I’m at Uncle Paul’s, that bastion of Southern Suburbs privilege, for the last time this evening. (Not for the last time this evening, although actually that as well, but I mean that it’s our final Uncle Paul’s.)
We are officially veterans. And I’ve noticed a couple of things over the years.
The standard of behaviour has steadily declined. Kids and adults. They may as well not bother with rules. And the level of parental responsibility seems to have gone the same way too. Now, those two may be directly linked – I’d guess that the latter directly exacerbates the former.
I would also suggest that it’s a perfect measure of the way our society is headed.
And that’s not ideal. 🙁
I need to sleep. Desperately.
Tiredness has caught up with me after I failed to return to my slumbers last night after a particularly vivid dream involving Helen Zille opening a soccer centre in Khayelitsha, resplendent in a Mamelodi Sundowns shirt. (Ms Zille, not the soccer centre).
A quick search of the local news sites revealed that this dream had absolutely nothing to do with any recent event and that explains my concern. Why the hell would I be dreaming about the leader of the opposition? And why the hell would she be wearing a yellow football shirt?
She doesn’t even like Mamelodi. They didn’t vote for her. Atteridgeville is also strongly ANC, despite Julius Malema.
And before you suggest that I must be thinking politically, I can’t even vote. Even if there was an election coming up.
Any alternative reasoning doesn’t even begin to bear thinking about. Sorry, Helen.
Anyway, from that moment on, I was afraid to return to sleep, just in case I was haunted by odd dreams about vocal politicians in footballing attire. Thus, I am knackered. And I need to get some sleep because we’re due for more weirdness tomorrow night, in the shape of the traditional (and therefore it doesn’t actually matter how weird it is, because it’s been weird for years and is therefore wholly acceptable to be weird) Uncle Paul’s Christmas Party.
I will, of course, report back on this strange phenomenon, but as far as I can work out thus far, it involves kids being invited to Uncle Paul’s farm and meeting Father Christmas, who visits each year. If you think that’s a little strange, then just be thankful you’re not at Uncle Willy’s in Rondebosch.
I. Kid. You. Not.
Oh, and attacking people by throwing straw at them, before assembling about 200 kids, with an average age of six, on a carpet of straw within a huge circle of bales of straw and giving them each a lit candle. Yep.
I’ll pack an extinguisher in the picnic bag. I know the UK is known for it’s somewhat draconian Elf ‘n’ Safety Laws (geddit?), but I don’t think you have be Professor van der Einsteyn to work out the potential dangers of the situation.
In Finland, they slaughter a moose (probably). It’s got to be safer than this.