Monday, August 24, 2009

But I'm not Catholic?

I'm not Catholic. But I may as well be considering the huge amount of guilt I carry with me all the time. About everything. And anything. Name a topic and I can show you how guilty I feel about it and how in some way or another I'm responsible for it. Drought in Africa. Sure, that's partly me. Here's how.

I refused to adhere to water restrictions imposed by the City of Cape Town back in the summer of '07. (It doesn't quite have the ring of '69 to it.) Instead of watering my garden on Tuesdays and Thursdays, I did it on Wednesdays and Saturdays. It just worked better for me. But now I believe that disturbing the equilibrium of the Voelvlei Dam led to large parts of Africa being deprived of water. And I'm to blame. The guilt is terrible.

Another thing I often feel guilty about is earning a good salary. It just doesn't seem right when we are not only going through the worst recession but the majority of South Africans still don't know the luxury of three meals a day. Every day. Not just once in a while. So while the institution who provides me with banking services have been sucking me dry the last 18 months or so, I've always felt too bad taking it up with them. Because they could take one look at their computer screen and tell me to bugger off after seeing what I earn every month. That I should be embarrassed to even walk into the bank and try and negotiate for lower bank charges. I should be grateful they don't increase my bank charges. And so on and so on.

After receiving my latest statement, I temporarily forgot about all of this and ranted and raved for hours. With nobody but the poodle to listen to me. Because I quickly added up what they've deducted from me this month for debit orders (which I did not ask for, it is mandatory), withdrawals and even worse - deposits. The low life, pond scum fother muckers! How can you charge your client for putting money into their account? And does it have to be so much. I understand a bank is a business like any other but then reduce your sponsorships of rugby tournaments, the Scrabble Play Offs, Mrs Milk Tart 2009 or whatever the hell else they sponsor for the sake of CSI (Corporate Social Investment, not my other career choice). Now if this was Switzerland, you could probably ask for your salary to be paid in cash or Toblerone bars for all I care. But it would be safe enough for you to leave your money in a cupboard at home and use it as you see fit.

Unfortunately we so ever slightly have a crime problem in SA. Having even a R100 in your wallet will mean you either get robbed off it by some lowlife on the street or you will have a Jo'burg Metro Cop relieve you of it as a result of a spot fine. The offence can range from not wearing your seat belt to talking on your phone or having a perfectly roadworthy vehicle with a WP sticker on the bumper. We therefore use ATM's all the time and to charge you for every transaction based on the amount of money you withdraw, is bullshit. Why is it more expensive to withdraw R500 than R200? Because the little guy in the ATM counting the money has to count an extra millisecond. What a joke. And then you still have to count your money because suddenly you find more and more ATM's where the incorrect amounts are being dispensed. Not to mention the fact that my credit card got stuck in the ATM the other day and it took them 15 minutes to get it out and back to me. Not before I had to identify the card, myself and practically leaving a urine sample and some blood.

In this happy state of mind I decided to set off to the bank, with all my arguments in place. For a brief moment I considered putting on an adult nappy, remembering what the last outing on a Saturday was like. Standing in a queue to speak to a consultant only to have to give up your place 3 hours later due to a weak bladder. With more than enough bravado I enter the bank and to my pleasant surprise, walk straight into the bank manager's office. Yes, the manager because there was no consultant on duty. And immediately launch into a diatribe about bank charges and what I've been paying . Before I can continue, the manager stops me with a simple 'This is ridiculous, you should be paying R200 less.' With one sentence she shuts me up and I sit there, simply staring at her with my mouth half open.

It turns out that I could have saved R2400 this last year had I gone to the bank and negotiated a better package. In this case, I didn't even negotiate, I simply showed up. In 10 minutes all the relevant documents were completed and I walked out R200 richer every month. I was beyond pleased with myself. And then the guilt set in. How can I be part of a system that lets you pay less the more you earn? Surely that isn't right? I earn more money so I can afford to pay more for services provided by my bank. And maybe it is because of people like me that our economy is in dire straits. The people who can afford to pay bank charges are not paying that much after all.

That was Saturday. Today I found out my dog has a hernia and needs expensive surgery to scrape her teeth clean. Which has nothing to do with the hernia but it still needs to get done. My car is going in for a service tomorrow and thanks to the pot holes with a bit of road in between in Gauteng, the alignment needs to be done again. So between minty fresh breath for my hernia free dog and a perfectly aligned car, the bank can go and stuff itself. Today. Tomorrow. Not Together.

Friday, August 14, 2009

CSI Jo'burg


There is no denying that Jo'burg is a dangerous place to live in. The mere thought of moving here last year left me with many a sleepless night. If I had to compare myself to any character from recent films, it would be the extra employed to provide a bit of comic relief but who then gets killed off providing even more comic relief. Or possibly eliciting some sympathy but not for long.

I am street smart to a degree. But how much is street smarts going to help you when you get assaulted in a parking lot because you took some plastic plaything's parking space? No, I seem to be a magnet attracting all sorts of weird and wondrous things towards my life. If you've read some of my previous blogs, you may remember my gripes about everything from poor service to being surrounded by stupid people (remember Herr Dumm). As annoying as it is, to a degree I can live with it. Because at no point did it actually affect my personal well being.

Yesterday I was reminded why Jo'burg is a dangerous city to live in. The head office I'm based at is in an industrial part of Jo'burg. It's surrounded by mine dumps (why don't you people do something with these things?), panel beaters and a rather large depot dispatching beer. It's not the most visually attractive location but it is central and up to yesterday, seemingly quite safe.

Picture this. Johannesburg. 2009. (I've been watching endless hours of The Golden Girls). The morning started off with a sinister chill in the air, a chill that has been absent for a good 10 days. I should have known that it was a warning. A warning to steer clear from the office, clearance sales and eating Russian Specials from the take-away up the road. But I fought off the sinister feeling creeping up my spine and seeping into my bones. It took immense bravery on my part but I got in my car and drove to the office. I am Legend.

It's a Thursday. No real relevance to the story other than to provide you with as much useless detail as possible. I was typing away when the co-worker from hell decided to blast the fire alarm horn type thing right in front of my door. Fire! After coming close to soiling myself, I grabbed my handbag, both my cellphones, my keys and an apple. Just in case we were left outside for a prolonged period and I got hungry. Doing exactly what you are not supposed to do during a fire drill. Needless to say, said annoying co-worker kept blasting the horn. I suppose when all you have to do to fill your working day is stare at your computer screen, the chance to be in charge of alerting your colleagues of a fire drill must be exhilarating. I just wanted to kick him in his fire hose. I'm still partially deaf in my right ear.

We evacuated in 1 minute and 55 seconds. Impressive, I thought. Until I realised that it probably would've taken longer if more people were at the office. They must have had the same sinister chill penetrating their bones that morning and decided to stay home. The yellow bellied cowards.

Slowly we filed back into the office. I barely had a chance to start eating my apple. The idiotic co-worker with his horn in hand was grinning from ear to ear. I could've kicked him again at that point. Sadist. Who cares about Occupational Health and Safety rules considering what happened next?

On a visit to the bathroom (again, courtesy of the idiot with the horn and 6 glasses of water), I spotted something lying next to the photocopier. Why I looked at the floor at that point in time I still don't know. I suspect that I was channeling Gil Grissom, ace investigator in CSI Las Vegas. I picked up the small, copper object and to my surprise discovered it was a bullet. I couldn't believe my eyes. As I told my colleagues about it, one of them exclaimed that there was a small hole in the ceiling directly above her desk. And that when she arrived at work that morning, she spotted bits of ceiling and paint chips all over her desk. She thought it was just shoddy workmanship and didn't think too much of it. But I immediately knew something was up. We just discovered the entry point for the mysterious bullet. I walked to her desk and immediately spotted where the bullet scorched her desk. Putting myself in the place of the bullet, I saw where it bounced off the filing cabinet and ended up at the photocopier. My colleagues sat in stunned silence. My skillful analysis left them amazed. I wasn't even myself anymore at that point. I had become Gil Grissom.

After getting half the office trampling all over my crime scene, the bullet was identified as a 9mm. And that there was drag racing in the road running past the office the previous night around 22:00. I deduced that it was quite possible that in the chaos and mayhem of the racing, a bullet was discharged by some unsavoury character associated with drag racing. Anybody who think these guys actually look like Paul Walker from The Fast and the Furious is a bigger idiot than Mr. Fire Hose 2009. No, they represent the underbelly of souped up cars and nitrogen tanks strapped to VW Beetles. At least, that's my analysis and I'm sticking to it.

Moving all the jokes to one side for a few seconds, it is frightening that a bullet could penetrate the exterior of the roof, go through admittedly a rather thin ceiling, scorch part of a desk and land up at a photocopier. The poor lady occupying that particular desk felt rather shook up. Had it happened during the day, she would've died instantly from a horrible, freak accident. Jo'burg is a dangerous place to live in. No argument there.

Back to the lighter side of things, I'm ready for a career in forensics. The ease with which I discovered the bullet and traced its path led me to believe that I can give top SA cop, Piet Byleveld, a run for his money. I mulled over this incident for most of yesterday and last night. My extraordinary detective skills overwhelmed me. I could be of much better use working for the SAPS than where I'm at now. I also realised at around 03:00 this morning that there may be a dead guy in the ceiling.

He'll just have to stay there. I'm Gil Grissom, not the poor sod who gets dispatched to go and recover the body. I'm finally the lead character in my own show.