Circlingthesun

I don’t think I’ve ever seen our dogs eat their chunks. When their bowls are filled they gather around semi-excited with expectant looks, examine the bowl for about 2 seconds then walk away as if to say: “You bastard! How dare you feed me this crap!”. Later their bowls will be empty. It’s like by some unspoken principle they simply refuse to eat in front of me. Maybe they solely live of table scraps and its really the neighbourhood pigeons pecking up their pellets.

Last year I managed to simultaneously avoid morning traffic and find relatively close off-campus parking all at the same time by waking up at 5am, driving to varsity and sleeping in my car till class started. I look back now in disbelief. It is beyond my comprehension how I managed to get my ass out of bed at that ungodly hour every morning for a year.

This year on the first day of class I naively set my alarm for 5:15am. I ended up hitting the snooze button till about 7:15. Each time nodding off for 10min with the hope that future me would have somehow gathered the strength it would require to get out of bed. When I eventually woke up and drove to varsity I managed to find parking at the sports center and was fortunate enough to not get fined by UCT traffic officials. I think they take it easy on us the first week. Walk down Rugby Road next week this time and you’ll probably see nothing but little A6 pieces of paper flapping from the windows of countless unfortunate schmucks.

Anyway, not getting up at 5am made my day feel a lot less schleppish. I knew then that I would never be able to get out of bed so early ever again. Also, driving for an hour in bumper to bumper traffic feels a lot like sleeping. Except for the part where occasional driver cuts you off and you somehow manage to snap out of your trans just in time to slam breaks.

So I started flirting with the idea of how nice it would be to own one of those little blue round parking discs. The thought of parking just a short walk away from your first lecture without having to constantly worry about racking up fines was very appealing. After driving around campus the next day for about 20min before parking at the bottom of Woolsack Drive which is sweaty 15min uphill walk away from uppercampus, I realized just how foolish that idea really was. Parking space on campus is a luxury enjoyed only my those who manage to get there before 8:30am. UCT traffic department is a university cash cow that must still be avoided at all cost.

You see I have more than a grand worth of fines racked up at that unholy place. However, unlike real traffic departments they have no way of connecting me to those fines, unless I foolishly go waltz in there giving them all my details. Buying a parking disc I would be doing exactly that. This would mean that any future traffic offenses from that point onwards would be directly linked to my student account (Yes, they are bastards). Avoiding these schmucks however does not allow for unlimited parking offenses. If you rack up to many they may decide to wheelclamp you one day in which case they just *might* require your details before letting you go. If your dad happens to own a chop shop or something you could technically avoid this by getting new licence plates on a regular basis. For now I think I’ll just have to park in some remote location like today and take that 15min trek up to campus daily. At least I’ll stay fit.

It took me roughly an hour to get from Canary Wharf to Heathrow via the London Underground. It was a rather unpleasant experience having to lug my 24kg bag all the way to the station, and then from one jam packed carriage to the next. The sardines were not to impressed with me attempting this stunt during rush hour.

After finding my way to the Qatar desk at Terminal 3 I learnt that my travel agent never properly submitted the date change on my return ticket to Cape Town. This unfortunate mishap cost me £34 to rectify. After reluctantly parting with my sterling I joined the rest of the monkeys in a queue that lead to a circus that was Heathrow  Security Check. I had to take of my shoes and had them x-rayed.

From here on everything went pretty smoothly. Except of course the part when the airhostess abruptly jumped up from her chair to fold away my screen as if I was a naughty kid and made me understand that there shall be no TV during takeoff. Oh, and the part where my dad called me during take off in Johannesburg and phone rang nokia style for about a minute before I could kill it. Other than that, the flight was mellow.

Now one thing you should probably know is that before heading to the airport I had laced my luggage with all kinds of merchandise that I bought for myself and the folks back home. So naturally after landing in Cape Town I was faced with a bit of a dilemma when confronted with customs. During the flight in my mind I tried hard to avoid the subject. The way I saw it my options were to either go straight to customs and explain to them that I had been a bit of a consumer whore. After doing this they would surely have some reason for wanting my money. Or I could go the alternative less ethical route and risk customs singling me out and discovering the contraband. The problem with the latter approach was that if they did end up busting me, my original plan was to claim ignorance. As I walked into the baggage area that excuse became a little less plausible. The place was littered with information on what might happen to me if caught evading the tax man. Amongst the possible consequences was the possibility of attestation and the confiscation of my stuff.

I contemplated my situation a little more as I waited for my bag at the carousel. I eventually decided that its better to risk going to jail than doing the “right thing”. I figured that if I could some how let customs see that I was South Afican, relaxed but also preoccupied all at the same time, the odds of them singling me out would be relatively slim. So I relaxed my shoulders, put a smile on my face (I’m relaxed), picked up the phone to dailed my mother (I’m preoccupied) and spoke to her in a loud Afrikaans (I’m South African) voice while walking past the scrutinising eyes of Local custom officials. They ended up singling out the poor Arab schmuck infront of me and let me and my loot out the door.

In the last 24 hours London was tucked away under a thick white blanket as it experienced the heaviest snowfall in decades. The town came to a virtual standstill as all the buses were taken off the road while most of the underground was suspended.

It’s been really fun. I built my first ever snow man. Unfortunately it was destroyed 5min later by some naughty little chav shits that didn’t go to school today.

I just hope I can still get out of England on Wednesday

It’s been almost 2 months since I landed here. What to say, what to say…

Guys here are a lot shorter than back home. The other day I asked one of the waitresses that works with me if she thinks I’m short. Her response was something along the lines of: “You? Short? What are you talking about? I have work to do!” Okay, that part were she had work to do, I made that up.

Now that the festive season has come and gone the restaurant is pretty much empty. Also the manager decided to hire an army of waiters so now every night we outnumber the customers. I used to like studying the behaviour of colourful  sea creatures in our aquarium when I was bored at work. But  lately I’ve found it far more interesting to look at the dynamics of mini waiter colonies of baby blue and white scattering and reforming around the restuarant as the managers move around.

photo by Nadia

I woke up this morning after a late night of studying feeling absolutely shit. As per usual I was utterly disappointed after scavenging the kitchen in a quest to find something other to eat than wheat-bix. Oh, wait that’s a lie. I found some tasty left over rum and raisin flavoured ice cream from the previous night. Its not exactly a wholesome breakfast but I really needed something sweet to reassure myself that life was still good.

After finishing a bowl of goodness, checking my email and reading about the IQ of the ANC youth league president I noticed something on my other desk. My mom had left a couple of sample sachets of nivea for men rejuvenating Q10 cream on my table in what was probably an attempt to steer me in the direction of some form of metosexualism. Anyway so I thought “what the heck” went into the bathroom to sample some of these products.

The stuff was amazing and immediately made me feel well… rejuvenated, so the product does what it says. Plus it has a manly fragrance which subconsciously restores some of your manhood that was stripped after engaging in what some might classify as somewhat feminine activity.

So the product is now on my mental to-get list. So I’ll probably get myself bottle sometime this week when I’m not to preoccupied with evil exams.

It’s one of those things that I could never pull off as a kid. I would go up on my hands, hold my balance for one second, and fall over. Now at the brink of 21 I’m walking around the house upside down having everyone around me scatter for fear that I might fall over and hurt them.

It’s July, it’s winter, long nights – short days. Walking up the road with rain blowing in your face is enough to make anyone pause for a second just to say, “fuck!”