right-hand lane hoggers
especially on de waal
make me want to kill
Tuesday, 31 March 2009
Friday, 27 March 2009
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!
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!
Monday, 23 March 2009
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.
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.
Friday, 20 March 2009
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!
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!
Tuesday, 17 March 2009
It’s aaaaaa knockout!
A regular occurrence in the loading zone outside my local grocery store. This time, I had the camera ready.
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.)
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.)
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