The Tracksuit People
People who wear tracksuits in this country don’t necessarily exercise. This came as a shock to us. Sportswear falls under the broad umbrella that is leisurewear. Trainers, hoodies, lycra – incongruously accessorised with very yellow gold jewellery. We call these folk the
tracksuit people. Their natural habitat is outside The Golden Arches. Those of the Ronald McDonald ilk. Not to be confused with any royal gilt arches and such.
Employment status: it’s complicated.
Marital status: it’s even more complicated.
Dependants: multiple, often subject to paternity claims.
Hobbies: shopping (for sportwear) and loitering outside McDonalds.
Diet: fast food.
In South Africa, any attire will do for sports or leisure. On New Years Day on Durban New Pier beach, you’ll see more underwear-clad folk frolicking in the shorebreak than on an extended episode of the
Kardashians Conquer Cancun. Ok, so there’s less makeup and fewer Manolos. But the heaving and half-naked still apply. And the heat. Always the heat.
Many Strikes, Gentle Blows
When there’s a national strike in SA, the protest action sadly often leads to violence.
In the UK a few weeks ago, there was a tube strike, the only violence I noted was a cluster of irate passengers elbowing each other in the groin to get on to tube carriages already packed beyond capacity. And they still called each other “mate” as they deftly trained a blow to each other’s testicles. “
Sorry mate” was the parting shot. Not a panga. Or an actual shot. Mercifully.
A Little Rain Will Stop Play
In South Africa, sports days at schools are cancelled when the temperature hits 38 degrees and the humidity is 45. Or if there’s a raging thunderstorm and electrocution is a possibility. Or when there’s a fractious election and there’s a genuine threat of violence. Or when there’s actual violence.
Here, when there’s a little rain and the ground may or may not be slippery, parents are called to the school, a referendum is held, risk assessments conducted and the event is ceremoniously cancelled. On account of health and safety concerns. And then five minutes after we've all left, the sun comes out and dries up all the rain.
Waste Lots, Want Not
Leftover food and unopened produce is donated to charity SA-side. Here it’s binned. Literally chucked into the garbage to be recycled. People who are starving or live on the breadline are deemed more at risk from cannelloni on its sell-by date than having nothing to eat whatsoever. Ethiopia and pretty much every sub-Saharan African country shudders. So do I. Goes against every fibre of my privileged being. As a result, we eat yoghurt until it crawls – and even then, I’ll still catch it and give it a go.
Not to be-Labour a point…but…
When politicians lose elections here, they resign. As do their entire cabinet. ‘Nuff said. Innit.
Sale Now (And Forever) More…
There is a sale on. All the time. Pre-season. Mid-season. End of season. I’ve never paid full price for anything. At any time.
Retail Revelations
In Britain, I often find myself opening my handbag to a bemused member of staff standing at the entrance of a store. So stringent has my conditioning been Saffa-side to open up and reveal everything. On my person. Or in my purse. And then everything I haven’t got, on the way out. The absence of utility boots, red overalls, a walkie talkie and rifle clearly doesn’t resonate with a thicko like me, because I still find myself doing it.
The folk who stand to greet you as you enter a store here are shop floor attendants. As simple as that. It’s their job to look pretty and smile and greet you as you enter. Even if you’re a Saffa. They’re not security guards. They're not assessing your risk threat. There aren’t even security guards at the banks. And there are none of those little stop/go green and red light door cubicles either. Not even if you’re a Saffa. No separate entrance. For us, or our battered, pummelled, worthless Rands. They take it all.
Do Not Park. Do Not Pass Go. Do Go Out of Your Bloody Mind.
I’ve never spent more time looking for parking than I have in the street where I live. Sad, but true story. My children start to call for the “parking fairies” as we turn into our street. Our parking fairies must be with the Kardashians in Cancun, because the fickle little blighters are useless to us. The feckers are never around when we need them. This means I deposit my children in the first load of delivery. And then do multiple trips to my car ferrying the rest of the baggage from my parking spot five kilometres away. This may or may not be the reason I like to spend as much time away from my house as possible. The housework has nothing to do with it. Nothing at all. I swear on everything that is good and holy in the world. I swear on my bleach.
Knock, Knock, Who’s There?
I still jump when I hear my doorbell. The fact that someone can actually reach my front door still blows my mind. And that there can be a man with a parcel intended for a neighbour who’s not home who entrusts me with said parcel, this still amazes me. We’d have our
free local community magazine nicked back in SA. Can you imagine if a flatscreen TV was delivered four doors down? Peeps be like:
“TV? What TV my bru? Yussus, mind the Rottweiler on your way out, hey. Don’t let the razor wire poke you in the naught, ek se. And duck for the sensors, blimmen ADT are going to start charging extra for false alarms.”
Still Alarmingly Useless with Keys
Speaking of alarms. I can go into my kitchen in the middle of the night without having to disarm one. This is on account of the fact that there is no alarm. I can also climb through my front room’s sash window when I’ve locked myself out. I leave it open. For convenience. And to save on Locksmith costs. Besides, there are no burglar bars. I’m
still a numb nut who regularly locks myself out. Fortunately I’ve stopped locking my infant kids inside. Although it may be safer for all if I parented through a wooden door.
The Root of it All - is Hair
It’s commonplace for people to have their hairdressers come to their house to do their roots. This is not just a service for posh poppies. It’s for garden-variety gals just like me. And my fifty shades of
unnatural beige.
The Buggy Brigade
This place is a mecca for prams. On account of people walking so much. I’ve never seen so many prams outside of
Babies R Us. Big ones. Small ones. Double ones. Triple ones. Transporting human being/s, the family pooch, a spot of shopping, that evening’s groceries for dinner and an obligatory skinny decaf soya latte for mum. Or nanny. Or Australian au pair. This is Windsor after all.
Fiery Confessions
There is massive and possibly misguided trust here when it comes to fire and people with my loose relationship to health and safety. I live in a terraced property. This is basically a line of houses that make up the length of a street. If on any one of the six (no jokes) school runs I do daily, I happen to leave my son’s peaches steaming on the stove, or I forget my hair straightener plugged in on the sisal carpet in our bedroom, there’d be an inferno. And not just for us. For everyone. It would spread like a wildfire. This means, I’m regularly (read every second day) doing a u-turn after I’ve just left home to dash back inside to check that I did indeed turn off my hair appliances. And the steamed peaches. There should be a clause in our rental agreement that reads:
“
If you are injury or accident prone and are able render the most innocuous of household appliance a fire hazard, a terraced dwelling is not an ideal fit for you. Or your neighbours. Consider a free-standing dwelling on a big plot on the outskirts of town. Failing this. A shed. In a field. In deepest darkest Peru.”
We're saving like mad. For our own place. Away from anyone in a mile radius. Anyone who could die simply by being our neighbour. Where I can straighten my hair and steam my peaches in peace. We're doing well. Just three quarters of million pounds to go. Move-in date scheduled for 2059.
Petrol and Diesel are not the Same Thing
I’m getting very good at pumping my own fuel. I play a childish game at trying to make the fuel equate to exactly £30 or exactly £50. This means I’m rather distracted when I grab the pump, so I’ve nearly put diesel instead of petrol into my tank
many a few times. I may not have parking fairies, but I definitely have petrol ones. My car is very much the kind that takes petrol. Apparently it’s very clearly an either or. There’s no androgyny on this. Not even a little bit. Not sure what will happen if I do put diesel in a petrol engine. You could well find out.
Summertime – and the living is Easy Easier
The British Summer with its addictive Wimbledon glory, 10pm sunsets and all the picnics, paddling pools, Pimms and Prosecco you can wave at with a frilly-edged white parasol…this is what keeps everyone going. It fortifies the Great British public for the winter ahead. Like fat little squirrels, people stuff all the summer goodness they can into their chubby cheeks while it’s there for the taking. No one says, “
let’s do a picnic tomorrow,” if the sun’s out, the picnic is on. Like donkey kong. I spend a lot of time outdoors. Any chance I get, I shepherd my ferals to a park. To run wild. As mandated by their African roots. We eat most of their meals on the grass in the garden. In the sunshine. A garden we’ll be looking at in a few short months - through the rain, snow and sleet. For now though, the grass is one massive placemat. And Dave, our ridiculously fat domestic pigeon, is noshing his way through every morsel of mealtime mess we make. He’s dangerously obese. My husband said to me the other day, “
it cannot be good for this country or mankind in general if that bird gets any bigger and continues to be able to fly. We’re blady close to Heathrow Sal. Could be carnage.” I nodded. “
Yes, could be a doghow. No wait…a pigeonshow!" I figure Dave has more than enough winter ahead to trim his waistline. Let the bird eat cake. And clotted cream. And crispy pastry cases filled with custard.
Afrikaaners is Plesierig
In an unintentionally twisted ode (of sorts) to South Africa, my husband I have started to speak a lot more Afrikaans at home. The reason for this is twofold. Firstly, our son can
finally now spell, so when we’re trying to argue with each other or I want share an inappropriate age-sensitive story (which is surprisingly often), spelling things out is futile because the oke is on to us quicker than SARS in tax season.
Secondly, it’s great to have a means to communicate that’s only ours – our guttural garbled Dutch-inspired dirty little secret. Sadly though, neither of us is any good at the language. Well the language that a true Afrikaaner would recognise as an actual language. So we butcher it. Proper. But it still feels good to know that our kids have absolutely no idea what we’re saying. The intended recipient often doesn’t either. But it’s fun. And reminds us both of home. Of most Afrikaans lessons at school where we both sat clueless. But we sat, nonetheless. And that's got to count for something surely? The sitting part, yes indeedy. The speaking part.. not so much. But we butcher on regardless, "'
n boer maak 'n plan" I think that's how it goes.
Dit is pretty much die meeste wat ek kan type sonder making 'n complete tit van myself. Although I fear it may be too late for that.
Daardie skip het ge-sail. Innit.
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| The Ferals Feasting Al Fresco. Couldn't fit Dave in the Frame. |
