The write stuff

Occasionally, I like to do a bit of writing (Not Writing, you understand – just common or garden writing), because it can be an enjoyable and relaxing diversion. Consequently, when the mood strikes during lunchtime, I have no hesitation in indulging my urge to tap out semantic symphonies on my PC*.

The primary drawback to this is that when I’m hammering away furiously at my keyboard, people assume that I must be ‘on the clock’. The fact that I would want to take a break around midday to relax, swallow a bit of nourishment and do my own thing seems to be a concept too foreign for my colleagues to absorb. If I don’t hide under the desk, I often end up having to deal with one pointless query after another. “Piss off, it’s lunchtime!” mumbled around a mouthful of apple only results in a furrowed brow accompanied by the inevitable puzzled semi-question, “Oh, you weren’t working?” and doesn’t actually seem to get rid of the bastards.

It is therefore no coincidence that the majority of my ‘angry’ entries tend to be posted in the early afternoon.

* Oh man, sometimes I’m so pretentious I could just shit!

The thin edge of the wedge

According to Cosatu’s Western Cape gender committee, men charged with rape should be regarded as guilty until proven innocent and they have demanded that the law be changed to reflect this.

I wonder how charitably the president of Cosatu (the unfortunately named Willy Madisha) would feel towards the gender committee if their proposal was written into the statute books and someone with an axe to grind chose to lay a charge against him.

Without doubt, the rape statistics for South Africa are gut-wrenchingly shocking, but “guilty until proven innocent” on the basis of an accusation alone? This is obviously based on the ‘no smoke without fire’ principle, but clearly the brain that the committee normally use to do their collective thinking was in the shop for repairs when they came up with that little gem. Surely any solution to a social problem as serious as rape is going to require at least a light dusting of intelligent thought to be workable?

Skid marks

You know the expression “Give a man a fish and he will eat for a day. Put a man on a bicycle and his brain will turn into sponge rubber”? No? Well, it’s true – trust me on this one.

On my way home from work yesterday, I saw no fewer than three cyclists narrowly avoid being converted into sticky performance art. Once could simply have been a passing event and twice could be written off to coincidence, but three times is indicative of a pattern. Is there something in the geometry of bicycles that makes stop signs translucent or causes the onset of an invincibility delusion?

Maybe it’s just the angle of the seat that overstimulates the stupidity gland.

Ali Baba and the 40 Lawyers

I am depressed. Again. I am amazed at how a relatively small thing can send me over the edge. Talking to my wife seems to do it rather effectively.

I had to phone her the other day to sort out a few details and find out why there’s been no response from her attorney regarding the settlement. It turns out that even though she was happy with the revised offer, her lawyer advised her not to accept it. Apparently he’s “troubled” by it. Yeah right. Troubled that he doesn’t seem to be earning enough from our divorce to pay the instalments on his shiny new BMW.

Doesn’t he have an ambulance to chase or something?

Also ran

You know those movie posters that splash the words “NOMINATED FOR SEVENTY-THREE* ACADEMY AWARDS” in bold across bottom and then later on, they win absolutely zilch?.

So this is how they must feel.

I mean, runner up? Runner up? For the love of little green apples! That’s like kissing your sister. Not that I’m bitter or anything. Nope. Not me.

* or whatever