bread and circuses

Sunday was a glorious day. The sun was shining, although it wasn’t all that warm, but it made a difference. Roger (my boet) and I went for our first surf in months at Muizenberg. (Please bear in mind that I use the term “surf” loosely!) And as is our habit, we went for coffee and something to eat when we had got out of the water, dressed and packed the car.

It’s been so long since I’ve been there and I was amazed to see how much the beachfront drag has changed. They’ve spent months renovating the old buildings that line Surfer’s Corner and have turned them into what I imagine to be fairly swanky apartments. We all knew (Rog, Alv, Lin, Dodge) that it would change Muizenberg’s personality but I was more concerned with still being able to find parking when going to surf.

Surfer’s Corner used to be home to (you’ve guessed it) surfers, a few taking-my-mutt-for-a-walk-on-the-beach types and the occasional couple out for a Sunday drive. It was mellow, relaxed, comfortable, easy - good. It didn’t matter who were, why you were there or what you looked like since Muizenberg itself was a little dilapidated and comfortable, like an old pair of slippers that have lost their fluff but you can’t bear to part with. Along with the stripped paint of the Art Deco buildings, that gentle vibe has been put out with the trash.

Knead is a new bakery and restaurant that I’d heard about that has set up shop. Roger and I stalked the outside tables so that we could smoke. We pretended to watch the beach while casting eagle-eyed glances at tables that looked as though they could be leaving. It was an assault of the trendy, brunching with their kids dressed in designer gear, and dogs straining on leashes in a vein attempt to get closer to the dogs tied to the next table. They were loud, obnoxious, pretentious. Everything Muizenberg wasn’t up until a few months ago.

The table that left:
A man (late 30s, early 40s with his little girl) glared at us as we edged closer but it didn’t stop there, “I’m leaving, now” was hurled at us through clenched teeth. Okay buddy. He oozed arrogance. His good looks meant he didn’t have to be nice to anyone. We’ll call him Dick. He turned to offer the table to a friend he was chatting to – the friend was holding a takeaway coffee and clearly hadn’t planned to linger. I gasped. Out loud. The friend, taking in my shocked look politely declined. Dick looked furious. Eventually, he left and we sat down and moved his dirty plates away. Suddenly he was back, with a little brown box to take away the half pie his daughter hadn’t eaten. Oh well, how were we to know? He picked up a Grapetizer bottle that only had about 5mls left and growled, “Is this mine?” at me. “Yes” I flung back at him, wishing I’d dropped my cigarette into the bottle.

The manager that swung past:
“Are you a new table?” he rushed.
“Yes, can you please bring us some menus” I sang
He looked put out.
“Is there a problem?” I raised my eyebrows, “Is there a waiting list?”
“We don’t like tables to seat themselves” his lips smiled, his eyes frosted over. “It’s difficult to see who is new or not.”
Say what??? In MY day (yes, I’m channeling my mother) – it was part of my job as a waitress to make sure I new what was going on in my station at all times. The customer was always right. And I was always pleasant and accommodating. Strike 2.

The waitress:
I asked for my bread to be toasted.
“We don’t toast the bread” she deadpanned.
I ran my finger down the menu to where it gives you the toasted option, in print.
“But it says here that I can have it toasted.”
“We don’t do it when we’re busy.”
I was speechless. Strike 3.

I’m shocked by the attitude that seemed to surround the place: that I should damn well count myself lucky that I had the chance to seat my ass on one of their chairs. I was really disappointed. The bread was good. The packaging of the place is cool. But there’s no warmth. No pleasure. And after the zen of surfing has kicked in, the last thing I need is that freak show...

Small, smaller, smallest.

Encounters is on in Cape Town and this weekend I went to watch two films: Bustin’ Down the Door and Note by Note.

The first told the story of a group of young South African and Ozzie surfers that turned the 1970’s surf culture in Hawaii upside-down. They didn’t just open the door to professional surfing; they (as the title suggests) went in kicking and screaming. And for those of you who have watched Riding Giants, you’ll know that the waves that thrash Hawaii’s North Shore are demons – we’re not talking foamies at Muzies here, groms!

The second followed the making of a Steinway Concert Grand. 100% handcrafted and aurally tuned make Steinways one of the best pianos in the world (the other one is Bösendorfer). And the teams of people that produce these magical beasts

We followed the creation of this 9-foot beauty; as the wood was molded into that quintessential concert piano shape until finally it was delivered to Steinway & Sons, ready to be auditioned and hopefully bought. Those that came before them have trained the craftsmen and women that are there today. They are salt-of-the-earth people, dedicated and passionate; juxtaposed with the exceptional artists that buy the pianos in the end.

I was consumed by the fire, guts, drive, fearlessness of the surfers, the confidence, steady hands, and love that radiated from the piano makers and the sheer skill and artistry of the pianists – their dexterous fingers almost a blur on the screen. And I was humbled.

But inspiration can be such a double-edged sword. As much as I wanted to pack my board and race off to Muizenberg, AND hire a crane to get my piano into my flat, I also ended up feeling remarkably average. I’ve not done anything great or noteworthy. I’ve dabbled in all sorts of things, but I’ve not mastered a single one. And basking in the glory of people that have made their mark somehow renders me inert.

And then, there’s a silver lining. At the very least, I can stand on a surfboard and ride a small wave. I can sit at a piano and tinkle out a few tunes. And I get to write for a living. And maybe it’s good just being me! Without giant expectations and a need to perform. And that feels good – and not so small after all!

A strange little conversation about toilet paper...

Last night, visiting Alv and Lin for TAR (the amazing race), emerging from the loo... (it's quite a feat when I only need to go once):

Me: I'm warning you that I've mauled the new toilet roll in your guest loo.

(Although, 10 points to me for actually changing the roll.)

Lin (laughing): It's because it's 1-ply and really stuck down so you have to rip 50 layers off before you have access to loo paper.

Me: Yes! Exactly! Don't you hate it when that happens?

Lin: Or when you finish the roll and the next roll is supposed to drop down.

Me: Totally!!!

Alv: Or when the roll on top is resting on the roll at the bottom so it won't turn!

Me: Or when the new roll is too fat for the toilet roll holder so you break off a square of toilet paper at a time.

We all laugh. And maybe, I laugh the loudest 'cos I've had these thoughts and frustrations many times before, but it's not really something that comes up in conversation. But I've wondered whether it frustrates other people just as much, and I've been too shy to put it out there!

Later that evening... Lin comes back from the loo:

Lin: Wow Wends, you really DID maul the loo paper!

Me: Yeah (grinning... I did warn them!)

the end of punctuation

I'm a copywriter and I work in advertising. I've long since come to terms with Art Directors' resistance to include punctuation in headlines. "It looks funny", they insist. I get that they see letters as shapes, rather than the words themselves. And sometimes, on days when I'm feeling magnanimous or simply don't feel like banging my head against a brick wall, I'll let it go. Come to think of it, I have been known to suggest deleting an exclamation mark to improve the design (?) of a heading.

The longer you're in this game, the easier it becomes to choose your battles. And honestly, for those of you that believe Hollywood's interpretation of advertising, it's a lot less: the sexy Account Director comes up with the award-winning concept/ad with his kooky Art Director and bow-tie-and-tweed bedecked Copywriter let drowning in his charismatic wake; and more: creative teams going to work to ensure that the integrity of their work not only remains in tact, but also reflects their level of education and skill.

Which brings me to my point. I was proof-reading a booklet today when I noticed that 90% of the full stops were missing. Sometimes, when transferring copy from a word document to freehand, things "drop off". So I assumed that this was the case here. A nagging voice kept telling me to ask the copywriter on the job what the story was:

Me: Steph, there aren't any full stops in this booklet?

Steph: I know, client asked for them all to be removed.

Me: What?

Steph: She doesn't like full stops.

Me (thinking I'd not heard her correctly, she sits opposite me, so that's doubtful): WHAT?

Steph: She doesn't like full stops!

Me: Did you push back?

Steph: Yes, she insisted.

Annabel (another writer in the office): She did that with the X poster too.

Steph: Yes, and the Y campaign.

Me: (I'm speechless.)

You see, it floors me that our clients seem to think that they can do as they please with internationally-accepted (in the English-speaking world) rules of punctuation. It happened a year ago when I had included Em Dashes in my copy, which the client didn't like and changed to commas. I fumed about it for a couple of days and then let it go. I placated myself with soothing words like: She probably doesn't know what an Em Dash is. BUT NO FULL STOPS? Where does one draw the line? Someone's taking that email, where the letters of words are all jumbled but you can still make sense of is, a little too far. Call me a nerd. Call me punctilious. You can call me Al for all I care, just let me do my job. And if you're too worried about whether the information (what we call Body Copy) looks pretty, then don't let me work on your job, because clearly, there isn't a job for me to do. It PISSES me OFF. You don't see newspaper stories missing full stops, or textbooks for that matter. So why this?

I know that if I take up this fight, on a Friday, when Repro is waiting for the job bag, I'll be fighting alone. The teams will cast sympathetic glances in my direction but nothing will change or get done. So I'll comfort myself with this: Thankfully, when consumers read the booklet I've just handed back to Traffic in disgust, they'll blame the brand, and not the agency. (The thought of them not noticing the lack of full stops at all is just too terrifying to contemplate!)

Gone Fishing

I was eating a chocolate brownie. I didn’t have a side plate, or a serviette, so I held it delicately and ate it swiftly, sitting at my desk. As I revelled in the richness of my midmorning treat, I slid my mouse across my desk to my left hand (it’s a Mac mouse, so it doesn’t matter which side it’s on). My hand promptly seized in a moment of performance anxiety. It reminded me of piano days, a left hand, heavy and staggering, to a right hand dancing lightly along the keys. Don’t make me play Bach. The paralysis didn’t begin from fingertip and end with to too-thin-wrist, it seemed to travel all the way up to my elbow. And all I could offer myself was a protracted jagged up and down movement, stiffening my arm to retain some control. It was awkward. I finished my brownie, and wished the flavour could stay in my mouth forever and moved the mouse back to the right hand. And I wished I were ambidextrous. Two wishes slipped through the bars of now and never, racing to the place wishes go. I wish for many things. Some are sighs. Some are shrieks. Some are belly-laughs and others are sneaky buggers. But most of all, I wish that the Wishing Girl never leaves. And even now and then, I wish that some of my wishes (just one… please?) come true…