g o a t v i l l e

Make Your Own Sushi - It's Messier Than You Think!

2012-01-26T12:34:00.001+02:00

I have been making sushi. I did it years ago, then I started again. It's twelve yards of fun, although it can get messy.

My sister - click on that sister to check out her blog of beautiful and charming things in nice colours - who is good at making stuff, started the ball rolling, and we made it in her kitchen.

Then we made it again, on holiday, in a lovely old house by a river near Swellendam. Unfortunately the lovely old house by the river was also near a lot of livestock, and where there's cows, there's flies. The poxy flies hovered around us in circles of torment, trying to dive bomb our maki, but we prevailed.

Your set up doesn't look very professional.

I know, but -

You're using normal mayonnaise.

Whatever. Honestly.

And you're doing the rolling of the rolls with a flippen magazine, you pleb.

I know, because I left the special maki rolling mats at sister's house. But guess what: a magazine works pretty well.

Was the rice a flop? They say that's the hard part.

Actually no, once you know how, you know how. And you can get sushi rice anywhere, like Woolies or Checkers, but it's really cheap at the Chinese supermarkets.

What's that silvery thing behind the mayonnaise?

It's a fan, for cooling down the rice.

I'm impressed.

Eventually.

Ten Things I Learnt On My Summer Holiday.

2012-01-17T18:22:00.002+02:00

I'm still on my summer holiday, because I get long ones, but this is what I have learnt so far:

1. It's better on the road.

You shouldn't fly there if you can drive there, because you see such cool stuff on the road. Like the Hectic Biltong caravan. If you drove on the N2 out of Cape Town, you might have seen it.

2. Seaside town curio shops are the same all over the world.

You can get this stuff in Nantucket, Cornwall, Florida, Marseilles and probably Perth. It's all identical.

We hate that.

3. That I love my location-finder direction-giving thing on my phone.

It's flippen awesome.

And it's free.

4. That there are some monster holiday houses out there, shaped like slices of cake.

They are not my cup of tea.

If this is your holiday house, I'm sorry to be rude, but really.

5. That there are a lot of pregnant men in Jeffreys Bay.

6. That in the Eastern Cape they still say Merry Christmas.

The lady in the ad is the premier, Ms Kiviet. She has a masters degree in administration from Fort Hare.

This must be a good thing.

7. That the town fathers and mothers at Keurboomstrand have found a way of preventing you from parking your 4x4 on the grass verges.

The car guard told this car's macho driver: "Sir, you cannot park there."

But macho man told car guard to EFF off.

Macho man did not see the white pole, and ramped the grass verge.

White pole: 1. Macho man's car: 0.

8. That I am very partial to a good farm stall.

This one is called Smits Winkel. It's at the Bella de Karoo guest house, between Oudtshoorn and Calitzdorp.

9. That the best time to go to the beach is early. That sun is fierce, boys and girls. And you need to be out of there by 11.30am, which is when the human invasion begins.

10. That if you're short of something to read, buy a Getaway magazine and you'll get a free Mills & Boon romance story. Hurry while stocks last.

You won't believe what goes on in there these days. Things have got a lot more racy.

My gran used to read these in between knitting booties and tea cozies. She'd love them now.

Someone Is Going To Get One Of These.

2011-12-20T13:59:00.000+02:00

Somewhere on the 25th December, at least one man is going to unwrap open one of these bastards. When he does, he will probably say, "Oh. Shit. A pair of digital braai tongs. You shouldn't have."

I am on a beach in the Eastern Cape.

Today I entered the sea for the the first time this summer. Within 60 seconds of wading into the water I felt a sharp bite on the sole of my foot and ran screaming back to dry land, in a not very dignified way.

Not cool.

Before You Hit The Mall:

2011-12-13T11:57:00.003+02:00

This cartoon made me think of toys I had when I was small, and the level of crap that my parents gave me, which was a pretty decent level of crap, even though in the olden days there didn't seem to be much true crap, which was sad, because we adored it.

Toys I Had When I Was Small:

A Barbie.

Skipper. Barbie's Little Sister.

Rollerskates.

Like these. Except my straps were red.

A Scooby Doo. Not the dog. It was like a snakey, jointed puzzle thing.

A kanagroo ball - a big red one. You sat on it, held onto the handles and bounced.

Etch A Sketch.

A bride doll.

A lot like this one.

A fishing rod. Which is not a toy really, but I was chuffed to have my own little rod. Penis envy.

Plastic miniature fake doll's food. I was very fond of those tiny little cereal boxes and tiny fake chicken drumsticks. They gave me huge, unbridled joy.

Utterly pointless but awesome.

What else did you get from Santa? We need to know. Do go on.

Okay, I had a Glook at one stage. Like this thing:

About 7 inches tall, and with hair you could style.

Of course I also had:

Paper dolls.

We didn't have TV or computers, so no games or stuff.

I did not have a teddy bear. I need to repeat that: I was never given a teddy bear, which probably meant that I did not want one. I'm fairly sure that had I wanted one, an afternoon of foot-stamping and breath-holding would have ensured that a stuffed brown bear was shoved down the chimney.Or my throat.

Still. I never had a teddy bear.

BUT

I did have THIS baby:

This crap did not even have to be bought for me.

I got it FREE with a comic.

I had the original, the one and only, before it became a cool, expensive hipster toy,

I had, at the age of 9:

(Drumroll)

So there.

Please Don't.

2011-12-11T19:23:00.001+02:00

It is nearly that time of the year to give people stuff that you think is cool but they think is crap. Like this attractive item that I saw at a craft market place just yesterday.

Someone has recycled a hospital bed pan by cunningly converting it into a toilet roll holder. Someone actually thought that this would enhance bathroom decor.

And someone is going to buy this thing, undeterred by the fact that it's been poo-ed in by thousands of quite ill people. They will then wrap this poo-tray in shiny paper with snowmen on it (because there's lots of snow in Africa in December) and give it to someone else.

Please, nobody give this to me.

Why Didn't My Gran Read This Book To Me?

2011-12-10T16:59:00.000+02:00

My grandmothers were not like this one. This one keeps reading. She loves it.

Great Christmas Gift Ideas From The Shop Of Astonishing Crap From China.

2011-11-30T14:45:00.001+02:00

Running out of ideas for gifts this festive season?

Well, don't worry. Your gift-giving problems are over, especially if you live in Cape Town and can come to the Shop Of Astonishing Crap From China. It's in Sir Lowry Road, sort of opposite the Castle.

I popped in at the SOACFC today to take a look at their specials.

Here are just some of the best of the best :

Boos fragrance for men.

By the famous designer Hugo Boos. Buy it for your manguy, girlfriend. Give him Boos. He wants it.

If you've been a very good girl this year, you might get one of these - maybe from the guy you gave the Boos to:

These furry toilet seat covers are lovely, and very hygenic.

More wonderful things later in the week.

In Which I Do An Unusual Thing.

2011-11-28T19:30:00.001+02:00

I don't normally go to clubs, the kind where you have to wrestle to get to the bar and then shout at the person you're talking to because of the thumpy music. But I was forced to go to one of those places on Saturday night.

After the early evening graduation ceremony of the wannabes in my care, I was coerced into going to the after party. This action is totally against my religion, which has its own set of commandments, one of them being: "Thou shalt not go to any place where thumpy music is playing."

Another commandment is: "It is more blessed to stay home and make soup and watch a movie than to go out and queue to pee."

But I went, and was forced to drink all manner of flavoured liquids in plastic thimbles, which were actually quite nice as long as you didn't drink nine of them.

I stayed until 4.30am, when they turned off the thumping and turned on the lights of shame, so we could all see how horrible we looked.

Then I went home, had scrambled eggs on toast at 5am, then got into bed and slept all day.

Cool Stuff People Give You.

2011-11-22T21:18:00.001+02:00

When it's your birthday you can get some cool stuff. Like this thing J9 gave me, which she got from the Shop Of Astonishing Crap From China. I love it.

You stick this plastic flower on top of a cake and light it. The petals open up and it plays happy birthday. That is awesome. Except when we lit the bastard flower, we'd had a few glasses of wine and forgot to read the instructions.

"How do we get this thing going?"

"Ah, what the hell, just light the bloody thing."

So instead of opening UP, the petals ignited - and THIS happened:

Oh shit.

It took us a while to realise that things were going very wrong. The flames from the burning plastic were leaping up quite high, and hot, melted plastic was slopping in all directions, and stinky smoke was filling up the kitchen. But somehow this was not just scary, it was very funny. There was a lot of laughing.

I am going to buy another magic singing plastic candle-flower from the Shop of Crap, and try again. Awesome party trick.

I Am Getting Older.

2011-11-18T11:33:00.001+02:00

It is my birthday today. On your birthday, some people like to remind you that you are 'getting older.' These people must fuck off. Why? Because everyone is getting older, every day. A one year-old who turns two, is getting older. The nice lady in this picture up there, she is getting older. People in the ANC Youth League, even they are getting older, and will one day be too old to be in the Youngness Club.

"This is a revolutionary house. We do not get older. Not in this cowntree."

My students have given me a Get Well card for my birthday. It's a very pretty Get Well card, but still, it's a Get Well card. I suppose when you're 19, you think all older people are diseased and decaying. The little shits have clearly forgotten that I will, in the next few weeks, be adding up their year marks.

I Had A Lie Down.

2011-11-14T15:33:00.001+02:00

"I think she needs a lie down."

I needed a lie down, and so I had one. Things were getting exhausting and one needed a break.

Perhaps your corset was too tight?

It could have been the reason, but that does not explain the rash on my face and the heart palpitations.

I suppose not.

I had a sort of panic attack, and realised that I was very anxious.

A visit to Dr Jeepy sorted things out, and now I am not so panicky and my corset does not feel so tight.

So you are going to write some more stuff soon.

Yes. If only to stop being scolded for not doing so.

Can I Have A Lie Down Please?

2011-09-13T18:16:00.001+02:00

Where the hell have you been?

Carrying stuff - lots of it. It's my job, you know.

That's quite a lot you have there. Jeez.

I know.

Isn't your back going to break?

It is already broken, yet I carry on carrying. It's amazing how much you can carry, even when your spine is compromised.

Shouldn't you have a lie down?

Lie downs are for sissies.

The Red Wimble.

2011-08-12T16:04:00.006+02:00

When I was small and Christmas trees were tall, we used to go to the Red Wimble Roadhouse - a drive-in diner at the beach, on a Saturday or Sunday night - providing we'd Been Good which mean providing there'd been no sibling squabbles resulting in visits to hospital emergency rooms for stitches, X rays or stomach pumps.

We loved being taken to the Red Wimble. That's how we said it - Wimble. We went there because there wasn't a lot else to do in Port Elizabeth in the olden days, and satanism hadn't been invented yet. (Apparently PE is now the satanist capital of Africa.)

The Red Wimble was great. It was down at the beach, and the menu was on a big 'blackboard' outside. We usually ordered mixed grills and fries and milkshakes or coke floats. You had to order everything at a drive-by hatch - sort of like McDonalds - and then you went and parked the car in a parking bay facing the sea.

While you were waiting for your order you played Eye Spy and watched seagulls jabbing at each other and crapping on benches.

"I spy with my little eye, something beginning with C."
"Cars."
"No."
"Combi."
"No."
"Chips."
"No."
"Cones."
"No."
"Cops."
"No."
"Christmas lights."
"No."
"Coke cans."
"No."
"Crabs."
"No, man, you can't see any crabs, they're under the water."
"I give up. What is it?"
"C gull."

Then a waiter in a red nehru jacket and a black fez would bring you everything on a metal tray, which he would clip onto the outside of your window so that the rain would rain onto your chips and into your coke float if you left it out there too long.

The Red Wimble's not a roadhouse anymore - it's now a Dive Centre, which is lame. But at least the wimble is still there.

Creepy Faces

2011-08-11T21:41:00.003+02:00

I was drizzling soy sauce on a plate the other night, just randomly squirting it. Then I put the bottle down. Then I looked at the plate, and saw this guy.

Criminy.

Whose face IS this?

This Little Turd Went To Port Elizabeth.

2011-08-09T17:25:00.002+02:00

A 4 year-old turdface cunningly disguised as a junior male human - pictured above - was the reason my one hour 20 minute flight to Port Elizabeth felt like a transantlantic crossing in a kayak.

The little shithead seated in front of me did not stop kicking, fidgeting and convulsing for the 80 minutes.

Thanks, Little Shithead, and thanks, Little Shithead's mom, who did not even try to keep him calm or offer him a nice warm cup of shut your shitty little shithead mouth.

Oh don't be so mean - he looks so cute.

Cute bullshit. That's how they make the little shits. They make them cute looking in a cunning attempt to get us to tolerate 80 minutes of convulsions and seat kicking.

I hope the boogeyman visits you tonight, you little pack of excrement, and I hope he makes you so scared that you pee in your pyjamas, and then you have to sleep in them because you're too scared to call your mommy.

Note to self: Carry long knitting needle on next flight.

The Dog's Bollocks

2011-08-06T16:41:00.003+02:00

I went to a soccer ball art charity auction the other night. Clever people decorated soccer balls in awesome ways and then they were auctioned. Nigella and Remus both had their balls auctioned. And very nice balls they were too. I tried to buy the Paige Nick ball (that one up there) but someone else ended up with it.

This is the Remus ball:

(Before completion. But still priddy.)

In Other News:

They say you only regret the things you don't do, not the things you do.

This is pure bollocks. Ask anyone on death row if they're sorry they did it and if they wish they could undo it.

Last night I allowed into my body several glasses of red wine. This in itself is not that regrettable; what was regrettable was the fact that I also allowed several members of the Smirnoff family through the door as well. Not lovely, and not clever.

The Smirnoffs and the Sauvignons are the Capulets and the Montagues of Boozeville. They are not BFFs and don't like sharing an alimentary canal, or a liver. But I forgot that last night, so this morning was tragic. There was major death row regret happening.

I am still in bed. If regret was a sport, I would be on the Olympic team.

One More For The Collection.

2011-08-05T10:32:00.004+02:00

Whenever Lexi goes to another country, she brings me a tea towel. She flies around quite a lot, which makes me happy, because I now have an awesome tea towel collection.

Yesterday she got back from Texas with this gem. Any self-respecting tea towel must have lots of towns' names on it.

Aren't American names just wonderful? I see there's a town called Palestine in Texas. Imaging the squabbling that goes in on that neck of Texas. And there's a Paris in Texas, too. Oh ja, and there's a Johannesburg in California.

But there's a Bethlehem in South Africa. We can also play that silly game.

What else did Lexi bring you from Texas?

Reese's Peanut Butter Cups.

Ah. Not good news.

Nonsense. Peanut butter is very good for you.

This Was Fun.

2011-08-02T21:38:00.004+02:00

We went to this cool Japanese restaurant the other night. It was Jon the M's clever idea. It wasn't actually a restaurant as in real restaurant with car guards outside. This restaurant was in someone's lounge - their actual lounge in their actual house in an actual suburb, deep in the heart of suburbia. There isn't even a name on the door.

The other patrons in this weird yet fabulous houstaurant were all Oriental. The chef is a Japanese guy who used to work at a famous name sushi restaurant, but now does his thing from home. This man makes fabulous Japanese food but I'm not even allowed to tell you the name of the restaurant because that's how secret it is. They will kill me if I do.

I liked the orange bobbly decoration items on the tables. And I love how Japanese infants master the art of the chopstick at age two.

Where The Hell Have You Been?

2011-07-18T11:44:00.004+02:00

I have been on holiday.

This is the world's biggest pineapple, located in the Eastern Cape near the town of Bathurst. We encountered this enormous item on the road to Port Alfred. It's beautiful. Actually I'm not sure if it's the biggest, because according to Wikipedia the world's biggest pineapple is in fact in Namour, Australia.

This is the Aussie one:

It's big. And a bit more pineappley.

On my trip I also bought this nice cow sign:

It will go on my office door.

She's Back In Town.

2011-07-05T12:11:00.001+02:00

The sleepy zebra that made friends with Jolene was very tame. So tame, it wasn't even afraid of her rifle.

Miss Texas, my old school friend, is back in town. On a hunting trip. She's come to shoot animals - big African ones with horns and claws and manes.

I couldn't. Some people can.

But you eat meat, you hypocrite.

No-but-yes-but-no-but, I couldn't get a thrill out of shooting a zebra or a buffalo. Or a sheep. I'm sorry that a sheep or a porcupine or a pigeon has to die so that I can have lunch, yet I eat them anyway, but I'm one of those people that can't understand how killing it can be 'fun.'

You shouldn't eat meat if you're not prepared to kill it, you know.

Crap. That's like saying I shouldn't drink milk if I'm not prepared to milk the cow myself. (Which I am most unapologetically not prepared to do.)

It's like saying I shouldn't eat bread if I'm not prepared to grow the wheat and make my own flour.

Or I shouldn't wear clothes I haven't sewn myself out of cotton I've grown and spun and -

- Okay we get it.

We pay people to do jobs we don't like doing. Simple.

You are right.

Yes I am!

Try to relax.

This isn't Miss Texas in the picture. This is some other lady who killed an animal then cuddled up next to it. THIS is spooky.

"Hey, let's make it look like it's alive, and it's just laying there on the ground with you."

"Okay"

"Curl its hooves under, like that - yes, like that."

"Like this?"

"Perfect."

You Know You Do Not Have A Life When

2011-07-01T11:26:00.000+02:00

- you are in bed at 8.30 watching a demo video on how to make a Barbie cake. Yes. A Barbie cake.

You must have been very bored.

Oh, before I found the Barbie cake tutorial I was, but then I was riveted. This thing saved my evening. You won't believe how much skill is involved in the construction of an edible Barbie dress. (They call it a Princess cake in the demo video, because if they called it a Barbie Cake, Mattel would send a gang of thugs with pitbulls, and they'd be torn limb from limb because people are funny like that.)

In case you're interested in making a Barbie cake, you'll need -

No one is interested.

- you'll need to bake three regular cakes plus one cake in a round bottomed glass dish - that will form the dome on the top of the skirt. Then you will need -

No one is listening.

- Fuck off, unwanted interior voice, you will need about 4 gallons of pink icing.

Stack the cakes on top of each other and make a bloody hole down the middle.

Ice the fakkin cakes with the 4 gallons of pink icing.

Put Barbie in a plastic bag up to her waist and shove her in the hole.

Cover her in a pink icing top.

Or you can have a topless barbie cake.

Seriously. No one cares.

Yes, but I feel a Barbie cake coming on. Just for shits and giggles. Except not Barbie. Maybe Ken.

You Can Smash But You Can't Grab.

2011-06-27T16:06:00.000+02:00

Because my car has this smash and grab protection thing. But the smash and grab guy who wants to steal - what? the dry apple core in the ashtray? - he doesn't know that, so he tries to smash and grab anyway, and all he gets is a pretty pattern and a car window that he can't break. But I still get to spend my afternoon at Glassfit, getting a new window put in. Meh.

The Answer Is...

2011-06-23T15:51:00.001+02:00

"This doesn't look a bit like the sheep's head I ate in South Africa

when I took my wife there to be murdered."

The answer to yesterday's question, "Why is that lady serving pig's head to her family?"

is:

Because the ad is for township B&Bs. The idea is to tell people to visit South African townships to get a feel for the culture.

Ooh - but aren't South African townships dangerous places?

Well, if you're married to a guy who wants you murdered on your honeymoon and flies you all the way from Bristol to Cape Town to accomplish this, then yes, a township can be a risky place.

So in this ad, what they're saying that if you spend time in a township, you'll like it so much that you'll want to eat pigs heads when you get home.

Surely not? What do they mean?

I think they mean a sheep's head, not a pig's head. A cooked sheep's head is a traditional dish, and it's called a smiley.

Show us a picture of one.

I was going to, but it's pretty gruesome - if you're not used to that sort of thing. You'll have to Google "smiley sheep's head", and see what I mean.

Oh please. How gruesome can it be?

Go Google it.

More Awesome Pictures

2011-06-22T08:07:00.002+02:00

I love this one.

The lady is serving dinner, and there is a pig's head on the table. An actual cooked head of an actual pig.

The family looks fairly okay with that.
Except Dad. Why is Dad's hand in his pocket?
Maybe he is reaching for his gun.

Well, I know that if my mom had whipped up a fakkin pig's head for dinner I would have called Childline in a big hurry.

Understandably. But the question is: Why is the lady giving the kids a pig's head to snack upon?

Maybe she hates them and wants them to call Childline so they'll be taken away.

No hang on. In some cultures, pig's head is a delicacy, a very nomnom thing to find on your dinner table. Especially the cheeks.

Yes, they're the best part.

Stop it. I just oopsed in my mouth.

The headline says Take The Experience Home WIth You. What experience do they mean?

That is what you need to figure out. It will be explained tomorrow.

Midwinter Meh.

2011-06-16T20:25:00.000+02:00

Where the hell have you been?

Nowhere. I haven't budged. I've been right here.

Doing what?

Nothing. My life is indescribably dull and I want a refund.

They don't give them. You didn't get your life from bloody Woolworths.

That is true. Good thing.

What is that drawing then?

Isn't it nice? It's a scary looking lady and guy and their tot. It's a drawing for an ad by one of the wannabes at the college where I work. I just love their drawings. Amateur drawings are the coolest thing ever. Best part of my job is looking at the drawings. Or the scamps. We call them scamps, although this one isn't very scampy, it more drawingy. Scamps aren't so detailed.

That woman looks fierce and scary. Who was the model?

Probably me. I am in a state of midwinter meh-ness, and few things amuse or delight me at the moment. It is as if I am living in a ditch with poo on my head.

You need to stop it.

I will. Soon.

What's Going To Happen?

2011-05-20T19:49:00.001+02:00

The Raptureburger.

Apparently the world is going to end tomorrow, for everyone. It's called The Rapture.

I hope it doesn't happen. I'm not ready for rapture.

What happens to all these nutjobs who predict the end of the world on a certain date, and then that date comes and the world doesn't end? Do they feel embarrassed and sheepish when Jesus and the angels don't leap out of the sky? Not even a bit sheepish?

And what are all those Rapture people doing tonight, I'm wondering? Are they having parties and wild orgies? Think about it: If it's the end of the world tomorrow and you're convinced it's really going to happen, surely you'd cash in your whole retirement fund and blow it all on oysters and fireworks and bathtubs full of Veuve and full body massages and jumping castles, and all the fudge chocolate brownies you can keep down - because tomorrow you won't have to fit into your jeans or pay the phone bill or even deal with a throbbing liver. Surely you'd have some unbridled pre-rapture fun? I certainly would. I'd host a big event right here at the hut on the hill. Better still, rent the penthouse floor of the Grand Posh Hotel, and do it all there.

But you'd be up poo river without a paddle if you blew it all on a Rapture Skop, and then tomorrow came and it was a totally Rapture-free day.

That would not be cool for you. You would feel sheepish. You'd be poor. People would point at you and laugh. And many parts of your body would be sore.

Where Do I Take Him?

2011-05-16T13:17:00.001+02:00

Saturday night I get a call from Ms Texas, my old school friend who ran off to the US of A and stayed there.

Hiya darlin' !

Hello, Ms Texas.

Watcha doin', baby? (she talks like a real Texan now)

I'm lying in bed with a sore foot and an incubating cold, thinking about how much my life rocks.

Well hun, listen, ah got a friend who's comin' to South Africa to hunt 'n stuff, and we told him he's gotta GOTTA look ya'll up and y'all can take him out 'n show him round Cape Town. How 'bout it, huh ?

Ja, okay. Whatever. Send him. I'll take him somewhere nice.

Thanks, hun. I'm gonna send ya a pitcher of him, kay? He's cool.

Ok. Right. Send me a pitcher.

This is the pitcher of Texan Huntin' Guy.

Where do I take him?

The Movable Stick.

2011-05-11T19:17:00.001+02:00

I am very lucky to work in a place that is right next door to The Shop Of Astonishingly Cheap Crap From China. Here you can get anything that breaks within three minutes of using it, or indeed fails to function at all. If it is sticky tape, it will not stick. If it is a pair of scissors, they will not cut. If it's shampoo, your hair will fall out in chunks. If it is soap, your skin will separate from your body. The proprietors of this shop are crapping in their pants for the Consumer Protection Act. But I went there anyway, to buy a rolling pin.

For making apple pie pastry?

No, for my injured foot.

Explain why.

Well, because of the injured tendon in my left foot, which has been with me day and night for over four months, never leaving me but remaining loyal, I have to do these exciting exercises. One of the exciting exercises involves rolling the sole of your foot over something hard and round, like a rolling pin. So I kept a rolling pin under my desk, and rolled it under my bare foot every day.

People must have thought you were a bit mad.

Oh, believe me, one reaches an age when one no longer cares what 19 year-olds think of one's mental state.

Anyway, the rolling pin went astray, so yesterday I bought another one - at Shop Of ACC from China. It sells rolling pins, but they call them Movable Sticks.

That's a much better name.

I think so, too. A pin, after all, is a very tiny thing. 'Movable stick' is a better descriptor.

Isn't a chopstick a movable stick, too?

Yes, I suppose so. It moves. To your mouth.

And a toothpick?

Yes. It moves in your mouth.

And did you buy the movable stick? And did it break within minutes?

Of course it did. As I exited the shop and pulled off the (already broken) cellophane wrapper, the handle of the Movable Stick fell off.

But that didn't matter, surely?

No. The main part of the Movable Stick still moves underfoot, and that is all I need.

Good.

But note to self: NEVER buy a stepladder at the Shop of Astonishingly Cheap Crap From China.

Or, say, a car.

Indeed.

Or condoms.

No.

Or an elevator for a very tall building.

I won't.

Pie. Butternut.

2011-05-10T22:28:00.000+02:00

Where the hell have you been?

I have been working and it's very busy and time just flies.

So you've been doing nothing but work?

No not just work. I baked an apple pie on the weekend. The urge was upon me, so I made a pie.

A whole one?

Yes, a whole bloody apple pie. It was such a good feeling. I even made the pastry myself. I felt like Martha fakkin Stewart.

You are wonderful and amazing.

I know.

And what the Isidingo Omnibus is THIS?

That, my friend, is a shark about to snack on a butternut.

Yes, but the burning question is Why? Why is the shark about to chow on a squash?

I can't tell you. The matter is still sub judice. But I can tell you this: it is part of an ad done by one of the wannbes in my care. To tell you what it is FOR would be giving it away.

Tell me now. I insist upon knowing.

I can't. It's a secret that can only be revealed at a later date.

In Which I Take On The Beast.

2011-05-03T18:20:00.001+02:00

There are several things I would rather do than apply for a new passport at the department of Home Affairs.

These are just some of them:

Going To The Dentist Every Monday Morning At Six.

Being Mugged.

Attending A Celine Dion Concert

Drinking A Gravel & Mustard Smoothie.

Sleeping In A Ditch Filled With Poo.

But there are lots more. That's just some of them.

Nevertheless, today I decided to renew my passport. Who know when I might need to flee to the Solomon Islands. Getting a new passport is just a thing that must be done.

But hell, those passport people are so full of crap. Since the last time I applied for a travel document, they've tightened up the rules a bit. Take the photograph, for example. My last passport photo was a nice smiley one of me. With a straw hat on my head. And I was lying in a hammock, holding a strawberry daiquiri in one hand and a Heat magazine in the other.

Very Similar To My Old Passport Photograph

You're not allowed to do this anymore.

You're not even allowed to smile, for heaven's sake!

And the rules say you can't be too dark or too pale in your photo.

Look at this fascist bastard rule:

That's a bit rude, I think? I thought this stuff wasn't allowed anymore.

And should you have a nasty fever blister on your mouth, you can't even cover half of your face.

That's just unreasonable.

They also have hair rules that are quite picky. Look at this hair-Nazi craziness:

You aren't allowed to be an emo if you want to leave the country. And you aren't allowed to pray while having your picture taken.

Bloody partypooper nanny state.

Go On. Knit Yourself Some Nuptials.

2011-04-28T19:50:00.003+02:00

Where the hell have you been?

Here, in the Moist City. I have been tired and weary, but am now on a short holiday after working like a dog.

Dogs don't work.

Police dogs do. And guide dogs. I have been working like a police guide dog, which is a dog that accompanies a policeman who is sight-impaired.

Why are you talking utter bollocks when there is that beautiful picture up there of a knitted royal wedding?

Ah yes. Paige reminded me of the royal wedding thing tomorrow, and in honour of this occasion, I feel everyone should see this knitting pattern.

Awesome.

Yes. You can knit yourself a royal wedding. Who wouldn't want to do that? Aren't they cute? How's that detail? Look - they're even wearing cute little knitted shoes!

How very civilised.

Indeed.

But that can't possibly be your best piece of news in nearly 2 weeks?

It's not. Today I took nephew Remus shopping for a vintage film camera.

What's wrong with good old digital cameras?

Well, that's what I said. But Remus has discovered the old spooly filmy SLR cameras, and he just adores all the inconvenience and expense and pain-in-the-ass schlepp that goes with spooly filmy photography.

Go figure.

I know. Anyway, while we were looking at the dusty old Minoltas and Pentaxes, I saw these sweet old Brownies piled high on a top shelf where no one could get them.

Because no one wants them

Well, you can't even get film for them, so what's the point?

Poor Brownies.

Bless. Look at their faces - they look horrified.

It must have been the humiliation of having their picture taken by a woman pointing a telephone at them.

Friday Feet.

2011-04-15T12:55:00.001+02:00

It's always nice, when you're shopping for stuff for dinner, to meet one of the Slaapstad barefooters in PIck & Pay. Those poor citizens who can afford beer and frozen peas and popcorn and chicken nuggets, but not shoes. Let us spare a thought for these poor souls.

That's a pun. You hate puns.

Not as much as I hate dirty feet.

Epic Mug Fail.

2011-04-08T13:17:00.000+02:00

I love this. I want this. This is going to be so collectable.

It's a commemorative mug for Kate and William's wedding. Except it's not William on the mug. It's Harry.

Apparently the Chinese manufacturer is offering refunds. Who'd want a refund though? This is a fakkin gem.

I particularly like the way Harry is looking at Kate. Someone please get me one of these mugs.

Mr Bojangles.

2011-04-06T19:51:00.001+02:00

Why Does This Make Me Want To Punch Someone?

2011-04-06T08:15:00.001+02:00

Welcome to Cape Town, where people who live in real brick houses with doors and windows - people who have actual cars and cellphones and laptops and sunglasses - these people are the same people who think it's okay to walk around barefoot in public. Like monkeys.

When I see these people I get this feeling in my mouth. It's like I'm chomping down hard on aluminium foil.

Listen up, monkeydudes: There's a basic dress code for urban humans who share floor space: Here it is:

You need to wear just four things:

Something on your top part.

Something on your bottom part.

And a shoe on each of your feet.

How hard can that be?

Yeah but, like, who says we have to, hey? You're like so middle class, hey. I'm like, exercising, like, freedom of choice, hey.

Shut up and get dressed.

But I'm like, wanting to express myself hey,

Go play a drum on the beach. Tie dye your underpants.

What are underp-

Never mind.

Yeah, but you check, like, I smoked all my shoes on the weekend hey.

Then get an old car tyre and rope and make some more.

Non-Wussy Traveling Partner Needed.

2011-04-05T17:51:00.002+02:00

One is working far too hard and a holiday is needed.

K.Co says: Let's go somewhere for a few days.

OK, I say. We could go to Plett for a few days.

But that's far away, says K.Co.

It's only 5 hours, boy.

That's really far in a car.

Oh for heaven's SAKE! We drive 3 hours. We stop and have lunch. We drive 2 more hours. We're there.

It is far, he says. I don't know if my delicate body could take the strain.

Yes, if you're only going for a day or two, it's far. It's NOT far if you're going for FOUR days.

It is, he says.

Oh grow some gonads, dude. And maybe a spine too. When we were tots, our dad threw us into the back of a Ford Fairline and we drove up to the fakkin Angolan border. For the weekend. From PE.

That's child abuse.

OK I'm lying. Not for the weekend. But we went there. And you're whimpering about 5 hours to Plett. What about those 12 hour flights to London you do, quite happily every year, no smoking and no stepping outside to stretch your legs and pee into a bush? You're okay with that special form of torture.

That's different.

You're damn right it's different. It's different cause it costs ten grand and the seat is half as wide as my car seats and the food they give you is crap and when the trip is complete they treat you like a criminal at Heathrow immigration. And it's TWELVE hours.

It's still different, he says.

Jesus and Moses. I love K.Co, but he's allergic to an afternoon drive.

Man/woman with nerves of steel required for arduous and exhausting 5 hour trip to Plett. Must have marathon runner stamina and the ability to endure scenery and a lunch stop in Swellendam. Only the brave need apply.

It Wasn't Scary At All.

2011-03-23T15:19:00.002+02:00

I went on the big shiny Wheel Of Excellence the other night, just for fun. But it wasn't really that exciting. This was a pity, because I was so hoping it would be a thrill, but the ride was silky smooth. It was quiet and airtight. Tinkly elevator music was playing.

Not like long ago, at Playland in PE, when we were kids, and we rode on the Big Wheel. That was a thing. When the Big Wheel hoisted you up into the sky in a jerky, swinging tin box with sticky seats, you could smell the oil and the candy floss, and the pee and the puke. And the Gunston cigarettes of the operator guy, who had one eye and black teeth and a missing thumb.

A ride on the Big Wheel cost 50 cents, which was also what a cheesburger cost. When it yanked you up in the hot, clanking box, you could hear the smelly wheels and old chains scraping and grinding, and you could see brown stains down there on the ground - bood stains! - someone said - from the children who'd died when their rusty seats shook loose and fell to the ground. It's true. Someone who knew someone whose cousin said their friend saw it said they saw brains splattered everywhere.

That was what ferris wheels were like, back in the day.

Not any more. It's business class now. No feet on the seats, please. And no ice creams or candy floss inside the cabin. (A flippen cabin.)

This is the Wheel of Excellence. There's one just like it in Switzerland, you know.

That will be eighty bucks, thank you.

Deep South.

2011-03-22T17:02:00.003+02:00

This weekend I went to the pointy bottom end of Africa. I went to the real pointy end, not Cape Point. Cape Point is the cheating pointy end. The real pointy end is Agulhas, where the Indian Ocean meets the Atlantic Ocean.

It's not pretty, the southernmost tip of this continent - not in the traditional way. It's wild and windswept and rocky.

The other way in which it is not pretty is the architecture of the town - the holiday houses at Agulhas are monuments to hideousness. Jesus Mary & Joseph and most of the saints and archangels! - I saw some turds cunningly disguised as double storeys.

Why are these architectural crime scenes always found in the coastal holiday towns that are predominantly Afrikaans speaking?

I like Afrikaners. They are gesellig and plesierig and warm and unpretentious, except for some of the trendy hipster Capetonian ones, and they make nice boerewors and have a lovely sense of humour and the have all the BEST swear words. But, my God, guys, you must please please stay away from architecture. Want julle vakansiehuise is fokken lelik, mense. Asseblief tog. Ek vra julle mooi, met trane in my oe.

What's with you guys and klinker brick and tinted glass and turquoise neo classical columns, and all the rest of the architectural vomit you seem to love so much?

You really should be ashamed.

There's only one nice house at the southernmost tip of Africa and it's this one:

Everything else is butt ugly.

And This?

2011-03-18T13:16:00.000+02:00

More lovely drawings for ads, by wannabes.

What is this, then? Two thin people looking unhappy?

Yes, they're unhappy.

Are they unhappy because he has man boobs?

No, those are not man boobs. He has a very skinny chest.

Ah. Why are they skinny, this man and his unhappy ma'am?

Because they haven't eaten any meat.

Why haven't they eaten any meat?

Because they are unable to make a fire.

I see. And why are they unable to make a fire?

It's a secret. See if you can guess.

The Beautiful Drawings

2011-03-15T13:32:00.001+02:00

It is time to look at the beautiful drawings of the wannabes.

Who are the wannabes?

They are my students. They wannabe in advertising. So we make them draw stuff for pictures for ads.

Here are some recent gems:

What have we here?

We have a cat looking at a mouse.

Is that a mouse?

Hell yeah.

It's lying on a pool lounger under a brolly.

That's what mice do.

The cat looks fat.

Yes, because normally it catches lots of mice, but this one is cunningly taking refuge in a glass bottle.

And sunbathing in it.

Yes.

What else do we have? Oh, look at this:

WTF is going on here?

It's soldiers in a forest.

What are they doing in the forest?

They are on manuevers.

That's American spelling.

Ok then, manoeuvres.

Better.

And the one guy, see - his belly and butt are protruding because he's had nine too many cheesburgers.

So the Hun can see him.

Indeed.

And he will die.

Yes.

This is awful. Is this what you teach the wannabes?

Yes. Lose the junk in your trunk or die.

FML

2011-03-09T16:01:00.000+02:00

Yet again this is my life.

I am the truck.

The one behind is me too. That's my Inner Goddess, trying to keep up.

It's Quite Hot.

2011-03-01T13:47:00.004+02:00

38C might look nice but only if it's lingerie.

It's 38 C in the city bowl today. For heaven's sake.

We hate that!

Some people like excessive heat. They go "Yay!" when it's very hot.

"Yay, now we can sweat a lot and be clammy, and our clothes can stick to us and we can smell funny. And when we get into our cars we can get third degree burns on our hands, from the lovely hot steering wheel. We like the smell of the burning flesh. Oh yay. "

Why would there be any Yayness to that?

You don't hear people going: "Yaay, it's going to be minus 5 tonight - oh frabjous day! We can get really cold and start shivering. Flippen awesome. Then if we stand outside in the garden in just our bras and broeks, we can get even colder, which will be even more flippen awesome, and our neighbours can look at us and think we're weird. Yaaaay."

No one says that.

But people love it when it gets so hot they nearly die.

Dear People Who Ask Me To Fetch Them From The Bloody Airport.

2011-02-25T13:47:00.003+02:00

Why I Won't Be Fetching You From The Airport.

Hooray, you're back from your trip to Paris / New York / Cannes / Papua New Guinea / Burkina Faso.

While you were there, you happily forked out great big swinging bags of folding stuff on restaurants, hotels, and trains and taxis. Taxis: those lovely cars where you pay someone to drive you somewhere. You got the hang of them in New York and London, hey? Aren't they cool? And the subway and underground? Handy or what? Taxis and subways rock like a cradle in a hurricane.

Now you're back in Cape Town, and you need to get from the airport to your home.

But the crew on your SAA flight must have pumped PTAG (Public Transport Amnesia Gas) into the cabin, and you forgot all about the taxi thing. Or maybe you remember about taxis, but your wallet has mysteriously slammed shut and won't open.

So you send me a message.

Can I please fetch you at the airport? At rush hour on a Thursday? And take you home? And then drive back to my office? The whole trip will only take an hour and a half out of my day. Nothing really.

Can I do that?

I don't think so.

To jog your memory, here is a picture of a type of taxi. It's called a shuttle bus and it's just like a taxi, only lovelier, because it only costs R50.00 to get from the airport to the city centre. Then another taxi takes you to your home. For another fifty bucks.

It's the price of a pie and beer at Heathrow.

Jesus. Mary. Joseph.

Confession.

2011-02-24T12:46:00.004+02:00

I have been at the Design Indaba, where clever designer people show off how clever they are. And they are clever.

A shameful memory surfaced while I was listening to these designer guys talking.

Many years ago in the 80s, when no one had any taste, especially not me, and when people wore satin purple shirts and red patent leather lace up shoes - back then, I 'inherited' a friend's flat full of furniture. It was mostly pine crap, except for this Mies Van Der Roehe Barcelona day bed. It was not a cheap knock off. And mine was black leather, not white.

I did not like it. I thought the Mies vd Roehe daybed was crap. I thought it was 'very sixties.' (In the eighties, everything had to be eighties. No other decades were allowed into the room.) But I was merciful and let it hang around, because it was good for visitor sleepovers.

Then I moved to a house with a garden, bought a lounge suite from my uncle in the furniture business, and put the Barcelona day bed outside on the patio, where the Joburg rainstorms chowed into the wood which cracked open and splintered, and the sun and the frost frizzled and crackled the leather, and the mattress curled up like an old takkie.

And then I threw it out.

Whip me.

Reach Out And Bust Someone.

2011-02-20T20:58:00.003+02:00

One thing that really really REALLY pisses me off is when I see a person who isn't handicapped parking in a disabled bay. There's always some yuppie chop in a Porsche and a popped collar Lacoste polo shirt, or some face-lifted rich bitch with a Louis Vuitton handbag who thinks it's okay to do it.

So today, when I saw this shiny new sporty car parked in a disabled bay, no disabled sticker, I called the security guy.

Clamp that bastard! I said to the security guy.

Yes ma'am, said the SG.

And so they did.

While I was taking photos of the lovely event, several people came and said Well Done. One of them was a woman with Multiple Sclerosis who couldn't get a disabled bay because of the offending bastard's car.

If that fancypants car that got clamped this morning was yours, I hope you enjoyed paying the R250 fine. Shithead. Your mental and social disability and your little alligator logo do not entitle you to park in a bay marked with a big yellow wheelchair.

And watch out, the rest of you arrogant, selfish jerks. I'm the one woman wheel-clamping police force.

School Camping Trip.

2011-02-18T14:50:00.000+02:00

A good way to incentivise students at the beginning of the first semester is to take them to a drag show. So that's what I did last night. It was nine yards of fun.

Even the macho straight boys in the class were there.

See, if you're good and you hand in your homework on time, the teacher will take you to a club where the ladies aren't ladies.

Just Lovely.

2011-02-16T16:06:00.000+02:00

I think this is the part of my job I love the most - the part where the wannabes - my students - show me their drawing for ads, their scamps.

What the flippen hell's happening here?

Well, this Greek chap is throwing plates.

How do we know he's Greek?

Come on. Look at that moustache, and there's the word 'Greece' on his shirt.

But he's wearing curly-toe Turkish slippers and an English top hat.

Yeah, well that kinda fucks it up a bit.

Did you teach them to draw like this?

I most certainly did not.

Why would he need Bostic? (sic)

Because he is a clever Greek dude. He wants to stick his plates together so they don't break when they are flung to the floor.

It won't work.

I know.

Oh For Heaven's SAKE.

2011-02-14T20:37:00.000+02:00

I saw this yesterday. I don't know what to say.

When I clapped eyes upon this man and his One Big Wheel, taking part in an organised cycle event, I was so gobsmacked, I stopped the car to take a photograph.

Who does this? And why? And how can this activity be fun?

I'm trying to figure out what type of person decides to take up cycling as a hobby, but then goes: "Hey, I know, I won't ride a normal bike, I'll ride a UNIcycle. That'll be ultra cool."

No it won't, dude. You will just look like an unemployed circus act.

It Is Too Much.

2011-02-10T08:03:00.000+02:00

I have too much work. It feels like this. I am the truck.

Coolness.

2011-02-03T10:05:00.001+02:00

It's a hot summer.

After nights of baking upstairs in the pizza oven cleverly disguised as a bedroom, I called the aircon guys.

Bring me aircon, aircon guys, for I am melting here.

We will do as you say, hot lady. And it will only cost you a certain amount of money which we will not discuss now.

You must do it soon, for I am not getting much sleep.

So this morning they arrived. As we speak, aircon is being installed in my bedroom.

Don't Make Me Come Over There.

2011-02-02T12:36:00.000+02:00

The dog ate your homework? Bring me that dog.

They say you must begin how you mean to continue, or something like that.

So this is me, the teacher of wannabes, this year. This is how I am beginning and continuing.

In your dreams this is you.

Oh you know what I mean.

Pfft.

Well it certainly will be me in the behaviour department.

You'll be scary.

Yes I will.

You will take no prisoners.

None.

Angry women are sexy hey.

Not me.

Okay Everyone.

2011-01-31T13:53:00.000+02:00

My holiday is over. I am back.

Tomorrow the wannabes get back, and I, the headmistress of the school of making ads, must control them using all my whips and my cattle prods and my loud voice and my remarkable sternness.

I will be hard this year. No prisoners. Just like last year.

That's me, the big speckly black thing. And those tiny, defenceless, grey fluffy things are the wannabes. And if they don't listen, and don't pay attention, they will fall in the water.

Magic.

2011-01-25T13:10:00.000+02:00

When you have one more day of holiday you should try to do some more relaxing, just in case you didn't do enough over the last six weeks. So here is where I planted myself for the afternoon, yesterday. It was very agreeable, although I do look quite pink today.

The last week has been Magic Week.

Magic Week is when all the noseminers are back in school, but I'm still on holiday. This means the beaches and watery places are free of screamers, and almost empty. No other week in the year is quite as nice as Magic Week.

OK I'm Back.

2011-01-24T10:23:00.000+02:00

Where the hell have you been?

On holiday.

Still?

Still.

For how much longer?

One more day.

I hate you.

Get to the back of the queue.

What did you do on your holiay?

Oh, various stuff. Mostly beach research. There are some very nice beaches along our coast, you know. I drove around looking at them. Some of them have nice holiday huts on them.

This one looks cool.

Isn't it awesome?

But I thought you hated puns.

I do, except on a beach hut. On a beach hut, a pun is essential.

It's Complicated.

2011-01-17T23:31:00.001+02:00

Criminy. Facebook causes untold kak.

I have just spend a pleasurable three hours listening to a neighbour-lady give an extended and high-decibel bollocking to her significant other.

The bollocking was all about Derek's - that's his name, I heard it screamed several times - about Derek's inappropriate friendship with some Other Chick. See, Derek was supposed to have deleted Other Chick. But Derek didn't. And Other Chick has been writing saucy comments on Derek's wall. And Derek's girlfriend - my neighbour - was mad as a snake, except snakes don't scream You motherf**king bastard f**kpig piece of F**king sh*t - because they are merely snakes, not girlfriends of MotherF**king bastard Effing Pieces of Effing Sh*t.

The screaming was coming from next door, so obviously I heard every cuss-word and every holler of outrage, but I'm fairly sure that people over the hill in Fresnaye heard it too. And probably some folks over in Grassy Park. And one or two people in Kommetjie.

Maybe even Mark Zuckerburg heard it and had a chuckle.

Boys and girls, don't mess with other people's relationships by putting comments on their Facebook pages that will make their other halves shriek at them for three hours. Just don't do it. Leave other girls' boyfriends' walls mostly alone. Maybe one or two Likes. Preferably no Pokes. Okay?

Think of poor Derek. And me.

The Holiday Continues.

2011-01-15T07:59:00.000+02:00

Where the hell have you been?

On holiday.

Still?

Yes.

STILL?

Yes. I buggered off on a solo trip, heading east, doing some beach research. I am still doing it.

Tell more.

No. I'm on holiday. Go away. Come back in a few days.

The Nightmare After Christmas.

2010-12-30T19:32:00.001+02:00

Are you having a nice long holday?

Yes. I am.

What the holy hempsack is happening in that picture?

That is the beach at Kalk Bay, on Boxing Day.

Criminy, that's a lot of people squeezed into one small beach.

Yes, and they love it. We strolled down to the harbour to get a good look at the mania. People bring their braai skottles and blankets and tents and -

- Tents?

Yes, they bring their tents. And they camp on the beach all day, cooking chicken and drinking brandy, and it's very amusing to watch. But - and this must be stressed - it's only amusing because it happens just twice a year: Boxing Day and New Years Day. Otherwise it wouldn't be very funny.

Show us a close up then.

Okay, here is a close up. Enjoy.

Oh. Flippen hell.

Yes.

So did you cook that enormous turkey?

Yes, and a gammon too. C-Belle and I spent a long time doing the Christmas lunch thing and it was fun.

And then what happened?

Well, then things went a bit pear. C-Belle went back to Joburg, and my feet went lame from walking about in silly shoes, and it stopped being fun. Having working feet is one of the basic essentials. But mine felt as if they had been hammered on the heels with very large hammers, and I could not walk at all. I can still only hobble, like an old crone.

Poor you.

Yes. And now the wind is howling. It's shrieking out there like a demented witch, so if I dare to hobble out of doors, there's a good chance I may be blown over. It's howling so badly, the beaches are all deserted. The Gautengers must be so pissed off.

Show us another beach picture then.

OK. Here you go.

Those are Gautengers?

No. Those are our languid locals. Gautengers rent beach loungers, and they lie on the actual beach. Only locals lack the energy to make it to the sand before they pass out.

Gobble Gobble.

2010-12-24T19:24:00.000+02:00

I stuffed him today and I'm cooking him tomorrow. It's been a bloody scoff - fest this week, which will probably continue for several days. Make it stop.

You Better Not Pout.

2010-12-22T19:01:00.000+02:00

Fifty years ago, this is what you got if you were good. They're still around, if you want to go find them, at an old shop in Simonstown.

We love Pinocchios dodgy nose. And Paddington Bear's glasses.

Ve Bake.

2010-12-21T16:55:00.000+02:00

'Tis the season to be baking stuff. And roasting. And braaing. And it all gets quite hectic. Because when you make it, you gotta eat it. Today, for the first time in history, I cooked a tongue. It's traditional. A tongue.

And then there's the washing up.

We are braaing Porra style sardines tonight, followed by other meat.

And it's hotter than a monkey's bum out there. Except the nice thing about Kalk Bay is it's about 4 degrees cooler than the real Cape Town.

Oy. Yoh.

Ooh.

2010-12-18T08:12:00.004+02:00

Okay, here you go, all you silly people who are freaked out by clowns. Say hello to dolly.

Woo. Creepy.

Now that's what you'll get if you re-gift me. I'll give you Chucky the Psycho-Joker. He has a teeny tiny little razor-axe under his hat. (For chopping off the tips of your fingers while you sleep. The little guy gets hungry.)

This evil little freak sits on a dusty shelf next to old Beano and Bunty annuals, rusty wind-up tin toy cars, Barbie doll heads, Fergie & Prince Andrew wedding mugs, and assorted other tat - in a junk shop next to the station.

If Steven King knew this, he'd buy the whole of Kalk Bay.

I Have Left The Building.

2010-12-16T23:14:00.001+02:00

Why have you left the building?

Because I am on holiday.

For how long?

Five weeks.

Surely you shit me.

I shit you not.

Where are you staying?

At the home of Romulus and Remus.

Who are they?

My nephews, who have gone away with their parents.

Where have they gone?

To the Italian Alps, where it is very snowy.

Maybe your relatives can bring some snow back to Cape Town, and then there will be snow in Africa this Christmas, and then maybe they'll stop playing that song?

That would be nice.

Are you alone in Kalk Bay?

No, there are lots of hippies in this village, and C-Belle has come from Joburg to help me house sit.

What does house sitting involve?

It involves feeding a german shepherd once a day and making her take her pills, and locking up at night, and unplugging the Christmas tree lights at night in case they cause a fire which could burn the house down, and figuring out what the little symbols on the washing machine mean, and trying to fit a frozen turkey into the middle shelf of the freezer.

That's a lot of stuff.

I know, but it's cool.

So are you feeling chilled and relaxed and a bit better now? Because for several weeks now you were chewing your arm off with stress?

Yes, I am feeling better now. Thank you.

Can we come back tomorrow and ask you more questions?

If you keep it short.

Vote For Me. Do It. Do It Now.

2010-12-11T23:45:00.003+02:00

If you think this is even a little bit funny, vote for it. Why? Because I did it. I made this poster, and I can win stuff if you vote for me.

Go to the Kulula Facebook Page. Go on. Stop fannying about and go to:

http://www.facebook.com/iflykulula

Then look at the sky poster gallery and vote for this one. If it's there. If they put it there. How can they not?

The boy is Romulus. What a kid.

More Stupidity & Insanity.

2010-12-11T17:19:00.003+02:00

Oh hooray.

More fakkin snowmen wishing us a Happy Chris - oops, shit, sorry, not allowed to say that - I mean, more fakkin snowmen wishing us a "Seasons Greeting."

But the politically correct thing is not what pisses me off today.

What pisses me off is the serving suggestion in that greeting up there. Snowmen, yes, ladies and gents, snowmen, and a nice, thick coating of snow.

We get this every bloody Chris- er, Festive Season. When will the Eurocentric idiocy stop? Do they do this in other parts of the Southern Hemisphere, I wonder ? Do they do this in Australia? In Nizzillind? Brazil? Fiji? Reunion? Tierra del Fuego? Please tell me, citizens of these places: Do you guys get snowmen rammed down your throats in midsummer,?

Bob Geldorf was right, boys and girls:

There won't be snow in Africa this Christmas.

Really, there won't be. It ain't gonna happen, kids. We'll just have to suck it up that this Christmas, yet again, we're just going to get shitty old sunshine and blue skies and a daily 29 degrees Celsius instead. It will be awful, made more awful by the fact that these punishing conditions will endure well into March.

We're all going to be forced to laze about on horrible beaches in the poxy sun. Our skins will turn a weird golden colour, and we'll have to splash about in the sea and drink nasty daiquiris in a pathetic attempt to survive.

I'm not sure how we'll cope, but let's be brave, people. Together, we can be strong. We will survive. I know we can do this.

Ho Ho. Very Funny.

2010-12-09T10:52:00.001+02:00

I saw this piece of stupidity and insanity the other day, at a famous name department store that doesn't believe in religion but does believe in trying to sell us pointless gadgets in the weeks preceding 25th December.

How about getting this little bastard from Santa? Let's hear it for the digital, talking bloody skipping rope. With calorie counter, just to make things ultra exciting.

There you are, skipping along in your bedroom :

(Skip, skippety-skip, skip, skippity-skip)

- when this freaky Steven Hawking voice comes, as if by magic, out of your left hand. And it says:

You. Are. Skipping. Too. Slowly.

So you talk back to The Voice From Your Hand:

Too slowly. Really?

Yes. Really.

But this is the fastest I have skipped since I was nine.

Then lift. Your game. Oh - and. By. The way. You have. Been skipping. For Three. Minutes.

Oh BabyJesus&Moses together in the same basket floating down the Nile! Is that all ?

Yes. That is. All. And you have. Consumed eighteen. Calories.

Shit. That's like one small piece of naartjie peel.

Yes. Or half. A teaspoon. Of wasabi.

I'm putting this out there now:

Anyone who thinks of giving me a talking bloody calorie counting skipping rope will get it re-gifted down their throat with great force. I'm just saying.

Getting Stuff Done.

2010-12-08T19:40:00.000+02:00

Sometimes, it takes a long time to get your work done. But sometimes, if one keeps it simple and streamlined, things get finished quite quickly.

That's what one did this week: simplified and streamlined things.

As a result, one is now on holiday a whole week earlier than last year, thanks to drawing the rest of the fucking owl without too much fuss.

Six weeks of not having to draw any owls.

Gammon FOMO. It Is Very Real.

2010-12-07T13:03:00.003+02:00

The cured ham was cunningly concealed in her luggage. No one would know she was taking on board such an enormous piece of pork.

There are several shopping phobias or neuroses that rear their little heads at this time of the year.

One of them is called Fear Of Leaving It Too Late To Buy A Gammon. (FOLIT-LAT-BAG)

On around about the 4th December you want to buy a gammon for Christmas. The urge is strong. But you delay buying it, because of the sell-by date problem, which tells you that you should eat this thing by the 23rd December.

Problem.

You don't want to delay buying a gammon too long, because they might all be sold by the 10th December, and then you're screwed. One can't have Christmas without a piece of piggy leg.

FOLIT-LATBAG happened to me just this week - not once, but twice.

The first attack occurred in Checkers, as I strolled past the deli and saw the beautiful, vacuum-sealed gammons.

I must get one! I thought. For soon, they'll all be sold out, and then what?

"Then you will have one less pig's thigh to eat," said my Inner Goddess, who appeared out of nowhere. "And you and your guests may die of hunger."

The next Fear-Of-Missing-Out-On-Gammon attack occurred at Woolworths. Standing at the meat fridge admiring the shiny hunks of pinkness wrapped in plastic, I nearly nearly NEARLY bought a gammon - but resisted.

Then last night, C-Belle called from Joburg.

"I have already bought a gammon!" she exclaimed, in a fairly excited way.

"But C-Belle," I replied, "You are coming to Cape Town for Christmas. That gammon will have to accompany you on an aircraft. This is most unorthodox. What will the authorities have to say?"

"I'm sure it will be fine," said C-Belle."As carry-on luggage."

"But we do have gammon here at the pointy bottom end, you know," I said.

"I know," she said,"But what if I arrived in Cape Town to find none left on the shelves? I am terribly afraid that might happen."

"We have a common malady, you know, C-Belle."

"We do?"

"Yes. Gammon FOMO. "

Oh What's The Point?

2010-12-06T18:50:00.001+02:00

Meh. Bleh. It's windy and everything is miff.

Don't worry, you're just having a miff day and you're in a meh mood.

I know.

But you'll be on holiday soon.

I know.

For several weeks. How cool is that?

Very.

Then you'll feel nice. Surely?

Yes. I suppose so. But right now I'm very tired and the wind is blowing.

See if you can manage a cheerful thought between now and Friday. Just one.

Meh.

Why? Why? Why?

2010-12-03T13:45:00.000+02:00

Please ask the damndest things on Google. Let's help answer some of their questions:

Why do some people:

... think they're better than others?

Because they drive expensive German off road vehicles, poppet. You should know that by now.

... think the Holocaust never happened?

Who knows? Perhaps they were dropped on their heads in the trailer park, and now they're like cats and dogs, and can't actually see photographs or moving images. Or perhaps they can see photographs and movies, but they firmly believe that lots of very thin people all agreed to lie naked in a big heap on top of each other, at the bottom of a large pit and have their photo taken. For a joke. In winter.

... think that toadstools are plants?

Oh, for heaven's sake.

.... think they know everything?

I don't know.

... think that Hammurabi's laws were fair?

Look, Hammurabi, that Babylonian king, said that: " If a man give his child to a nurse and the child dies in her hands, but the nurse - unbeknown to the father and mother - nurses another child, then they shall convict her of having nursed another child without the knowledge of the father and mother, and her breasts shall be cut off."

This sounds quite reasonable. If babysitters don't do their jobs properly, their boobs should be removed at once.

That's enough.

I do not have the energy to answer any more of these silly questions.

It's Car-Free Friday On Friday.

2010-12-01T19:40:00.000+02:00

I'm trying to figure out how to go a whole day without using my car on Friday.

Why?

Because it's this Car-Free Day thing on Friday, and we're supposed to not use a car for a whole day.

Get a cab to work.

OK. Hang on, no. That's still using a car.

True. How about walk?

Sorry what?

Walk. How about you walk to work?

But it's so far. It's like, -

Oh cry me an Amazon river! It's 3km, you wet blouse. As the crow flies.

I am not a crow.

The jury is still out on that one. Anyway, you happily walk 3km around a shopping mall looking for a frock.

So I must walk to work AND back home again?

Yes.

Up the slopey hill even?

Yes.

Could I maybe at least get a cab up the slopey last bit that leads to my hut on the hill ?

No. You'd be very embarrassed to call a cab and then he drives you 100 poxy metres up the slopey part and then you say : Okay, stop here, and pay him nine cents.

Yes. That would be embarrassing. I could sleep in my office that night and get a cab home the next day.

Wouldn't that be 12 hours of unbridled fun?

Can someone please clarify whether car free Friday means we can call a cab? Or a friend with horse?

Why It's Not So Crap Anymore.

2010-11-29T15:45:00.003+02:00

1. My toilet flushes again. The plumber guy came and fixed it again.

2. Some 35-odd wannabes in my care graduated on Saturday, and it was a good party.

4. On Friday, the other wannabes left the building to go on holiday. The building in which I sit is now silent and almost empty. This is nice because I have lots of marking and stuff to do.

5. I will be on holiday in about ten days. This rocks like a honeymoon camper van.

6. The wind has more or less stopped blowing.

Finally

7. I have compiled my Christmas wish list. I want knitted dissection frogs this year.

Please people, I have enough stuff. So this year, it's either a knitted dissection frog (SEE ABOVE) or a yacht in the south of France. You decide. Knit me a fakkin eviscerated frog or buy me a boat on the Cote d'Azur. No middle ground, and no fannying about, thank you. I do not need another poxy vanity bag or another set of salad tongs.

And no re-gifting, guys. I can tell when you re-gift. You think I can't tell? I can tell like you can't believe. When you re-gift to me, you have the word re-flipping-gift written in gecko blood on your forehead. You think I want the crap you didn't like? You think I can't tell that your sister-in-law gave you that Clicks bubblegum-flavoured exfoliating scrub, and now you're passing the parcel on to me?

You re-gift me, I re-gift you right back, you bastards.

Knitted dead frogs with their innards hanging out, OR yachts in Cap d'Antibe OR nothing.

Thank you.

Why It's Just As Crap Today.

2010-11-24T19:15:00.001+02:00

You know you're tired and overloaded when you come home and make dinner which consists of defrosted tofu burgers and raw carrots because you're too tired to cook and that's all there is because you haven't had time to buy anything.

And your toilet still doesn't flush. So don't have a big dinner.

Why It's Crap Today.

2010-11-23T16:11:00.000+02:00

Because my toilet's broken again.

Oh that's awful for you.

It's not flushing, and this sucks like a larger than average Hoover.

Poor you.

The plumber guy fixed it last week, and now it's broken again. So I paid R1200 for nothing. Thanks, Bob the Plumber.

How bad is it?

Well, having a non-flushing toilet means you have to flush it with jugs of water. There's no pressure, see. So nothing, er, solid, can go down the loo. That would require a powerful flushing action, which my loo does not have.

I'm getting what you're saying. You're saying there's a strict pee-only policy in your bathroom.

Yes.

Good heavens. Not convenient.

No.

So this means you have to plan things.

Yes.

So where do you, - um ... ?

At work.

I see.

Or on my way to work, at the Engen toilet.

Awesome.

Or at a friend's house, except I am too busy to visit friends.

What about neighbours?

They're never in when you need them. At that crucial moment, they're not there.

How long has this been going on?

2 days. I'm hoping the problem will correct itself.

Better call the plumber.

He Watches Over Me.

2010-11-22T19:35:00.002+02:00

He sits on the bedside table and glows in the dark. He is the little glowy guy who tells me not to be afraid of the bogey man, and to stop being a wuss, and to cheer the fakup, and never mind that I am so tired and stressed I could sleep for nine weeks.

It's nice to have a glowing thing, a thing that just sits there and glows in the dark.

Everyone needs one.

Want a nice glowy guy? Get him at the new(er) Cape Quarter, the one with the Spar. Go to Brompton Cross, up the stairs above the restaurants, across from the Victorian Bathroom Shop. Tell Nix or Phil that I sent you. Buy Christmas pressies there for all your friends and kids.

Apparently There Is A Guy In The Sky.

2010-11-18T19:17:00.000+02:00

Because when I heard that a bunch of evil property developers were planning to throw up a 5 storey building in front of my hut, obscuring my nice view of the world outside my window, I wailed. I cast my eyes to the hills, and there was a great gnashing of teeth and there was groaning and there was hissing.

I said: Please, Guy In The Sky, make the evil property developers go bust before this awful thing happens. Make it go away. In exchange, I promise to do good things like floss and not stay up late carousing.

And it came to pass. Forsooth, the evil property developers, it seems, have run into financial problems.

This is very sad. For them.

Not for me.

Halleluja.

In Which I Have Too Much On My Plate And Then My Toilet Breaks.

2010-11-11T10:14:00.001+02:00

I noticed this guy on the inside of the door of the ladies loo at the Engen in Orange Street at 8.10 am this morning.

What were you doing in the ladies loo at the Engen in Orange Street at 8.10 am this morning ?

I was knitting hot water bottle covers. What do you think I was doing ?

No - I mean, why were you using the Engen loo, and not your very own one at home ?

Because I woke up this morning and my loo - my only loo - wasn't flushing. She is broken.

Oh. Not cool at all.

No. I quickly realised that I needed a plumber. But more than a plumber, I needed to ..., um, -

Use a loo that could flush?

Yes!

Poor you, having to race down to the local filling station to -

Yes. And while using the friendly local garage loo, I saw this face on the door, and it kind of summed up my life in the last few weeks.

Wow. He looks stressed, and quite gatvol.

Very.

Like maybe he's got too much on his plate.

Yes.

But he's eaten it anyway.

Yes. He's eaten everything on his full plate, just to be polite.

And now he's feeling sick and needs the loo.

Precisely.

Bust.

2010-11-09T22:26:00.000+02:00

Imagine this. You're a nice, clean, law-abiding Swede, and you're taking your dog for a walk in Stockholm. Doggie needs his walkie.

You stop for a moment, and this weird van drives past. It's got a sort of rig thing on the roof, with a bloody camera mounted on it. You look at the camera, and it looks at you.

The van-roof-camera makes a clicking noise as it drives past.

Next thing you know, there's a picture of you on Google Street View. You and your dog. And your dog is pooing on the pavement. While you stand there.

They have the death penalty for that in Sweden.

Wanted. Lost. Found. Looking For. Help. Selling. Buying.

2010-11-08T16:37:00.003+02:00

I like reading the community notice board at Spar. They make me think.

Who are these people that are looking for gardening jobs and lifts to Windhoek and flats in Woodstock?

Has Loveness found a job yet? And where on earth is Loveness from? It sounds like a name from the north. Please give him a job if you can.

And this? This was also on the wall at the Spar.

Who is this mom ? Looks like she's lost her baby girl's zebra slipper. I don't know why, but I get the feeling it's a girl's slipper - perhaps because this makes it an African Cinderella story waiting to happen.

Looks like mom's an artist. Nice shoe drawing.

Will the tot get her zebra slipper back? I do hope so.

More Raccoon Dung, Vicar?

2010-11-04T12:35:00.003+02:00

Coffee and ads have a lot in common.

For a start, coffee keeps you up late at night, and so can making an ad, especially if you are the one making it, and you haven’t cracked a stonker idea yet, and the presentation to the client is tomorrow. That situation is guaranteed to stop you falling asleep.

Another commonality: You get shit ads, and you get shit coffee. They both make you go: ”Criminy, that is awful. Who made this detritus, and where is the nearest plastic bucket so that I may obey an overwhelming urge to reverse my lunch?”

There are dissimilarities too, between coffee and ads.

For instance: Some very good coffee comes from Italy. But sadly, some astonishingly bad ads come from Italy. (Why? Why do the style and design kings of the universe make crap ads? If you can give the world Ferrari and Ferragamo and Lavazza, surely a decent yoghurt commercial is a walk in the park? You'd think.

So what is this Civet Coffee all about, and why is it so cool?

Civet Coffee is made from coffee beans that have been eaten by civets, which look like raccoons to me. The beans pass through the digestive tract of the animal, and then they're, um, they’re pooed out by the civet.

The excreta is collected by poo specialists – this happens mainly in Sumatra, Javi and Bali. They remove the beans from the droppings, wash off the smelly bits, and send the rinsed beans to trendy delis in first world countries. Here, it is bought by people who live in lofts and ride Vespas, who hurry home to crush and grind and brew and drink the poo-coffee and serve it to guests. When their friends ask, Where did you get this epic coffee, dude? - they say Dean & Deluca, or Harvey Nicks.

And how much did it cost, bro?

Oh, about ninety nine quid a bag.

They're lapping it up.

Wikipedia says:

“These beans yield an aromatic coffee with much less bitterness, widely noted as the most expensive coffee in the world.”

Apparently people in Australia are paying up to $50 a cup for this stuff. Which demonstrates another similarity between coffee and marketing. If you're selling crap, make it really expensive, and more people will swallow it.

Nice. But.

2010-11-04T08:07:00.000+02:00

Very nice.

But imagine if you've been on a sneaky weekend away with someone you shouldn't be with and you walk through into arrivals, and you get this.

And Here Is The Weather.

2010-11-01T21:09:00.000+02:00

It's November, and you know what that means. It means wind. Here is a typical Cape Town tree. We have sideways trees in Cape Town. Even the trees in Port Elizabeth don't look like this.

When there's a cloud over the mountain that looks like this ...

...it means don't wear a dress, because dresses blow up in this wind.

What, they explode?

No. They do not explode. They blow up, as in blow above your head, showing everyone your broeks.

Imagine if they actually exploded.

That would be messy.

It's All Going To Go.

2010-10-27T17:08:00.000+02:00

My nice view is about to go. This is deeply crap.

Two houses in front of my hut were sold to evil horrible developers, who are about to build a block of apartments, which will obliterate forever my view of this.

Now all I will be able to see will be hipsters making espressos in their kitchens.

But before that happens, we will have to endure several months of building chaos, as they demolish the houses, then start the erection of the hipster palace.

Vomit.

Behold The Awesomeness.

2010-10-24T21:57:00.003+02:00

Behold the utter awesomeness of the Red Lamp Of Remus.

Inspired by that rocket in Wallace and Gromit, Remus - my nephew, brother of Romulus and son of my sister - made this astonishing lamp. It blew my skirt up when I saw it on the weekend. The boy is good at quirky design.

And check this out.

His mom did a quick makeover of the Room Filled With Crap, and now it looks like this:

Check it out in Elle Decoration - the November issue, coming soon to all magazine stands.

Even Woolworths?

Ja, unless they decide to ban decor publications on account of decor and design being a religion for some people.

And I made this a while back.

Okay, it's just a regular old vase. But the grooviest thing about this vase is that it started out as as a bust.

A bust?

Yes. A bust.

Two boobs?

No, not boobs. I mean a bust, as in a head and shoulders.

So how did it become a vase?

Well, you see, the face started caving in as I was making it. So I cunningly lopped off the top of the head and turned it into a vase. Those handles used to be ears.

Criminy. That would have been a sorry-ass retard of a bust had you elected to complete the project.

Thanks.

Shoes With Feta. Shoes With Balls.

2010-10-21T14:38:00.002+02:00

I really need new shoes, but unlike the other three point three billion women on earth, I don't like shopping for them.

Let's have a look at what's so hot right now.

1. Feta Shoes

How about these gladiator-inspired boot-sandal things? Aren't they lovely? It's the big new look.

How about those spiky heels?

How about those studs?

How about that wedge of fossilised Danish feta under the front sole?

(It's not feta, it's that firelighter stuff, to enable quick and easy burning of shoe.)

So how about some firelighter sandals this summer?

How about no?

2. Ball Bearing Shoes

How about these Shoes With Balls? You know you want them.

Look at those six inch stilettos. And look at those shiny ironies.

How about if I tried to walk more than half block in these?

How about if the designers who designed them had to wear them?

Life is too short for sore feet.

If you are loving these items enough to want them, and you like pain, go to www.harveynichols.co.uk. They have lots.

I Want To Live In A Stock Image World.

2010-10-19T16:43:00.001+02:00

Everything's perfect in Stock Image Land.

Everyone's neat and happy, and even when they're not happy, they look sort of okay with it.

We're old, yet ridiculously happy, even though you're gay. Let's swing on the chandelier.

Sorry Bob, it's goodbye. The slopey lines indicate a shitstorm of misery for this company.

Feel the superglue in my hand, Chuck.

The monsterman with the chainsaw had only one mission: To sever the heads of accountants in bad white ties, and maybe their colleagues too.

Are we still very wealthy, darling?

Of course we are.

Yay.

Oh Brad, these Nantucket chairs look so cool in stock photos.

Yes. Pity they're so fakkin uncomfortable.

Hey, tall guy, are we really going to rob a 7 - 11?

No, short middle guy, we are not.

Why not?

Because you are a retard.

I would like to make a movie set in Stock Image Land.

Imagine.

We Went To A Wedding.

2010-10-18T16:15:00.002+02:00

We went to a wedding in Franschhoek, K. Co and I. He was the MC at the wedding, so we sat at the Big Table, which felt weird.

This was a different kind of wedding. It was the wedding of people who were already married and had been married for about 6 years. They just decided to have a re-marriage, to celebrate the fact that they still didn't hate each other.

It was cool.

I think no one should be allowed to have a wedding celebration until they have actually been married for about 19 years. Or six. You have to earn that party, boys and girls.

Outside the venue were these giant potplants, all lit up. Nice.

People of Walmart, Move Over.

2010-10-15T17:42:00.000+02:00

Walmart people get all the attention. The people of Woolworths are just as interesting, and they deserve a mention. I saw a person of Woolworths this afternoon. Here he is.

They are posher, the Woolworths people. They are pinstriped. Not just their pants, but their shirts too.

Their hair isn't very pinstriped, though.

Stuff Needs To Look Priddy.

2010-10-12T16:50:00.001+02:00

Food is all about presentation, don't you think?

I made chicken soup last night. It looked really nice. I put some of it in a plastic tub thing. It still looked quite nice. I put it in the fridge overnight, and brought it to work this morning.

Then I turned the plastic tub of chicken soup upside down into a bowl. And this was lunch.

I felt like someone's pet.

Post Apocalyptic Chic.

2010-10-07T16:40:00.003+02:00

I was watching The Book Of Eli last night, and what I want to say is this:

Hooray for post-apocalyptic movies.

Hooray for the pile-ups of abandoned, rusting cars on highways. Oh ja, and the skeletons inside them wearing just a few threads.

Hats off to the drifting dust and the abandoned rural farmhouses. And three cheers for the blasted and charred ruins of shopping malls, and the dusty old McDonalds signs swinging in the wind.

Yay and hooray for post-apocalypse fashion. We're loving the dusty greys and the buggered up leather and the combat look. And the layers. The after-bomb layered look is big.

And the rusty reinforced armoured trucks the baddies drive. Those are cool.

There's the wonderful dirtiness of everyone. In Postapocalyptia, we're all covered in grime, and our teeth are grey and stumpy. When the bad guys laugh, you see their dark brown or grey teeth.

Please note: the hero and the female lead do not have grey teeth or dirty faces.

Our female lead is always very clean and sexy. She has all her teeth and they're nice and white. She wears tight, skinny jeans and cool boots and Aviators, and her hair is long and shiny - it isn't a bit greasy, even though there's been no soap or shampoo for nine years since The Blast. The hero guy is the same, just a little messy, but in a cool and hip and sexy way. (See Denzel in The Book Of Eli. He's so cool you could keep your steak and chops in him for a week.)

I always wonder about the practical stuff when I see these PA movies.

In Postapocalyptia, after the big blast, there's no electricity and hardly any drinkable water, so things must be quite smelly, since you can't wash your clothes or shower that easily. And if there's no water in the pipes, where does everyone pee and poo? They don't show you that in PA movies. They should.

But I do love the fashion.

One Question:

2010-10-05T17:25:00.007+02:00

One question: When did a post box become a Posting Box? Just asking. Just wondering how long they stayed up at the Department of Sending Things Slowly & Sometimes Stealing Them, deciding on this one.

Those special people who brought you Learners instead of Students and Educators instead of Teachers, must have gone to the trouble of arranging a special 4-day name change conference.

Comrades, thank you for giving up your time to spend 4 days at the One & Only Hotel in Cape Town. This conference, paid for by tax payers, bwa-ha-haa, has been arranged to brainstorm a new name for Post Boxes.

But Comrade Chairperson, what was wrong with post box?

It was offensive terminology from the old regime, loaded with oppressive undertones and stuff.

And colonialism and patriarchy?

Yes, that stuff too.

Oh.

Then what shall we change the name to, Comrades?

How about Cylindrical Mail Receptacles?

Yes, that's nice.

Yes, I like Cylindrical Mail Receptacles.

Or Mail Depot Collection Things.

(SFX: MURMURS OF APPROVAL)

Yes, "Mail Depot Collection Things. With Narrow Slots for Letters" !

Perfect. "Mail Depot Collection Things With Narrow Slots For Letters" then.

Hang on, coms. How about Posting Box?

Ja. Maybe. But is it silly sounding enough?

Maybe not.

Well, not as silly sounding as Mail Depot Collection Things with Narrow Slots For Letters, but never mind.

Yes, never mind.

We like it a lot, it's Ayoba.

Any other suggestions, Comrades?

Yes, let's put a Warning on it, saying: "Warning."

What's the Warning about?

We could all think about that. Maybe: "This is our posting box, so don't steal it. We can steal from you but you can't steal from us, because we're the government, so bugger off."

Yes! Let's. But we'll have a meeting about that next week.

We could have it in Paris.

We could.

How many comrades does it take to change a post box? Answers on a posting card.

How To Fall Asleep.

2010-10-04T20:38:00.001+02:00

If you are me, then you will be too tired to do anything when you get home. You will just want to flop into bed, which is a very nice thing to flop into. So what I do is I flop into - or sometimes just onto - bed, and go to www.bbc.co.uk and then go to Radio 4 and listen to stories and plays and things.

The one tonight is called "Mandrake."

Mandrake: "Social worker Ruth is drawn into Irene's magical tale centred around a disputed tree."

When you listen to this stuff, it's like you are four years old, and someone is reading you a story while you fall asleep. It doesn't matter what you're listening to, actually. It's just nice to listen to someone reading you a story while you get sleepier and sleepier. And then you fall asleep realising that you forgot to pull the contact lenses out of your eyes. And take off your socks. And hang up the washing. And switch off the bathroom light.

You Meet Nice People At My Local

2010-09-30T12:47:00.002+02:00

I pop in at my local corner cafe at about 6pm last night, the one on Kloof Nek with the big Coke bottle clamped to the wall outside, when I see this dude.

It was weird. He was weird.

The guy is standing at the entrance to the little shop, half blocking the doorway. He's short, rotund and pink-faced, and he's dressed expensively: Shiny black shoes, gold cuff links, black trousers with a knife pleat, silk tie. The man looks like a yuppie stock broker, or a corporate lawyer, or maybe an ANC Youth League president. He's definitely the well-fed boss of something profitable.

But he's doing something that fancy-pants stockbroker guys don't normally do. He is eating tinned sardines. Right there, on the steps of the corner cafe. He's eating the oily sardines out of an open tin, with his fingers. He's scooping those sardines out of the tin, and shoveling them into his mouth. And he's making great, big, shlurpy, sucking noises while he shovels those little fish into his pie hole.

I am gobsmacked, and look around for Leon Schuster cameras and crew. There's no one - just the portly capitalist, sucking the remaining fish oil out of the tin.

He finishes his sea-snack and tosses the tin into the bin next to the braai charcoal.

Then he walks over to the shiny Merc convertible next to the cafe, and points his key at it.

Blipblip.

He gets in, starts up and drives off.

The cafe smells of sardines and weirdness.

Just For A Change.

2010-09-28T14:55:00.000+02:00

One does not like too much routine, because it makes things very boring. Nor does one want earthquakes, plagues, violent insurrection and military coups, because this makes things deeply crap. One wants a bit of a balance between the boring and the overly exciting.

Often, when things get a bit too ho-hum, what I do is, just for fun, I do grocery shopping in a different part of town, like over the hill in Camps Bay. It makes everything feel a little less routine. Sometimes if I'm feeling daring, I go to Sea Point. If things get so boring that my heart rate drops, I will drive as far as Hout Bay to do grocery shopping. Once I went to Swakopmund for milk and bread. It actually works. The further afield you go for your shopping, the less mundane it feels.

How can you admit this?

Because I don't care if people know. If you haven't been to the Checkers in Goodwood on a Saturday morning, you've missed some amazing sights, sounds and smells, plus a few awesome photo ops.

You discover things if you shop around. In Camps Bay, for instance, I discovered these attractive Dracula Teeth.

Vampires are very sexy at the moment. The Pick & Pay guys know that. And the people in Camps Bay are getting their vamp on.

The Power Of Negative Thinking.

2010-09-21T17:56:00.000+02:00

She's right, you know.

My friend Minky, who used to be my art director in a previous century, is now a very amazing illustrator. Here stuff is also here.

She's illustrated the Depressed Alphabet, which is a series of downers, from A - Z.

A is for Apathy, C is for Catastrophe, O is for Old and Oh Shit, and Y is for Youth League of the ANC. Sort of thing.

You can also buy her T shirts, which have nice, depressing sentiments on them. I find that if one is overly happy or cheerful, this sort of thing always helps to bring one back to earth.

Well, you don't need any of that sort of bringing-back-down-to-earth, do you?

H is for Have A Nice Cup Of Hold The Sarcasm.

Spring Cleaning.

2010-09-20T20:09:00.001+02:00

It is spring and so I must spring clean. It's the law. Especially in my office, which has needed a clear-out since late last century.

I found many things in it from last century. I found stiffies and floppies. And shoulder pads. I found big hair, and I found the A Team. And I found some magazines from long ago.

This magazine is only 6 years old, which is very new compared to most of the things in the back of the dusty cupboards. I like that line next to the ear of Tiger Woods. Looks like he's pretending he can't hear it.

Pick A Holiday Place.

2010-09-16T21:17:00.000+02:00

Here's a fun game you can play if you like spinning the globe, and like traveling but don't like planes.

It's called Google Earth Lucky Dip, or - if you are me - Unlucky Dip. You do a blindfold zoom in on a random spot, and you have to go there on holiday. No cheating.

The first place I have to go to is:

Kyzylorda. It's in Kazakhstan. Those brown squares are rice paddies. Yay. Rush me to the airport this instant.

And this is Bamako in Mali. The average high temperature in this lovely city in March and April is 39 C.

This is Christmas Island, just south of Jakarta. Not much happens on Christmas Island, I'm guessing, but at least there must be a nice beach here.

After C Island, I'm supposed to go to Manaus, a big city on the Amazon River in Brazil. I suppose this could be interesting.

This doesn't even have a name. It's in China. All it has is clouds. I'm not going there.

You have to.

I'm not.

Put Some Clothes On Please.

2010-09-15T19:38:00.000+02:00

Dear Elderly Lady in the Gym Change Room

Could you maybe not stand there in front of me, totally kaalgat, for a long time? Can't you just wear a towel while you are slowly drying your hair, slowly putting stuff on your face, and slowly examining your toes? Why do you have to stand there completely in the naked nude, doing all this stuff? And the bending over thing you do, while you're in that state - that is also not lovely. Please keep your bum away from my face. It's an appetite suppressant more powerful than anything one can buy at a pharmacy.

Apparently male senior citizens do this, too.

But it's not just oldies, it's a whole bunch of people of all ages, so let's not discriminate.

The change rooms at the gym should be split not just according to gender, but according to degrees of Liking To Stand Around Naked For A Long Time In Close Proximity To Other Normal People. There should be a separate change room for the loitering show-off naturists.

Actually, they can throw the loitering naked girls and boys in together, what the hell, because these people really don't mind who they jiggle in front of.

So there will be three change rooms in the near future, when I am in charge.

1. Ladies

2. Gentlemen

3. Loitering Jigglers.

Pick a team.

Lashings Of Horribleness.

2010-09-14T08:52:00.000+02:00

I watched an entire BBC movie on Youtube, in 8 parts. It was called 'ENID'. Guess what it was about?

Her? The Noddy lady?

Yes, her.

Golly! And?

And it turns out, she wasn't such a smashing lady.

How smashing wasn't she?

She was so unsmashing that she was mean to her own kids. When they were babies, and they cried, she just left them there, three days old, crying, and then she picked up the dog and patted it.

Maybe she confused the dog with a child.

Maybe.

Goodness gracious. What kind of female gives birth to puppies?

Hmm, let me think. I simply cannot imagine.

How perfectly dreadful, And what else did the bitch do?

Gosh, she invited children to her house for parties , and -

- Like Michael Jackson?

Yes. Sort of. No, not like that. She invited children to her house for parties, with jelly and custard, and lashings of ginger beer, and -

Well, that was jolly decent of her.

Yes, but her own children had to stay upstairs. Because mummy was working.

Oh.

They had to stay upstairs and cry and not get picked up, and no lashings of ginger beer or crumpets.

I say, that's awfully horrid.

Yes. I'm frightfully glad I didn't really like her stories.

It's Make A Random Album Cover Day.

2010-09-11T15:27:00.003+02:00

If you really have absolutely nothing better to do, and it's a Saturday afternoon, and you feel like throwing away 20 minutes of your beautiful life, why not do the old random album cover thing?

First you click on Random Article in www.wikipedia. org.

That's your band name, mkay?

Then click on Random Quotes at www.quotationspage.com and use the last few words of the last quote.

That's your album name.

Now you need a picture.

So go to http://www.flickr.com/explore/interesting/7days and get the third pic on the page. No cheating. That's your album cover pic. Even if it's a photograph of a donkey's bottom, or a plate of raw liver, or a group photograph of the ANC Youth League National Executive, or the innards of a dead lizard, you have to use that.

Then use your photoshop or whatever to put it all together. And then your result may be the kind of shite that I produced.

Ladies and guys, please give a big welcome to ...

Brittle-Ductile Transition Zone.

One Good Thing From The Eighties.

2010-09-10T18:15:00.002+02:00

We were looking for 80s imagery today, me and some wannabes. They need iconic 80s stuff for an ad they're doing.

These teenagers are all sentimental about the 80s. For them, it's longer than their whole lifetime ago. They think the Great Trek happened in 1984.

For me, it feels like the 80s were a few months ago. My hair is still recovering from the fakkin 80s. My music collection is still reeling from the 80s. I still have a Sony flippen Walkman packed away somewhere. And Maxell cassette tapes and leg warmers.

And I still can't get the theme tune of Wielie Walie out of my head. And Liewe fokken Heksie and Falcon goddamn Crest. And I can still hum the horrible staccato theme tune of the SABC news and if I close my eyes I can still see Rian Cruywagen. If you live in Russia or Papua New Guinea and are reading this, kindly Google Liewe Heksie and Rian Cruywagen this instant.

Oh, how immensely crap were so many things in the 80s.

Guys wore make up then. Yes, actual make up. On their faces. And big, gaudy flowery shirts. And they all had huge, curly mullety hairstyles, and soft pointy ballet pump-type shoes that laced up at the side. In the 80s, guys wanted to be ladies. Even the jocks dressed like us.

All that, plus a Nazi government who wouldn't let you sit on the same bus as a person with very curly dark hair, go to a movie on a Sunday, or see any movie that had naked people's bums or other bits in it, or read a book called Black Beauty, or wear sandals on a Thursday, or whistle in the company of a small child.

It was very bloody confusing, and I'm glad we don't live there anymore.

But Pacman was lovely.

And this is a Pacman cake.