The thing with unwritten rules is that you can never go back and say to someone:
“Look – it says right here you shouldn’t have done that.”
I always thought that was because unwritten rules were so obvious that no-one would break them and there would be no need for any chastising or clarification (Darwin Awards nominees aside, obviously):
Don’t poke that tiger. Don’t touch that wire. Don’t chew on that razor blade.
Let’s be honest, it’s pretty straightforward stuff. But ignoring unwritten rules can result in consequences far worse than the traumatic amputation of your arm, a nasty electric shock or bleeding gums. Yes, really.
Take kids’ birthday parties as an example: An opportunity for a few mothers to get together and have a chat and a glass of wine, while the toddlers play happily with each other, eat sand and generally have a good time. Everyone wins. Especially since while the cat is away, the mice will play. And this proverbial mouse takes the opportunity to play FIFA 07 without fear of interruption from anyone asking you to make them a cup of tea and mow the lawn or anyone (slightly smaller) tugging the power cable out of the back of the PS2 and eating it. It’s a near perfect situation.
Or at least, it was until the Saturday just past.
That’s when someone tinkered with the system. Upset the equilibrium. Broke the unwritten rule.
It would be wrong of me to name and shame the person in question. He knows who he is. What he doesn’t realise, perhaps, is that with his attendance of a kids birthday party on Saturday morning, he has opened the floodgates. With him turning up, suddenly the rest of us have no excuse to avoid forthcoming events of this nature.
My wife was hardly through the door, a filthy but happy Alex in her arms, when she piped up, “[name] was there too – you should come along to the next one!”
At first I thought it was a bluff: no-one would be guilty of such folly – especially [name] – would they?
Sadly, my hopes were dashed – apparently [name] was indeed there and won admiration and brownie points deluxe from the assembled mothers at the party. Good work, sir.
The question is, will that reward be worth it when he meets all the fathers at the next one…?
When things in Cape Town are quiet and there’s not much with which to enlighten the readers of 6000 miles, I like to take a trivial subject and ruminate on it for a while.
Today, those conditions having been satisfied, I’m going to tackle the old chestnut of god. Is he? Does he? Who he?
There are three thing my mother told me never to discuss: Politics, Religion and West Ham United. She was hopelessly wrong on the politics – it’s the best entertainment that you can get out here in SA, and while she had a good point about the Hammers, I’m going to choose to ignore her advice on the god thing. Religion is important, however misguided it might be. West Ham United are just misguided, not important.
I don’t believe that there is a god. I just see christianity as an excuse to wake me up with church bells early on Sunday mornings. Right when I’m in the middle of that dream about Kari Byron from Mythbusters and the 50 litre vat of sweet chilli dipping sauce.
For me, this proves that there is no god. How could anyone be so cruel?
Which brings me to that age old question: “If there is a god, why does he let bad things happen?”
I don’t know. Makes no sense to me. Sorry.
Another sign of the lack of anyone upstairs is the increasing desperation, frequency and technological advancements with which the godbotherers turn up at my front gate.
The other day, two of them came around with a 20 minute DVD entitled How to get closer to god.
“Can we sit and watch this with you?”, they asked.
Seriously? Why? Don’t you have your own DVD player?
(Of course, living in the crime-ridden suburbs of Cape Town, it’s entirely possible that they just wanted to shoot me in the head and steal the DVD player as soon as they got through the door.)
(Or worse still, discuss West Ham United.)
I sent them packing, but before they left, they asked (begged?), “Do you know anyone that would be interested in seeing the DVD?”
Oh right, so now I have to do your job for you too, huh? No way.
“Sorry, we’re all pretty heavily into Islam around here.”
Cue their hasty exit before I arrived at the front gate with a “special belt” on.
Blimey. I’d better stop. I’m going to alienate everyone. Please feel free to leave offensive comments if I’ve insulted you or your religion. And please also mention (if you think you know) what noise an ostrich makes. It’s one of those things that’s been bothering me for a while now.
Oh – and I’m also looking for a local bulk supplier of sweet chilli dipping sauce…
I know I ask a lot of you, dear reader, but if anyone can handle it, you can.
There is a terrible disease sweeping across Africa. OK – there are several of them, but this one is really nasty. The symptoms include false hope, political gain and setting HIV/AIDS programmes back immeasurably.
We’ve mentioned South Africa’s own dear Health Minister – Manto Tshabalala-Msimang – on this site on more than one occasion, including her support for the Germanic conman Mattias Rath and her advice that a diet of garlic, african potato, turnips, lemon juice and olive oil can cure HIV. (Incidentally, even dear Manto is unwell). We even chatted briefly about the Deputy President of the ANC and his belief that taking a shower after having sex with an HIV positive individual will prevent you being infected with the virus.
Thank heavens that these individuals aren’t in positions of power and responsibility, hey?
Anyway – it’s all over now. Step forward Yahya Jammeh (ja, ja…) – who “just happens” to be President of The Gambia. He’s sorted all our problems out by discovering that a herbal remedy and a good dose of prayer will rid your body of HIV. And yes, that includes removing its integrated nucleic acid from every last one of your cells. Incredible. He treats people on Thursdays and claims he can cure them in 3 days. Which should make for a pretty good Saturday night out, assuming all goes well. Sky News interviewed him while he was actually doing the biz – a superb demonstration of multitasking and altogether fascinating stuff.
The thing is, I can see you laughing at these stories in your comfortable Western homes and offices. What you need to realise is the terrible truth is that people believe these claims, they stop taking their ARVs and then they die.
I don’t know. I don’t have the answers. The answers to curing HIV or the answers to the dubious methods of African politics.
Frankly, I’m just shocked that “Uncle Bob” Mugabe hasn’t got in on the act yet…