Desperately Seeking

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

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.