This being the World Cup everybody is using any excuse to take time off. The school kids are on an extended holiday and my niece and two nephews went to their respective fathers, mothers or whatever.
With my niece being away her damn cat Schmiegel moves in with me. Apart from being quite ugly, Schmiegel is also very vocal. She is forever complaining about something and insists on sitting on my lap while she is doing it. That would have been OK if she sat still, but no she is forever busy changing her position.
Her main complaint is about my sister Emily's dogs, especially the daschund called Wors. She has a particular and unSouth African distaste for Wors. I have an equal distaste for complaining women and busy cats and to have both on my lap soon becomes intolerable and I put Shmiegel on her cushion in front of the heater where she eventually comes to rest with a last desperate plea for the ring: "So that I can just sort out those damn dogs forever. I promise I'll give it back."
But as soon as I mumble something to myself (which is often) Schmiegel sees this as an invitation to a renewed conversation on my lap and the whole process starts anew. No wonder then that I struggle to blog these days.
Yesterday I dropped my sister off at the highspeed airport train station.Yes the so-called Gautrain is finally operational. She is off to Port Elizabeth to watch the Netherlands play Brazil with her sons and her ex-husband.
I promise to look after the animals. After work I celebrate that the week is over and that I got a "well done" for my subtitles. I'll soon write a blog about the travails of a subtitler.
When I stumble in at 12:30, the dogs are elated to see me. So elated that the crazy dog Daisy runs off into night. So their I am driving up and down in Melville's streets in my sister's car looking for a crazy little dog that looks like a gremlin out of the movie Gremlins.
When I finally spot her she just scoots off in another direction. I am tired and emotional and after cursing her solidly I return home only to find her waiting for me at the gate.
Once inside I check on everybody's food and get ready for bed while Schmiegel complains bitterly that I dared switch off the heater when I left for work. I am just in bed when there is a scratch at my door. I tell the dogs off in no uncertain terms but the scratching continues with increased intensity.
With a heavy sigh I open the door for them. They make a bee-line for my bed and much to Schmiegel's disgust I let them into the bed while she sits and hisses on the cupboard. Peace return after a while and the dogs and I sleep in the bed and Schmiegel in front of the heater which I left on for her.
This morning I display more of my better side and brace myself for a trip to Cresta, a gigantic shopping mall where I often get lost or lose the car that I borrow for such occasions in the parking lot. I am also convinced that I am the only real human that goes to Cresta. All the millions of other 'people' walking around their have the vacant stares of zombies.
The reason for this mission is that I want to buy my mother a walker, sort of a hi-tech Zimmer-frame with wheels and brakes and a seat and whatnot.
I go in get lost virtually immediately but after I asked directions once or twice, I find the place and buy the thing. I am determined to get out as quickly as possible, but I get lost again and I buy myself two pairs of trousers, a blazer and a pair of shoes. Now I'm really desperate to get out but I get lost again and end up in a perfume shop where I buy myself 51.3N from Dunhill.
I ask more directions from various 'people' and after a mere half-an-hour I finally locate the car and scoot out of there determined to keep up with my better side by writing a blog for my three readers, despite not feeling like it. But now I have had enough of being a goody two-shoes. So here you go my three readers I dedicate this blog to you and I'm off to the nearest bar.
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Ah that 51.3N. Being male I thankfully did not have to go through the ordeal of having to base my opinion on actual olfactory input. But from the waitresses and other random women in the vicinity (who all dutifully sniffed Charles' neck) - I conclude that it smells better than Dunhill's standard fare.
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