FIFA WORLD CUP SOCCER

Still feel it; it was here. What a major event this has been, and how well it all went off.

As a soccer ignoramus (always thought it a boring game for sissies who never actually got down to doing much) the finals meant little to me, but my, how we enjoyed it.

First it was all the fun and hype. Flags and vuvuzelas, unprecedented camaraderie and bonhomie. Strangers of all races grinning at one another, and all of us united in our anxious hope that Bafana Bafana would do us proud.

Next came the wonder at the beauty and majesty of our new stadium. Our roads were tarred, the new airport opened in time.

My man bought a SA flag for the car but then I had to wrestle it out of him to put it on the window. He didn't want it spoiled. He even got out the antique hunting horn and self-consciously blurped it at Lifestyle. Just once before ducking back into the car, but feeling he had PARTICIPATED.

After all this we actually felt like watching our boys play. They did amazingly well. How intimidating (cruel?) to have to play against teams so much further up the ability list, and in front of millions.

Observations:

                 1. The skill of a soccer player is now appreciated. That ball handling (footling?) is 
                    magic. The pontificaters who criticize the players from the side would probably fall on 
                    their faces trying it. Someone kicked a ball backwards over  his head, placing it exactly 
                    where he wanted it. Nobody fell out the the stands in ecstasy at this feat so one must 
                    gather it is not unusual.

2.    The goals are too small.

3.    The commentators deserve a medal for rapid babbling and managing all those names.

4.    Soccer players should have their names changed. Messy? Was there really a Moulin Rouge?

5.    Soccer is most frustrating. They must be dying to grab the ball and run. No wonder the spectators go on the rampage afterwards. All those almost goals. Wild excitement.. . commentator's voice rises in ecstasy . . . missed. Or stopped. Ugh!

6.    For all the joy, it was a sad time. Visions of highly decorated spectators looking stunned, players weeping as years of hard work crumbled to nothing. Heavy stuff.

7.    Don't become a coach.  They looked desperately miserable all the time. Felt like offering them a drink.

8.    A nice change now would be a good, bloody, rough rugby game where gigantic men (with nice familiar names like Hyena, Pierri-weepu, Chilli Boy and Beeeeast)  really fight for their lives.  They grab the ball, tackle each other, bleed but carry on, and the scores soar . If we could only win!  

LOST CARS

I thoroughly enjoyed the Porters' letter (North Coast Courier) about misplacing their chariot in the car park. Having done this too often, even when younger, I sympathise with their lost and bewildered wanderings. Visions of forlornly roaming the rows of somebody else's cars after dark still haunt me.

This is why I bought a bright yellow Atoz when the skedonk died. It stands taller than most cars and positively glows. Unfortunately, a couple of unscrupulous locals have bought  identical cars so my troubles are not quite over.

Years ago I read of a woman who solved this dilemma by attaching a yellow duster to one of those drain cleaning thinggys with a big sucker and handle. She plonked this on top of her car and always found it with ease. Of course these days someone may steal the flag!

Direction is just not my forte. As a young mother, new to Durban,  I had to drop the husband at Louis Botha airport. Frighteningly alone with just my toddlers for company in terrifying traffic on unfamiliar roads, I thought we'd never get home again. Every time I reached Durban I somehow ended up driving back towards the airport. By the third time around the kids and I were all crying loudly, to the amazement of a very puzzled newspaper vendor whom we passed regularly every twenty minutes.

When I had to fetch the man I first visited my sister in Durban on the strength of her promise to lead me to the correct airport road. At night!! Still shaky from the previous nightmare trip I fearfully followed her tail lights not daring to blink in case I lost her. I carefully followed her tail lights to the highway - and then carefully followed them all the way back to her house. Getting lost is my best talent.

Incidentally, this is one of the main reasons I married my man. Clutching a mandolin under one arm and a set of bagpipes under the other; and with his long pony tail and impressive moustache, even I couldn't possibly lose him in a crowd.

RON'S HAIR

When my man's legs and back gave in, he started to play the mandolin professionally. To make him look the part I persuaded him to grow out his military style short back and sides. What a surprise when he produced a magnificent frizzy bush of silver hair!

Left loose, his awesome hair stands straight out from his head and is quite terrifying. I  have to plait it for him and what a lovely thick plait it is. He insists it's his “cue” in the best of naval traditions.

This new look has had all sorts of positive consequences for him,e.g. he purrs happily when a pretty young thing sits on his lap and strokes his hair.

Not all results were so enjoyable. One woman tried to pull it (and his luxurious moustache) off to prove they were fake, and he nearly fell off his perch when a man kissed him soundly on the forehead and told him he was beautiful.

Showering is also a problem. He now borrows my large hair clasp and clips his plait on top of his head before bathing. He is built like a hairy gorilla and his cute clip atop his head looks incongruous. He tends to forget it's there and I find it disconcerting trying to discuss financial problems or political mess ups with this odd looking man. How does one disagree vehemently with such an apparition?

I have to confess to a moment of irresistible temptation that overcame me at a dear friend's garden party. They had tied helium balloons to the backs of the chairs and I'm afraid I gave in and tied one to Ron's pigtail. I had visions of making a fortune selling pictures to advertise that little blue pill so loved by elderly men. Unfortunately he felt my fumbling and thwarted my plans.

The worst happened recently when he and a big leather clad biker were shovelling toast into their mouths while they put the world aright. Next minute, my man was going purple and making disgusting gurgling sounds. Biker and I thought it was the end of the Mandolin Man, but never fear, he had simply swallowed his plait! Eyes bulging, moustache twitching and face going blue, he pulled it out again. Been off my food for a while now.

I am just waiting for someone to invite us to a fancy dress party. With his figure we could dress him in striped pants, put two plaits in his hair, hand him a menhir and call him Obelisk. After all we painted him green once and passed him off as  Shrek. With the Shrek ears stuck to his head he looked like a nauseous Viking. Only trouble was the grease paint was not the genuine sort and he stayed green for a week.  Even his cat didn't want to know him. Living with an angry green man was interesting (sort of).

I often wonder what a normal life must be like? Boring!

Regards,MARIE PARKES

Maidstone.

PS. Perhaps we could pass him off as a Yeti???

OH SHEET! I DIDN'T KNOW MY HEADS FROM MY BOTTOMS.

This letter is to warn unsuspecting Landlubbers about the pitfalls of going yachting.

Being nautically challenged I was dazzled by Ron's passion for ocean going yachts when I met him fourteen years ago. It all seemed so dashing and romantic. That is until a tanned man in R1000.00 Docksiders and a gleam in his eye proudly asked us to accompany him on his yacht's maiden jaunt in case anything went wrong because “Ron knows all the ropes”. It wasn't only the boat's first time and I was horrified. Having survived an hour of pure terror let me pass on my valuable experiences:

1.    The yacht is supposed to tilt at a crazy angle with one side rail often under the water. This is not due to a structural fault and you are probably not about to die (except maybe of fright).

2.    Yachties (both the wealthy “Snotty Yachties” and the struggling “Grotty Yachties”) have a secret language to make outsiders feel inferior. They have artfully swapped normal English words around:

            * Sheets: Not a swear word, nor found on the beds. They are not even the sails, but refer       

              to the confusing mess of  ropes  that control the sails.

            * Shrouds: Don't panic. People are seldom buried at sea from a yacht. Not sails either!    
             These are the thin, inadequate steel string things that hold up the masts and are 
              essential to your survival. (One of these snapped and they all laughed their heads off).

            * Galley is not a hold full of despairing, sweating slaves chained to their benches     
              who row in time to a bare chested he-man who beats a drum. It's just a teeny tiny    
              excuse for a kitchen.

            * Bottoms is not the term for the loo (which also tilts at 45 degrees so don't drink       
              anything for a day before your trip). Can you believe they call it the heads??!

            * Poopdeck is not the loo either, and they didn't have to roar with laughter like that.     
              How was I supposed to know?

*Port is not a blessed place to land at last. Nor is it a much needed drink to bolster your courage. Starboard has nothing to do with Hollywood, celestial bodies or navigation. These two plus Lee have some mysterious directional meaning. (My dyslexic man doesn't know which “left” you mean when driving but never confuses his nautical directions????)

3.    Seasickness is a terrible malady that makes you wish you were dead before the trip is over. Unsympathetic Yachties think it's a big laugh and joke about the uninitiated calling “Hugh”, “Norah” and “Ralf” over the side.

4.    If a monstrously huge tanker hoots five times at you, you are in BIG dwang. You are also about to be run down ….  to disappear into the annals of those Missing At Sea, Dave Jones Locker and just plain DEAD.

5.    When, weeping with relief, you at last jump onto dry land be forewarned! Mother Earth will betray you by heaving and churning under your spaghetti legs for hours after the cursed vessel has left you life. Even your bed will roll and float.

6.    Snotty Yachties can be identified by their huge overdrafts, the pristine appearance of their yachts, and the matching suitably boatish uniforms of their crew. They can be found drinking G&Ts while safely moored and they seldom get to go to sea.

7.    Grotty Yachties live on their half built boats in the boat builders' yard, sharing a truly awful  ablution block. They dutifully urinate on any half built steel hulls because this causes them to rust and that is a GOOD THING. They wear dirty cut-off jeans and bare their manly chests. They sit on their hulls and drink beer. They seldom get to go to sea.

What a relief when my man turned his back on the call of the ocean and took to playing the mandolin professionally. He now lead the sensible conventional life of a deaf musician who plays by ear, files the tips of his fingers down with sandpaper and sings Finiculi Finicula in his sleep.

NEW USHAKA AIRPORT

The airport is open! After all the controversy between the conservationists and the developers we are now living with these huge machines thundering overhead at regular intervals. Some people are rubbing their hands gleefully and counting unhatched chickens. Others are talking about moving out of the area. 

Back at Parkesville the cup runneth over. Every time a jet roars over our pondokkie, my man rushes out to gaze, enraptured. This has led to taps being left on, cats being kicked and dogs being tripped over. Unfortunately, he expects me to drop all to enjoy the magic with him. Apologies to the neighbours if they see this old lady cavorting around in nighty and bare feet. His husbandship saw the first huge plane's trial run the other day and has been excitedly telling everyone that he experienced  A Moment In History.

His idea of fun is to take me to dawdle (hours!) over a cuppa at the airport while he waxes poetic about each and every plane, burbling up all kinds of highly suspect technical details. He misinterprets my glassy-eyed stare as awestruck admiration. Actually, I know that I know that I know that those huge hotels with wings cannot possibly take off and fly -  or land without plummeting into the new runway and leaving a gigantic crater. When, with a surge of tremendous energy, they soar into the air, I start doubting my grasp of reality. I feel compelled to say a prayer for each planeload of passengers and am afraid to miss one and thereby be responsible for a catastrophe. Hence the glassy-eyes.

So while my man thoroughly enjoys every hour of our (cold) cuppa, I stress and carry a huge weight of responsibility on my shoulders. (I have a similar problem with bikers. Every time we see one I ask for an angel to be sent to protect him. By now a large squadron of angels have become bikers. I wonder if they don leathers and helmets?)

Oh well, if you can't beat them, join them. however, I absolutely refuse to wear those aviators' goggles!

SHOCKING NEWS OF DANGEROUS DRUG EASILY AVAILABLE LOCALLY

Acting on the advice of cat lovers, I bought a Catnip plant at my favourite plant centre.

In my defence I must stress that I was told it makes cats “feel good” if one  sprinkles some leaves on their bed. I plead ignorance and mitigating circumstances.  I really did not know I was experimenting with such a dangerous, mind altering substance.

The first inmate to investigate the new plant was Toffee, a placid, benign marshmallow of a cat. He pensively nibbled a leaf, sighed blissfully and sat with his face buried in the bush. So far so good!

Next to arrive on the scene of crime was Gentleman Jim, a comparatively sane and dignified (pompous?) feline. After a thorough investigation he swatted Toffee out of the way and proceeded to rub his face all over the bush.

The infamous Mammakat soon got rid of Jim and stood guard over the herb, not allowing animal or human near. So far - not too bad.

Mad Bad Leroy Black (the baddest cat in the whole damn shack) made his usual dramatic entrance, loudly announcing, “You lucky people, I have arrived. Feeeeed me!” He froze as he caught a whiff of the animal cannabis. He stalked over on stiff legs, scattering cats left right and centre, and dived in. He threw four legs around the bag and rolled all over the garden, gleefully kicking the bag to pieces. The hapless plant shed leaves wherever it went and the other four cats (including shy Jet Black) started writhing on their backs in the scattered debris.

Insanity is not a pretty sight. With much courageous help from my man who was armed with a broom, I eventually managed to wrestle the plant away from Mad Bad without losing too many digits. All five continued to wriggle in the war zone while I planted the sad remains of my new plant.

The last I saw was a dismal twig bravely trying to grow while five cats sat around it daring each other to take one teeny step nearer.

I now live in fear: have caught my man eyeing the Catnip thoughtfully. If he splashes out in a red Speedo, starts wriggling his hips, smashing mandolins and  playing heavy metal music at his gigs I will dig that blasted plant up and burn it!

ROACH HORROR

Not being an hysterical type I have often caught live poisonous snakes to prevent their being killed, and am regularly called upon to pick up hopping frogs or hissing chameleons etc.  I do this with panache and style. I have never been guilty of jumping on the table and screaming at the sight of a mouse.

The one exception to the rule is the dreaded cockroach.  It's the way they scuttle and scurry. For some reason they strike me speechless with terror.

Having had an extensive private library in his youth, my man has a lot of well loved books that  he has  lugged from pillar to post for years. When we  bought our pondokkie the first thing he did was to build three walls of floor to ceiling bookcases. Out came the by now yellowed and worm-eaten books and they were lovingly placed on the shelves, classified according to size rather than subject. And there they stayed undisturbed for six years while we read library books.

This week, all unsuspecting, I innocently took down a book. Horror upon horrors: there was a huge cockroach wriggling under my hand. Keeping my mouth shut I screamed through my nose and stomped on the monster. Yuck!  After covering various cages and aquariums and catching six cats and throwing them outside I gleefully sprayed roach poison all along a row of books, muttering murderous incantations.

Stephen King is tame compared to what happened next. Dozens of roaches started to pour out from between Churchill and Shakespeare. They scuttled up Jane Austin and glared at me from behind Keats and Shelley. As they reached the top they started to fall (leap?) off as more and more of their revolting cousins kept appearing. Soon they were also scuttling all around the floor, and over my feet.

The hackneyed phrase “shivers up my back” is incorrect. Your whole skin crawls and shimmers up and down. I kept squealing with my mouth shut and jumping all over as they ran towards me. Thankfully, they started to flop over on their backs just before they managed to carry me off.

I badly needed to get to the kitchen to fetch the dust pan but was afraid to run the gauntlet to the door. Eventually I swept up many pans of corpses and tried to flush them down the loo. Big mistake! They float! No matter how many times you flush they stay. What's more they revived and started to crawl up the inside of the loo. I flushed frantically, humming shrilly.

Worse still, not having the bucks to call in Robbie, our local intrepid dragon slayer, I have another three walls of books to de-roach. I am so aware of what lurks behind the pages of history, drama and art.  Beatrix Potter would roll in her grave if she knew what un-cute little creatures were between the pages of her charming stories. Nightmare on Elm Street revisited!

Procrastination reigns: the flesh is willing but the spirit is terrified!

Now I jump and the shivers start at the slightest rustling sound. Hysteria lurks just under the surface.  I can't sleep and feel on the verge of a panic attack. Of course Ron keeps tickling me and saying, “Scuttle, scuttle!!”.

I am seriously contemplating taking to drink while I plan Ron's painful demise.