Haiku for right-hand lane hoggers

right-hand lane hoggers
especially on de waal
make me want to kill

We are gathered here…

Last night I went to watch Dear Reader (formally Harris Tweed) at The Assembly for the launch of their new album. It was with much anticipation and excitement that I bought the tickets weeks ago – I’ve been waiting for their new album for months. I wasn’t disappointed. The evening kicked off late, but anyone from Cape Town will shrug and disclaim: it’s Cape Town. (Something I’ve never really got used to.)

The Simon van Gend Band kicked off the evening. I’ve known of them for years, but have never heard them. I want their CD. Desperately. And I will hunt them down, even if it means sitting on a dusty floor, straining to see over a lanky boy’s fedora and getting pins and needles.

Dear Reader, I’ve seen them many times. I am a fan. I’m awed by their talent, their guts, their perseverance. (And I covert Cherilyn MacNeil’s shoes.) Their live sound envelopes you and I love that their new drummer knows every word to every song and sings along, even when it isn’t his part. Even he can’t resist the push and pull of strings and sound. It’s as it should be.

They’ve just got back from a tour in Germany and France. They’re from Jo’burg and have played all over South Africa. And it seems, that their audiences are as idiosyncratic as their music! They said that German audiences clap for a very long time, for each song, far longer than South African audiences. And, apparently, Cape Town audiences are just like French audiences: we sit on the floor, we’re quiet. (The last time I saw them play she said it was like playing in a church.) And we dress well (her words, not mine)!

I guess it’s kinda obvious that different cultures react and express themselves differently. But when I’m at a concert, I only ever really think about my own reactions and my immediate surroundings. And to have someone actually point out similarities or differences is cool. Who needs flags, when how they’re waved is much more interesting? Well, I think so anyway!

Sometimes, I surprise myself... OR blessed are the forgetful

It doesn't happen often. In fact, I can't remember the last time it did - but then, why would I? Firmly in my 30s, there's a lot I don't remember. It used to only happen to people my parents' ages: you know, walking into another room to get/do something, only to completely forget as soon as you step over the threshold. It's a mystery. And, to my horror, it's happening to me more and more.

There's only one hour left of what, without a doubt, has been the longest Monday of my life (I needed a weekend to recover from my weekend) and we've got a creative review first thing tomorrow morning. Which means that I needed to write another bit of copy for a second poster option so the AD could lay it out before then. Ugh. No! Please, say it isn't so. All I wanted to spend the last hour of my day doing was staring blindly at various, easy-on-the-brain blogs and sites.

I forced my right hand to take hold of the mouse, hover over the folder, and click away to open the word doccie. (At this point, I wanted to cry.) Opened it and scrolled down to discover that I had written it already!!!!!!

I nearly pranced around the office doing the dance of joy (except that I've been wearing my scarf around my head for most of the day - cos I have a cold and I'm sitting under the frikkin' aircon and that gave the kids plenty to laugh about already.) (Also, I think I pulled a muscle in my leg doing stripper moves at a party on Friday night, so it'd be more like the hobble of joy - tequilla has once again been banned!)

Horrah! Now I have 45 mins to kill, without feeling guilty.

Neighbours or 503 and their increasing repertoire of disruption

503: It could be the name of a new club that’s opened in Cape Town. Come to think of it, considering the amount of noise that comes from 503, it could be a new club that’s opened in Cape Town. Unfortunately, it’s not. It’s the flat above me. And I’m going (not-so-quietly) insane.

I suspect, since I knocked on their door to (very sweetly) ask them to shut-the-fuck-up, that they’ve begun devising new ways to irritate me. No, scrap that, they just a bunch of inconsiderate plonkers who are making my life hell. (Mostly because they’re interfering with my very precious sleep.)

1. The trance parties:
These usually happen on a Sunday night. A SUNDAY!? (My horror has nothing to do with religion. Rather, it’s the night before Monday, when everything should be quiet and peaceful as you savour the remnants of the weekend before being hurled back into another blurry working week.) Not only does their loud doof-doof music, thump through the walls, they also clap in time, bleat, shriek and laugh. A lot. This goes on until the wee hours of the morning, unless someone else in the block bangs their door down. (I prefer to lie in bed cursing them, plotting my revenge – which includes an envelop of Oscar’s pooh in their postbox – than actually face the music. Hey, I don’t like confrontation.)

2. The time their window blew out:
I was on my balcony when it happened. Ha! I thought: karma. That was until Dick start knocking out the pieces of glass that were still clinging to the frame with absolutely no regard for who might be walking down below, or the South Easter or me on my balcony below. (Why I was surprised? I don’t know.) Then I realised that the Trance Parties would be worse with a pain of glass missing. Ugh.

3. Bowling Night
So I’m lying on my couch watching TV when all of a sudden, something heavy is dropped directly above my head. Over and over again. It sounds like a ball. A bowling ball. On tiles. Fab! Eventually I rush to get my wooden-handled mop to thud at them from below. At the sound of the bang of my utility cupboard door (on my balcony) they stop. I spend the rest of the night, mop in hand, telepathically daring them to try-that-again. They don’t.

4. Let’s play Queer-Eye-for-the-Straight-Guy - Queer-Eye-for-the-Straight-Guy!
And move the furniture around, at 10pm at night. (This happens at least once a week.) Three words: tiles, heavy, furniture.

5. Three’s-a-Charm
Monday morning 1am – rip-roaring fight ensues and wakes me up. Lots of shouting, banging, dragging of furniture (¿).
Monday night – Trance Party (see no. 1)
Wednesday morning 2am – he gets home (I can only assume) drunk and pumps up the volume. This time, “I think you’re a-mayyyyy-ziiiiinnnng” rings out into the night. And wakes me up.

It’s after three nights of being kept from sleep that I decide I can’t take anymore and decide to have a little word. (I've been drinking beer with Ashley, so my confidence and indignance are at an all-time high when I get home.) He’s not home. I wait. Suddenly, the thud of something from above. Ah! I march upstairs and knock before I lose my bottle. He’s sulky, sullen, mumbling, I repeat myself, smiling, until I get an apology. Next time, I’m not going to be so nice.

6. Heels
On tiles. It’s 11pm, I’m trying to sleep. Do I need to say any more?

This tips me over the edge. I’ve contacted the Body Corporate. She's sympathetic, but naturally won't lift a finger. It’s going to take some time, but I’ll canvass the other neighbours this weekend and bombard the letting agent with complaints.

Game on!

It’s aaaaaa knockout!

A regular occurrence in the loading zone outside my local grocery store. This time, I had the camera ready.

And then, to my delight, it happened twice in ten minutes!

Notice how there’s always one guy who just stands around and watches while everyone else pitches in to help pack up. Wanker.

(I’m not sure why I find it so funny since I’m the poor sod that might end up buying whatever landed on the guano-infested pavement at-the-back.)

Here comes the sun OR Not a morning person

My friend Sam is doing a photograph collective for an internal project at her agency. She’s asked people to take a photo of the first things they see in the morning and write down their first thoughts/what they say to their loved ones in the morning. (The idea is that most of us work with the same people every day, but there’s a lot about their lives that we never see!) She’s compiling all the images and lines to project it on the wall at Draft.

So, I said I’d contribute (even though I don’t work there anymore) and even though I’m not a morning person, I’m really happy with how the pics turned out, so here’s a little slice of my (sun)rise:

7AM already: The only thought that goes through my mind is "noooooooooooo, ugh".

It's been so hot, so I've been sleeping under a sheet
and throw the duvet over the bottom of the bed.

Oscar snoozes until I get up.

Summer is fading, the mornings are lighter later.
The sky matches the Mount Nelson.

After my shower, I slip through to the kitchen to make tea.
Normal tea, full cream milk and two sugars. Standard issue.

I'd like to say I wake up every morning and sip my tea on my balcony
while watching the sun rise. But that'd be a lie! It's beautiful though.
Although, if I had the choice, I'd probably still be in bed.

Drain the cup, find my shoes, don't forget my cell phone,
kiss the cat and I'm off for another day.

Where’s my straw?

There are many things in life over which we have little to no control. Like the way other people drive, like the kind of service you’re offered, like the dress you’re asked to wear as a bridesmaid. Basically, any time someone else is involved, the only thing you have any control over is self-control.

This is when you need to be a go-with-the-flow person.

I’m not. I try very hard, but I don’t always win.

Take for instance: Me at the new KFC drive-thru window no. 2 waiting to collect my food.
Note 1: I have already paid at window number 1.
Note 2: This is a DRIVE-THRU – once you’re in the queue, there’s no reversing, or power steering your way out of it. You’re stuck until the car in front of you moves.

Lady in the Window: Streetwise 5?
Me: Yes, thanks!
LitW: There’s a new batch cooking, would you mind waiting?
A go-with-the-flow person would have said: Sure! And either turned up their car radio, to rock-on to or struck up a friendly conversation with the Lady in the Window.
Me: !!???¿¿¿ Well, how long will it take?
LitW: Let me find out.
Me (thinking): You already have my money, I’m in a DRIVE-THRU, am I really going to say NO?

I got annoyed with being kept waiting, but mostly with the lack of logic to the process, if there’s a time delay on the food, shouldn’t you be told before you’re stuck on the chain gang? You should see me stuck behind some one driving at 40km/h in the right-hand lane.

Instead of allowing these little irritations to catalyst my rage, I should really see them as practice courts, for How to Suck It Up Gracefully for Dummies 101.

Because, as a bridesmaid, no matter what’s said, chosen, requested, demanded, that’s what you’re expected to do. That’s what you HAVE to do. No matter how illogical… how unfair… how… Argh. I’m torn…

And I’m trying really hard to win this one, to stifle my opinions and my annoyance that I feel that concessions are being made for the other two maids, and not for me. I’m sure I can do it; with a smile and grace and as little passive-aggressive bitchiness as possible. (Next time, I’m coming back as a man.)

So, can someone warn every drive-thru window server, cashier, waiter, driver, junior writer on my team, neighbour, friend and family member, and anyone else I’ve forgotten. OR hand me a really big straw!

People are strange

“Normal” people even.

I’m talking about those little idiosyncrasies that most people keep secret, either because they’ve convinced themselves that they’re completely normal, or don’t want others to think them strange. (I know because I’m one of them.) Until the day they’re faced with having to explain their peculiar behaviour. (As a person prone to littering my conversations and motions with disclaimers, I’ve often fought the urge to over-explain myself, and lost, many, many times!)

So, I went to the loo at work the other day. As with most public loos, the individual stalls have their own doors. And then there’s the main door separating the “ladies room” from the rest of the office. (This is important.)

Ahead of me, a colleague had entered the general “ladies room” area, and I was bringing up the rear. As I got to the first door, she closed it in my face. Huh? So I pushed it open and she looked at me annoyed. Huh-huh?! “I always close the door when I go to the toilet” she said.

Still confused, I thought about pointing out that each stall has its own door. I didn’t. “It’s just something I’ve always done and have to do” her words becoming urgent (either she was feeling uncomfortable or just needed to wazz really badly) “I can’t go to the loo with the door open.” But BOTH doors?! I nodded, as if I understood, because I needed to wazz really badly.

Now I pee at a speed that often earns me the bemused respect of my friends, so needless to say, I was out before her. (Disclaimer: I don’t have a relationship with the toilet; reading on the toilet is something I’ve never understood. I think it’s gross. I’m in and out as fast as possible.)

So I washed my hands, she was still in there… opened the main toilet door and left. Without closing it. I left it WIDE open. I wasn’t trying to be spiteful; I just thought she was being stupid. (I know; who am I to judge.) Because, I really don’t think she has TWO toilet doors at home. So, what gives?

Indeed Jim, people are strange.