Stupid season is upon us once again. This means that sweating holidaymakers in sandals fill the beaches and shopping malls to capacity, unexpected traffic-jams appear out of nowhere and you can’t get a lunch reservation anywhere for love or money. Not that you could ever get one for love, but one doesn’t have to understand internal combustion to be able to drive a car, not so?
All over the city, companies are packing out restaurants with their end-of-year functions and my company is one of them. Work gatherings irritate me at the best of times, but the December lunch is particularly irksome. For one thing, it’s almost impossible to get out of, because they close the office and the “I have work to finish” excuse doesn’t wash too well with management.
It also invariably turns into a competition to see who can get completely rat-arsed drunk before the booze budget runs out, which is no fun for me, because I’m not an adherent of the Church of Bacchus. It’s probably just sour grapes (hah!) on my part, but frankly, I’d rather work than spend the afternoon with a group of well-oiled middle-aged men who get all maudlin when they reminisce about the glory days of Civil Engineering.
The service at this time of year is pretty crappy as well, but being Cape Town, you have to look really hard to notice the difference.