a BeeGees album.
I mean they are pretty important too. Being the BeeGees and all.
Maybe they left it in the sun, and it melted and warped. Who knows. Whatever happened though I sure would have loved to have been a fly on the wall when it all happened:

*BeeGees Music Fills the NASA Offices*

BigCheese: “I thought you said this was the tape?”
NerdiGum: “Er, well the label says ‘Greatest Day in the History of Mankind.Ever.
                     Amen – DO NOT TAPE OVER THIS YOU DUMBASSES’ – so er…it
                     simply MUST be it…”
BigCheese: “NerdiGum, this is the BEEGEES. THE BEEGEES NERDIGUM!!!!”
NerdiGum: “Well Done Sir! Very Impressive! And the title?”

I’m going to cling to the faint hope that some NASA filing clerk out there is turning on his car radio right now and finding Neil Armstrong’s famous words filling the interior, instead of the BEEGEES medley of greatest hits.  This would be the equivalent of his day starting out at ‘Cistern Cracker’ on the Crap-o-Meter™

Divine Gag

2006-08-10T20:44:00.000+12:00

It’s been a crazy few weeks for me. At the exact time I was moving house, someone upstairs decided it was about time to run a bath. My money’s on Jesus.
The sky above turned ominously black, the clouds moved in, and the rain came down. Actually it would be more accurate to say that a violent monsoon sat on my head.
There I was, carting boxes et al, while around me, people were being carried away to Australia. Well not quite. But trees did fall over. And I was carrying boxes. Which is probably what prompted the torrent in the first place. But that’s a blog for another day.

I seriously believe that there is such a thing as Murphy’s Law. At least in some cosmic form or another.
God - whoever she is - has a sense of humor.
I mean why else would we have a month of near perfect weather, and then, catastrophic flooding the day I move house? It’s Murphy’s Law, a little Divine Gag on me.
And I get them all the time.

- The right key is always the last one on the bunch
- My toast always lands butter side down
- My cell phone will die the moment I actually need it in an emergency.

Etcetera.

In return for a lifetime of enduring these DivineGags, I am planning my own little gag for when I cross over. I can see it now:

“Hey St. Pete, how’s it hangin’”

“Ahem. Welcome to heaven. Please do not touch the Pearly Gates. You are required to wear your halo at all times, wings are compulsory, but you get to choose between a harp and a flute. Dinner’s at 7. I hope you like honey”

“Cool with me Petey. Listen is God around?”

“God is busy. S/He is always busy.”

“Well could ya give Him/Her a message?”

“A message? You insolent little blighter.”

“Yeah, could you tell Him I’m actually not dead. I’m just lying reeeaaaaaaaallllllly still.”

“Actually you little stink bug, you are severely inebriated. Furthermore, according to Murphy’s Law, one out of every 2 million people* who become severely intoxicated die as a result. O look: jokes on you.”

“Ill take the Harp.”

Moral for today: Never, NEVER mess with God. Or Murphy. Whoever strikes first.

* For illustrative purposes only

Morning Wombats: TYPE 3

2006-08-02T00:59:00.000+12:00

One astute reader has dutifully informed me of yet another morning-person type, which I seem to have glibly forgotten to draw your attention to, in my last post. Highly unlikely, I know, but sometimes things do slip between the cracks.
But before I go into the details of this third type of morning wombat, let’s recap on the first two.

Quick Summary:
TYPE1:
- Early risers
- Happy to be up at some ungodly hour
- Wants everyone around them to feel the same way – even if by force.
- Highly endangered

TYPE2:
- Normal People.

Ok. That pretty much sums it up.
Now, Type 3:

TYPE3:
Type three, I am told, are hardcore type 2’s.
These people can weather any badass TYPE1 that may be lurking in the darkness.
Getting these people out of bed is like waking the dead. These people have a black-belt in staying put. In fact the only time I have ever seen a type three is on route to the kitchen. Or bathroom. Depending on which one was visited last. Both times were scary.
Their eyes are kind of slitty, and their hair looks like hedgehog. Do NOT feed the hedgehog. No, not even if it begs you directly.
However, more than this, TYPE3’s are prone to acute aggression. I know this because my sister is a chronic TYPE3.
One would think that with all that sleep, these TYPE3’s would be all docile. Like a fuzzy bunny. Think Bambi and Thumper.
Not TYPE3’s. Nooooooooo sireee. TYPE3’s are NASTY. Try waking them up and prepare for the wrath of the gods.
Some deploy different defense strategies. Some lash out at you with claws. Some actually leave their sanctum for a few seconds to pulverize you and hide the body. Whatever they do, its swift and violent.
Sometimes it’s best to just let these sleeping dogs lie.
Some characteristics to look out for when identifying TYPE3’s:
- The hedgehog
- Violent, moody, temper, rage, weaponry
- Untidy people. Room looks like crack den. Socks all over the place. The hedgehog.
- Wake at 11am and above. Make way.

I am confident that Morning Wombats have now been properly identified. If I have missed a type out, I urge you: tell me. For the sake of mankind and Hedghogs around the world.
Happy sleeping. . .

(image placeholder)

O What a Beautiful Morning

2006-07-26T19:24:00.000+12:00

I hate getting up in the dark every morning. It’s the one thing I dread with the coming of every winter - my pet hate of the season. I feel like I am being robbed of precious sleep hours, taken advantage of. Violated.
The thing I despise even more than waking in the dark though, is being woken by the blinding ceiling light, which some concerned soul decides to use to “help you wake up”. You see, there are two kinds of people in this world of ours:

TYPE 1: These are the people that can wake up at the crack of sparrow fart, alert, bright-eyed, bushy tailed, and kompis mentis (sic) , looking like they have just had a fabulous nights rest, and full body massage. They are able to hold a full conversation. None of their clothes are on inside out. Their socks even match. These are the people who look all perky at breakfast. These people were smurfs in their former lives. Possibly Possums.

TYPE 2: The rest of human civilization. We need a cup of coffee and some quiet time until we can speak intelligently. TYPE 2’s secretly despise TYPE 1’s. Leave us alone until 11am, unless you are holding coffee or chocolate. Or both.

Its when TYPE 1’s take it upon themselves to help you with your morning waking that relationships really take strain. They use various techniques to help you up in the morning, ranging from barely tolerable to homicide.
One the barely tolerable side of the scale, there is breakfast in bed. Chocolate and coffee. Perhaps a gentle nudge to let you know it’s arrived. Perhaps some soothing music.
On the homicidal side, there is the light switch, which is flicked on with what I can only describe as TYPE 1 glee.
The switch not only floods your cozy dark room with the light of 1000 football stadium spotlights, but also initiates the rage of a nuclear bomb. It is accompanied with slitty eyes and the feeling of being born into the world for the first time. Only this time you are wearing pajamas and you have stubble. It’s not a pretty sight.

TYPE 2 reactions can vary.
Some TYPE 2’s stagger all over the place like inebriated hobos, desperately groping at the wall where they think the light switch was yesterday. Others scream in profane rage, albeit from under a blanket. Great quilted, profane humps.
Some have the fortune of having some blunt object nearby which they can throw. The object NEVER makes contact with the TYPE 1, who by this stage is whistling a little ditty from the Sound of Music down the passage. It usually deflects off a wall and occasionally hits a wayward pet or worse, you.

These my friends, are the trials and tribulations of us fellow TYPE 2’s. Which one are you? How have you dealt with your TYPE 1’s? Pesticides? Fungicides? They just keep coming. HELP!

Childhoodlum

2006-07-18T19:15:00.000+12:00

Have you ever played a prank phone-call on someone? When I was younger, a friend of mine used to have a telephone joke that we would play on unsuspecting victims, when we had no other pressing trouble to make. Ah yes, those were the days. No worries – and plenty of time to cause havoc in the ‘hood.

We would pick a number from the telephone directory – preferably one that listed a first name, surname and a decent address.
When the person picked up the ‘phone, we would start the joke as such:
[In a really perky happy voice] “Good Morning Mr Perkins, this is Tom from Exclusive Leather Lounge Suites Limited”
A hesitant Mr Perkins on the other side would normally respond with a vague “Y-yes?” – unable to decide how we knew his name, and unable to decide if he should know who we were.  I could just imagine him squinting his eyes, as he tried to fathom who these people were on the line.
“Yes, Mr Perkins, this is just a courtesy call to let you know your leather suite has arrived. From Italy. Would you like us to deliver, or would you prefer to collect?”
Stunned silence. At this stage he knew something was amiss. He needed more information:
“Im sorry…a leather lounge suite….ITALY?” (The Italy part always touched a nerve)
“Yes, Mr Perkins, your couches have arrived.”
By this stage Mr Perkins knows that this company has made a terrible blunder as he had certainly not imported any furniture - from Italy no less!
So, as any good Samaritan would, he tries now to explain that we have inadvertently phoned the wrong client:
“But I have not ordered any couches from you…you have the wrong person/number!”
Now this is where our telephone directory came in very handy.
“Is this Mr Perkins? Mr Harold Perkins”
A moments silence.
“Yes”
“Do you reside at 11 Helmsford Crescent, East End, Winchester?”
“Er..yes but -”
“Well then Mr Perkins your furniture has arrived”
Poor Mr  Perkins!
Thinking back, if I caught one of my own kids (if I actually had any of the blighters) doing that I would be forced to ship them off to some remote island occupied only by the waves crashing on the rocky beach and puffins. I would send the occasional food drop, just to keep them going though.
This is where I would also send Possum Woman.
Caused havoc as a child? – lets hear your fondest memories of childhoodlum!

Dictionary Denial

2006-07-13T20:29:00.000+12:00

Have you ever noticed that when you learn a new word – a word you had no idea even existed before – it suddenly appears in every text you read, every billboard you drive past, every sweet wrapper, novel, manuscript, movie, – everywhere! It’s uncanny.
Even the most far flung, way-out words, you would NEVER normally have used in your lifetime, suddenly appear in a commercial after you have learned its meaning.

I think the reason we don’t notice these enigmatic words is largely because we exhibit a certain level of Dictionary Denial. Things we don’t understand, we largely ignore. So when we come across some big adverb, we just gloss over it glibly and pretend it just never happened – at least subconsciously. You feel you have grasped the gist of the sentence, with the help of the surrounding words of course, and carry on without a care in the world.
This works as long as some little upstart doesn’t ask you what the word means, in which case I find it quite effective to suddenly feign death. Once you learn the meaning of the word, you no longer have to subconsciously pretend its not there (or pretend you just had a major coronary), because if some twit asks you for an explanation, you are adequately equipped to enlighten them, and so free another minion from his or her blinkered existence.

The reason I am even bringing up the subject of Dictionary Denial, is because this is what has occurred with Possum Woman. Those of you who have followed the Saga of the Spoon, will know that Possum Woman is the human equivalent of the She Devil. (But I digress).

The thing is, before she robbed me, I never even knew she existed. Now however, she turns up everywhere – like a bad penny. A very bad penny. Like a half-cent. Or monopoly money.
For example, we seem to arrive at work at the same time – this has happened on more than one occasion. Or we will end up being next to each other in the queue to leave the building after work. Everywhere I look, I see possum.
My dictionary denial has been obliterated because I now know what and who she is, so I can no longer linger in the ignorant bliss I was so accustomed to. So, I am now exercising the only option I have left – lifting the blinkers from your eyes, so you too can recognize a possum when you see one:
I found this description on the net:

POSSUM (Pos-im) noun: America’s only marsupial, like a large rat but almost white fur, almost blind, generally disliked, and heard scuffling around outside in the wee hours.

How apt. Now you know.

Know any possums? Tell me about your close encounters. . .

Base Balls in the Sky

2006-07-11T19:28:00.000+12:00

Base Balls in the Sky

Two days ago, the company started installing security cameras all over our building. They are like white baseballs hanging from the ceiling with a moving camera hidden inside. Now wherever you go, someone is watching your every move – your every bum-scratch, your every nose-pick. I’m glad I got my spoon out of this place when I did – imagine being caught stealing your own property – shameful.

These little bulbous eyes everywhere made me think of two true stories I have been fortunate enough to have come across in my lifetime. Both of them involve the thwarting of bad behavior thanks to these base balls in the sky and both, oddly enough involve urine. Yes, this is indeed a strange world in which we live. . .

Story one:
A manager goes away for a day on business.
Upon his return, he finds a foul odour of urine in his office, and embarks on a nose sniffing mission to find out the source. Imagine his surprise when he finally finds himself standing at his comfy office sofa!
Imagine his further surprise when he discovers a wet stain on one of the cushions!
Wisely, he had installed a hidden camera in his office (for situations just like these) and consulted the video archives of the day.
As it turned out, he found himself watching in disbelief as his secretary walked across the small TV screen, across his office to the sofa, pulled down her knickers, and squatted on his sofa. SCANDALOUS! And so she was duly “relieved” of her duties.
I presume she was peed off about something.

Story two:
The second story is a real account from my student days at a prominent university in South Africa. It reads very much like a famous crime solving boardgame: Mrs Peacock, with a bottle in the library.
The story runs as such:
The university library has a special climate-controlled room in which all the very old manuscripts are kept. These books are OLD – 300 years and older, and every time you enter this special enclave, you feel a sort of respect for these artifacts. You can smell the age in the musty air.
One particular day however, one unsuspecting student got a call from nature while browsing through the books in the psychology section. But, instead of heading for the bathroom, as any normal person would, this woman decided she would take her chances in the old book room. That’s right; she cramped her way down the aisles and darted into the revered old book room.
Once inside, she ducked into one of the darker rows of 500 year old books, and whipped out? An empty cool drink bottle. Yup. Cool drink bottle.
Delicately, she must have positioned herself over this vessel and continued to relieve herself. How she didn’t spot on the carpet is beyond me.
Little did she know the little baseball in the sky was recording every second of her relief, and needless to say she was confronted after she had emerged from the reading room with a full bottle of freshly squeezed orange juice. . .

Any stories involving hidden cameras? Keep them rolling.

War of the Spoon

2006-07-10T21:04:00.000+12:00

War of the Spoon

While working for my last company, I encountered a very strange practice whereby all the cutlery in the staff kitchen – particularly the teaspoons – all had little holes drilled into them.
When I asked why our entire cutlery collection was riddled with holes, I was told it was to “discourage petty theft.” Apparently, teaspoons are right up there with staplers and pencils when it comes to office theft. Bizarre but true.

Somewhere out there, someone has a full collection of holey cutlery.

When I resigned, I decided to take with me a memento. A keepsake, if you will.
So, in a true twist of irony, I took the only spoon in the kitchen that was whole. Un-hole. Hole-less. You get my drift.
After starting at my new company, I discovered that the staff kitchen did not even have cutlery.

Clearly these people had not heard of the wonders of drilling holes in eating utensils…

Never fear, I knew just what to do. I brought my newly stolen spoon to work.

Life was good. We had many breakfasts, my spoon and I. We had a symbiotic relationship. She would shovel granola into my mouth. And I. I would eat it. Absolute bliss.

Then I went through a period of having breakfast at home, so my spoon went un-used for about a week or so. This is where everything went positively pear shaped.

After my spoon-less period, I reverted back to eating breakfast at the office. So, one frosty Monday morning, I went through to the kitchen to pour my bowl of granola. There I was, doing my oats – literally - while in the corner (all possum-like) stood The Woman. She was peering (again, all possum-like) into the microwave, transfixed by her little bowl of fiber-packed goop doing the circuit.

It came to spoon time. Where is my spoon? WHERE WHERE WHERE – ahhhhhh there it is – on the sink – clean and sparkling and ready to do my bidding. I took it in my hot little hands and headed for the door.

That’s when it happened. This possum of a woman turned and exclaimed – “Hey that’s MY spoon” and with that, she swooped down and literally just took the spoon out of my hot little hands.
This Possum Woman had taken my spoon like taking the proverbial candy from a baby. I felt mugged!
I went into kind of a state of shock – I call it spoonshock – the inability to speak, move or jab a sharp object in the heart of my aggressor.
Spoonshock turned to outrage. The war is ON. That was MY stolen spoon and NO ONE is going to steal it from me, I thought as I shoveled my granola with a hideously bendy plastic spoon, left over from the previous days takeout.
I hatched my plan. . .

That afternoon, I crept back to the kitchen and re-stole what was rightfully mine, all the while sniggering my evil snigger. Back home it went, and once again everything was right in the world. Justice had been served.

I watched with utter glee the next day as The Possum searched in vain for “her spoon” and eventually had to settle for one of theses unwieldy plastic jobs. Ah yes, I thought as I peered at her from my desk. Ferret 1, Possum 0.

I am planning to leave an anonymous ransom note on her desk with cutout letters
“I have your spoon. Do you have the money?” along with a picture of the spoon in some compromising position. I will threaten to drill a whole in the concave head if she refuses to meet my demands, and am hoping to become a serious menace to her. Perhaps I should steal her bowl too – that would really cause her to lose some possum-sleep. Bloody thief. I stole it first.

Have you had a war at work? People steal your food? Got revenge? Tell me your story.