Of toilets

31 03 11

 

This is evidence, at least, that Rosie cleans my toilet, having left the toilet brush *inside* the toilet… a rather disconcerting find when I lifted the lid on Tuesday.  I am thankful that I did not find a broom in my bed.

My colleague got stuck in the toilet a couple of weeks ago, leading to building maintenance having to be called to break the lock and let her out. This is the sign left outside the women’s toilet while the dude did his bit to flush her out.

 

 

And finally, the ‘stab myself in the eye with a pencil’ email of the day:

From: ***Oblivious, moronic company employee***

Date: Thu, 31 Mar 2011

To: ***Rubbish-disseminating I.T person who really should know better than to spam us***

Subject: Organic Milk tarts

Hi,

A very dear friend of mine is making organic milk tarts from the Irene Farm cow’s milk. R50 each.

Anyone interested can place their orders with me.

Thanks!

***Oblivious moronic company employee****

 

P.S. There’s only one cow on the Irene Farm? That seems like a bit of a lose-lose business plan.


What do you do when an old lady asks to share your bed?

29 03 11

Tuesdays are often Mondays for me, as they are the first day of the week that I work in a proper office environment. When I work from home (which I didn’t do yesterday – work, that is), the fact that I’m wearing pyjamas or something equally casual while being productive never fails to mess me up.

I actually really have no idea why I wrote that. Truly. None.

Anyway, a friend’s elderly mother just phoned me and asked me if she could come visit me for a week, and wouldn’t mind sharing my bed if there was no space for her.

Ahem.

After a moment of dumbstruck silence, I politely told her that she had dialed the wrong DBAWIW –  a fact I established when she mentioned a name I did not recognise; someone who was perhaps a friend or relative of the person my friend’s mom had meant to call. Shame, she sounds quite desperate to get out of town.

Went to Clarens this weekend for a bit of a break of Jo’burg. There is much to love about it, and my top three reasons are as follows. In Clarens, one does not hear persistently barking dogs; one does not hear persistently crying babies,; and one does not hear persistently partying neighbours. Viva having enough space to enjoy the silence. Here are some pics:

Is it 1839?

View

More view

Evil bunny that growled and charged at Woofles, proving my assertion that rabbits are horrid.

Morty showing her appreciation of a print I bought of cats doing feline things. No it’s not a poster of LOL Cats (though I am an unshamed fan of LOL Cats and would *totally* get Morty to do LOL Cat stuff if she didn’t bite me so damn much).

Judging…people who pretend to swear

25 03 11

I’m not a hater of people who like to swear. Similarly, I am not a hater of people who do not like to swear… I used to be one of those. Happily, I’ve realised the distinct satisfaction of bellowing out ‘fuck you!’ when walking into inanimate objects, or referring to certain annoying individuals as a ‘cunt’ on the rare occasion, though largely ‘dickhead’ is my vulgarity of choice.

What gets my goat is hearing and reading people pretending to swear. They play at cussin’, so much so that they end up making up non-existent words designed, they believe, to mean roughly the same as, say, ‘it is fucked’. Ridiculous words which highlight, with glaring clarity, that although they really want to let rip and risk being regarded as foul-mouthed, uncouth and trashy, they can’t really risk upsetting their friends or family or their lord or their co-workers or whatever.

Yes, there are times and places. Telling your great aunt that you don’t want another fucking slice of her cocksucking fruit cake is probably a bit of overkill, even if the fruit cake is utterly awful and full of raisins. However, in general, the fact is as follows: Either you swear, or you don’t. Don’t make up stupid-arsed half-swear words that would be acceptable in god’s judgey eyes, or people who choose to judge on behalf of god, because they don’t actually allude directly to fornication.

In or out … make your choice.


I hate people

23 03 11
It is shit like this that makes me hate most people:

From: xxx van xxx
Date: Wed, 23 Mar 2011 12:39:23
To: PEOPLE WHO HAVE BETTER THINGS TO DO THAN READ YOUR FUCKING EMAILS ABOUT FUCKING CRAP PEDDLERS
Subject: FW: Jewellery, kiddies’ clothes, stationery and bits and pieces
Diarise this date!

Come and treat yourself or a loved one this Friday!

On Friday 25th March, PEDDLER OF CRAP (ex Receptionist at ***), is selling beautiful jewellery, kiddies clothes, stationery and other bits and pieces at cost price in the small boardroom at ***. She’ll be here during lunch time, from 12h00 – 14h00.
Baie dankie
MORON van DICKHEAD


Why do I get sent email like this? I don’t have a kid, i don’t want stationery and my flat needs more ‘bits and pieces’ like the Arab world needs another uprising.

And why are children called ‘kiddies’? Fucking hell, aren’t they irritating enough little aliens without having to be called ‘kiddies’?

 


I don’t like cricket (commentary), I love it.

21 03 11

As I drove home from my Saturday morning Walk’nTalk with Woofles, I listened to radio commentary on the cricket match between SA and Bangladesh.
Apart from the hilarious outrage of former Indian player Sanjay Manjrekar, when interviewing/ ripping apart the Bangladeshi team’s captain, Shakib Al Hasan, our local radio commentator was in fine form, too.

First, to paraphrase, slightly, Manjreker laid into Bangladesh for their hopeless collapse against SA:

Manjrekar: Bangladesh was appalling and really disappointed their fans. I think they deserve a word from you…

Al Hasan: Yes, they do. Sorry.

Concise, if nothing else, young Shakib.
Next…
Unfortunately, I did not catch the name of the Saffer commentator on Radio 2000, but when he said the following, it made me wish I could have seen Graham Smith and Jacques Kallis’s faces had they heard this description of the end of their innings:

Commentator: Some time later in the innings, Kallis joined his captain [Smith] in the bathroom … err, in the showers.

That’s quite a little post-innings relaxation ritual they have right there. Hahaha, bring on Friday!


Proclaimin’ for Scotland on St Patty’s Day.

17 03 11

I’ve always suspected that most Jacaranda 94.2 DJs are morons, and this morning it was confirmed.

Being St Patrick’s Day today, all things Irish are being celebrated, apparently. Irish whiskEy, Guinness, …errr…. Kevin O’ Brien?

And so, in a moment of inspired idiocy, the morning show on 94.2 played The Proclaimers’ ancient hit song, ‘500 Miles’ to celebrate Ireland’s big day.

Thing is, The Proclaimers are Scottish. Born in Scotland, lived in Scotland for most of their lives, and sound as Scottish as haggis when walking 500 ‘males’. Even if they’ve spent any time at all in Ireland, this is most definitely a Scottish set of twins.

So.

Drink a pint or five, Darren Scott, and try forget this morning.


Welcome Back, 1984!

16 03 11

Some weird things happened yesterday.

The weirdness started when I contacted the IT person at my new office to assist me with a problem. When he exclaimed, “Why is it DOING that?!!?!!”, I felt distinctly less reassured than I hoped I would after chatting with Stu.

Following that, a woman with a beard that could rival that of my lovely ex-maid Mary the Cleaner (I miss her – that woman knew what she was doing!), arrived in my office, sat down, kind of introduced herself, pressed a button on my computer, ticked off something on an official-seeming list and ran off. Felt a little violated, I did.

Finally, a person I worked with five years ago at another company has begun working with us again. Back then, in 2006, she wore pant(s)suits that were fashionable in 1984. Now, before we go further, it is worthwhile to point out that anything that was fashionable in 1984 was, by virtue of the fact that it WAS 1984, hideous. A woman with generous hips became mountainous. A woman with generous breasts became a walking advert for backache. So, when I saw my former-former-now-current colleague wearing the very same pantsuits, blouses, high-waisted jeans and boyish hairdo of five years ago, I realised that there is clearly not a clothing shop in a 50km radius from where she lives. That has to be it. Nothing she has worn in the 2.5 weeks she’s been working with us is something I’ve not seen before. They made clothing strong in the 80s, they did.

As a result, I’ve found that a smirk has become my standard facial expression. I suppose it’s better than my usual vacant visage.

News just in: another colleague is locked in the toilet. Maintenance has been called. If their response time is as good as some of the IT staff here, my colleague will have to have lunched passed to her under the bog’s door.