GOP* before my time

I hate themed days. I hate the expectation that I need to congratulate birthdays, and birth days, especially with something more creative than "Happy Birthday" or "Congratulations on being a mammal" (these cards are particularly hard to find).

Don't get me wrong, I like me a good birthday ice-cream face-cake. Who doesn't? And I love getting (and sometimes even, giving... I'm that generous) Christmas prezzies, sharing a special day with loved ones.  But when people feel the need to publicly shout across Facebook or send out group messages to anyone who happens to be on their mailing list, I want to give them a cyber-slap and tell them to go back indoors and appreciate their family.

And I especially hate having it forced down my throat en mass. A day when I'm expected to dramatically demonstrate that I love someone, a day to publicly declare that I have a mother. Another one a few months later to make sure no one forgets that they have a father. Womens' Day. Where everyone kindly feels the need to recognise that I have lady-parts and therefore must somehow be congratulated and have an extra special day accordingly.

I think we may have lost the point somewhere. I love my parents and I certainly will thank them on Mother and Fathers Day - I do get that point. But I don't know why everyone needs to know that I have told my parents that I appreciate them.

Similarly, Womens' Day is not meant to acknowledge the fact that I happen to have a vagina, it's meant to acknowledge a day in history when largely-unheard members of the public (who remain largely-unheard and unrepresented to this day), made their Apartheid objections known in an eerily silent demonstration. Womens' Day recognises the danger that these women put themselves and their children in. Wishing me Happy Womens' Day via Facebook or email means nothing. I understand the gesture, but I struggle to fight down the rage to refrain from replying in a tirade as to how patronising the sender sounds.

There is one birthday I do support - Nelson Mandela Day. Rather than just posting messages (which will happen anyway.. in this case I understand, a personal message isn't really an option), people arrange to be involved in their communities. It's only an hour, but something is actually done. Small though the gesture might be in the big scheme of problems, awareness is raised for various community needs.

Maybe National Womens' Day should have a similar call to action. Instead of just saying "Happy Womens' Day!", we should be called to volunteer for women who still need assistance. It doesn't even have to be physical help, even something as simple as a small donation, like this. Then you can go back to your day off of slothing on the couch and congratulating female friends for having bajingoes.

Maybe every themed-day should have a similar call to action. A general rubbish collection clean up on Heritage Day, you know... to protect our heritage going forward.

Volunteering at orphanages for mother and fathers' day - giving those who don't have parents (to take advantage of every other day) a day of love. Speaking of love, Valentines Day. Urgh. But maybe it would be fitting to volunteer at a shelter on or around this day - I'm guessing not much would make you appreciate a true loved one more than seeing how other people are treated by those who they think love them.

Wouldn't it be awesome if, instead of seeing a leery middle-aged drunkard stumbling around a pub at 4pm in the afternoon, his friends apologetically shrugging and excusing him with, "what you gonna do, it's his 40th, a man's gotta celebrate"... if, instead, we got used to the sight of groups of families and friends doing something together in the community. You can still have your drinks and party afterwards, but you can also say that for one or two hours, you picked up rubbish, or you handed out food packages, or you re-painted a jungle gym. I think I quite like the idea.

Not everyone would participate, and certainly not many people would give up every public holiday for manual labour, but I would love to see the general expectation become an hour of community involvement (of your own choice), rather than a general Facebook shout-out recognising the day followed by "... and now, back to the couch" subtext.



*Grumpy Old Person, way before my time.

Curried Koekie

Every office has them. The people you just don't get on with, prefer not to interact with, just can't connect.

So there's Whacko in my office. He refuses to use his work email (has no personal email either), which I think in this day and age, should set off alarm bells for NOT hiring. But unfortunately, he has a job and it's in our office. He's a classic conspiracy theorist (hence the "I will not have an email address because then THEY can follow me online" attitude), which does lead to some marvelous behind-his-back discussions.

One of my favourite conversations with him was on my birthday last year. I bought cake, then everyone gathered around for the devouring thereof, as is the horrible tradition. Whacko doesn't have email, so of course, he didn't receive the group "It's my birthday, please have some cake" message that got sent around so I had to tell him in person.

Koekie : "Hi Whacko, it's my birthday, we're having cake if you'd like some."
Whacko : "Cake? What for?"
Koekie : "My birthday"
Whacko : "Your what?"
Koekie : "My birthday. Celebration. Happens about once a year for some of us."

I chose not to add... I know you've been to these sort of gathering before, and yet you never seem to have a birthday yourself. Whacko-the-cake-scoffer, who apparently doesn't believe in hosting events, but has no objections to partaking in free food if it's there.

By this stage, we'd move to the colleagues gathering around the cake table.
Yet his confusion persisted.

Whacko : "You had a birth? Where's the baby?"
Koekie : "No. No babies. Happy birthday to me. I really don't know how to make this any clearer."

We now had everyone's attention, as tends to happen when Whacko lets us into his psychedelic world.
Finally, comprehension seemed to settle in.

Whacko : "Oooooooh, it's your... birth... day."
Koekie : "Yes.. Birthday. Today. Well done."
Whacko : "So you're a virgin!"
Koekie : "No, but thanks for checking. I think you mean Virgo."

And that was the last time I ever bothered with conversation. That and, 18 months after I joined the company, he could never remember my name. Which actually suited me, because I had a legitimate reason to ignore any attempts at conversation.

Unfortunately sometimes our paths do have to cross, like when we find ourselves in the kitchen together. Most days I manage to limit the interaction to simple grunted greetings, and we ignore each other for the rest.

Just recently, I was heating up some leftover Tikka Masala from Indian take-out the night before. It had a few more seconds to go and I was slavering over the microwave in anticipation when Whacko walked in. Great.

We grunted at each other and I turned my attention back to the microwave. Next thing, his head was right next to mine.

"Kerry," he barked into my ear.

I stood upright, faced him directly, deciding to make a point of correcting him once and for all.
"No," I said firmly, stabbing myself in the chest with my finger. "Koekie. My name is KOE-KIE."

He looked at me with a scowl and said, "I know that, Koekie. You're having curry for lunch.. I say it in Dutch: kerrie?"

So on the one occasion that he appeared to actually be lucid and was attempting have normal every-day conversation, I managed to make myself look like the crazy one. Oh well, now at least the feeling is mutual.

Making cents

I hate that stores still insist on quoting stupid sodding prices, a few cents below a nice round number, because we're all too stupid to realise that 0.99 is NOT the same difference as paying 1euro. 

I understand the psychology that it looks less, but surely this only works on larger amounts - like 900 versus 1000euros. A difference of 100 bucks is worth considering... if you're looking at spending that much anyway.

But "Now just 9.99 euro!"...? 

Call it a tenner and forget the sodding coins. 

At least supermarkets have taken the liberty of rounding up or down to the nearest 5c. So now, when your bill comes to 34.44, they'll give you 1x 5cent piece instead of 3x 2c coins. Woo-frikken-hoo. 

But there are still a lot of 1c and 2c pieces in circulation. It irritates me, but for the most part I don't care. I take the nitty-gritty coppers and generally just chuck them in a pile, to be ignored or thrown away. GBM on the other hand, actually uses them. He will, on principle, stand and count out the exact amount. It's a running joke between us, and I kinda love him for his old-man crotchetiness about it.  

So, who is more right or more wrong, when GBM wanted to pay the exact amount... but the Albert Heijn supermarkt would not accept it?

The total on the till, said 34.44. 

The cashier quoted 34.45, as is company policy. 

GBM wanted - and had exact coins - to pay the 44 cents precisely. 

Neither would budge. Managers were summoned.

GBM's POV: "It's just one cent."

AH staff's POV: "It's just one cent."

Eventually GBM had to cave - he paid the up-scaled version. I'm pretty sure (okay VERY sure) that I would've stormed off without paying, stomping on the groceries and spitting on their flower display on the way out.

But it would be nothing more than a hissy-fit. 

We would have to go back anyway - it's our local supermarket, and the Dirk v/d Broek chain across the way has exactly the same policy. So we can't exactly vote with our feet. You don't need to be a maths genius to know that "rounding up" means that the supermarkets are making more than just a few cents here and there  with this system. 

Still, I don't understand why you can't be allowed to pay exact amount when you actually have it. 

Either that, or please can we all stop pretending that 99c is any different to 1 euro? 

Poo updates

This morning I had a great poo. It was fairly loose in consistency but was spot on time for my normal motion-hours, so I am pleased to report that movements are nice and routine. I failed to get a look at the colour, but from previous movements over the last few days, I'm fairly confident that it would be a standard brown. 

How do you feel about this update? Did you pull a face as you read it, was it too much of an over-share? If someone were to give you a breakdown on their cat or dog's most recent feces, would you be enraptured by the update and pleased when they concluded that the little pet's poop has sufficiently progressed from liquid squits to solid plops?

I don't know about you, but I don't want to hear about poo. If you're sick, tell me that you're sick and you'll get sympathy and best wishes. But please, don't tell me in gross detail about your excremental suffering. 

I think most people feel this way. We all poo, but no one really needs to know about it. Why then is it socially-acceptable the moment you have a baby to discuss their shit in such massive detail? 

On Saturday, we were joined by a couple who have an 8 week old baby. The little tyke had just had a poo before they joined us. It was fairly solid, about 2cm in length and an adult-finger in width. It was dark brown. It was his first defecation for the day. Overnight he filled two diapers with liquid shit. That was light brown. Some of it went up his back and ran down his legs. It was when she started talking about sucking snot out of her son's nose, that I completely switched off from the conversation and fell asleep. I woke up when the adults are allowed to talk again. 

I can understand that knowing the contents of your child's nappy is very important. To you. Whether he has, or has not, shat pure gold or strings of spagetti is not of any consequence to me - other than putting me off the lunch that I was inevitably enjoying up until this topic domination. 

I realise this will sound very unsympathetic to the plight of parents. I really do understand that your baby becomes your world - and this is how it should damn-well be. If you're not putting your child as number one (and therefore top talking point), then you probably shouldn't be a parent in the first place. But this is also one of the multitude of reasons why I don't want kids. I don't want to be that person that repulses and/or bores non-family members about their offspring's puke, snot and poop. I don't want to be that panicking parent, rushing my toddler to the ER because he has a streak of suspicious-looking maroon running through his turd, only to learn that he has developed a taste for multi-coloured wax crayons. 


The only people who are interested in a particular baby's kak-updates are family members and very close friends. No one else cares, unless it makes for a funny anecdote, and those don't happen as often as some parents might like to think. Statistical updates on the diameter of anyone's shit never used to be appropriate dinner conversation, so I don't see why it should be when you have kids. 

I know it's unavoidable topic in the parental mine-field. Friends have chosen to breed - and they will mention diaper changes, or poo consistency. But it's not ALL they talk about, and that's why we're still friends. I really don't mind hearing a bit about your kid's poo. I know it's important to you and I want to hear how things are going. We all dominate conversations with things that are important to us. But you know what's not cool? Letting me know about every nappy-change. 

I think the only way to avoid becoming that person who can talk, non-stop, for an hour about nothing but their child's poop, is to not have kids. 

It's my party and I'll whine if I want to

I am 360 moons old, this month. 


I will also shortly be - much as I hate to admit it - entering my third decade. 

When my friends gasped and muttered in horror about turning 30 before me, I rolled my eyes and thought, "what's the diff? It's not a big deal..." I kinda always thought that once I got there, I'd be ready. As if turning 30 was an exam that my friends simply hadn't suitably swatted up for.

But now that I'm teetering on the edge of my... *choke*...  thirties (oh god!), I'm having a little minor freak out of my own. People in their thirties aren't allowed to skip and sing to themselves - unless they're on a day out from their asylum. 'Grown ups' are also apparently not supposed to spend hours entertaining themselves by blowing bubbles - and watching the bubbles float off - with delight. 

My mild age paranoia may also be slightly due to the fact that for the last 3 years I've been ox-headedly convincing myself (and fooling no one else) that I was still in my mid-twenties. 

I've tried to explain this shocked realisation to my friends, with varying response. Those younger than me shrug... because, it's not their problem. They're still in their mid-to-late twenties. When they get there, to where I'm standing, they'll be better prepared. 

The older friends, those in their early-to-mid thirties, are surprisingly chipper about the whole adventure on their side of the play-park. They're still pretty cool, and they're fun to hang out with, even if they've wed and bred and all that (not that that's an age thing, but anywho). 

In general, they seem to exude a "come on in, the water's GREAT!" attitude. 

And I don't trust them. 

So, I've decided I'm turning 29.95 and I'm sticking with that until further notice. 


*Amendment: it's just been pointed out that I am not in fact entering my third decade, but my fourth. Because apparently some people feel that I'm not having a big enough crisis as it is. I'm ignoring them. If I can stay in my twenties, I can stay in my third decade too.

Sugar-rush

In our office, we have a gazillion types of tea (I'm not going to bother to count them) and three types of coffee. I asked if we could possibly include hot chocolate as one of the hot drink options. No particular preference, just a bit of cocoa. My request was turned down, because I was the only one asking for it. I didn't mind, I bought my own.

And it got used. Copiously. And quickly.

That pissed me the hell off. I only ever found one other staff member helping himself. I don't have a problem with sharing my stuff - as long as I've been asked first. It didn't help his cause that I do not like him at all. Massive creep.

There subsequently followed a fair-sized hissy fit to the inventory powers that be - with a strongly worded argument that I clearly was not the only one who wanted a cocoa-fix. We got communal hot chocolate shortly afterwards. I felt mildly vindicated in my cause.

I recently discovered a great version of jelly-sweets, which is effectively chewy sugar dipped in crystal sugar powder, shaped like pieces of fruit. Yummo. I buy a packet for myself every now and again. I offer the sweets around and plonk them next to me on my desk. Any and all are free to help themselves. I really don't mind - and it makes me feel slightly better to know that I've not eaten the whole bag single-mouthedly.

But it grates me the wrong side up, more than a little bit, when Mento helps herself - a lot - and throws in a sarky quip at the same time.

"Oh goodie, don't mind if I do." While she merrily mashes three or four sweets into her sweaty palms.
"More sweets? You're getting quite addicted to your sugar, aren't you?" Gulped through chubby-bunny-filled-cheeks.

And it especially riles me when she saunters over, only to discover that I have not in fact supplied her afternoon glucose fix for the day (or if I've seen her coming and spitefully hidden them from view). It's her reaction that irks me the most. Because she is honest to god completely taken back - she can't understand where the magic supply of sweets have gone. How are they not here?

She'll blink in disbelief, as if I've assaulted her with a glass of ice cold water, "OH! ...no sweets today? Are you going later? Are you getting more tomorrow?"

The look of surprise is that of a crazy cat lady who's just found her prized pet puking directly into her breakfast bowl (probably its revenge for a lifetime of being dressed in kitten-clothing). Why would her subject do this to her?

It's really, honestly, not the issue of sharing. I'll admit, I'm not always gracious about sharing food (and GBM has the fork-pronged scars in his hand to back this up), but this particular gripe is about reciprocity.

If you're eating my sweets, or my hot chocolate, or drinking my milk, or using my butter on a regular basis... How about a little contribution? Just buy it once. Even just acknowledging that you're aware your consuming my goods. Anything. Instead of just assuming that I'm your supplier, or that I won't notice your dull-witted leeching nature. Just a gesture. And don't act so annoyingly, inanely surprised when the source dries up.

 If you want sweets every day, if you know you're going to use milk every day, go buy your own (so that I have someone to steal from when I'm too lazy to walk in the rain).

Offline

Well, almost. But not quite.

After a merry weekend filled with extreme frisbee, extreme one-touch soccer, extreme hedge-barging and extreme catering, I checked in online for my flight yesterday. We didn't have a printer, so I chose the marvelous option of sending a scan/barcode to my email on my Kumquat (iPhone).

Two hours (and multiple GBP worth of downloaded data) later, I was still eagerly hoping to receive my electronic boarding pass. I tried again, this time requesting the confirmation by SMS. Download refresh. Download refresh. Download refresh. Nothing.

Every time I checked my phone, the battery dropped another notch, so about half an hour before I due to get a lift to the station, to catch a train, to catch a bus, to catch a plane, I quickly put my phone on the charger. You know, just a quick top-up to make sure I had enough juice to give me a few hours worth of audiobooks and iTunes and preloaded TV shows.

And that was the last time I thought of my phone before I was dropped off an hour later at the station. Sans Kumquat.

And oddly enough, I didn't actually care. I was pissed off with myself for being stupid enough not to pick it up before leaving, but on the other hand... it was one less thing to care about. I currently have two passports - one old and almost completely fill, but with functioning EU and US visas attached to it, the other new and almost untouched, but with one very important 5-year UK visa in it. I've got my work crackberry and usually have my Kumquat that contains pretty much my entire life.

I didn't panic because I knew exactly where it was and I knew that GBM could pick it up and bring it back home at some stage. And I usually ignore my phone when it rings anyway - I hate talking on the phone. I wasn't completely devoid of entertainment as I refuse to go paperless and had a magazine and a novel to keep me busy at the airport. So the only thing that bothered me, really, was that I was forced to listen to my surroundings again. Old school.

I think I'm getting tired of technology. I love that I can use it, but the moment I didn't have the choice, I was actually quite okay with it. That said, I don't know if I can last for a whole week (when GBM is due to return). Which is why I've asked him to drop it off at our London office tomorrow. I don't know if I can last a weekend sans Kumquat. That might be too much of an ask.

Ja... what he said.

I was 12 when the New South Africa came into being. The Rainbow Nation.

I often get asked what it was like, living under Apartheid rule, but I honestly don't recall much of the unrest as it was happening. I guess that's because we were still living in segregated communities for the first 10 years of my life. 

The strongest memories of "surviving Apartheid" that I can personally recall, are the bomb/attack drills that we had to practise in primary school and the fact that I called every black man I saw "Amos" because that was the name of my gran's gardener.

The bomb drills are a particularly ludicrous memory - a horrible whooping alarm would go off and we would all have to scramble under our desks, close our eyes, cover our ears and sing "Ol' MacDonald had a farm, ee-eye-ee-eye-oooooh" or something similarly innocous to ourselves. I assume the reasoning was to muffle the sights and sounds of our white classmates supposedly being butchered around us. I like to think of it as the Head in the sand defense mechanism. Why teach self-defense when they can just blinker themselves and pretend that nothing is happening?

I remember watching Mandela being released on TV, and asking my mother what all the fuss was about. I think I remember her saying it was a good thing for the country, but I had no idea why. 

I don't remember much else, really. I had a normal childhood, didn't witness any violence or unrest - other than what was reported on the news (still to a limited extent back in the 80s). But I did, without a doubt in my mind, benefit from it. And surely there aren't many white people in SA who can claim to have not done so. 

My parents could afford to put me through decent schools. We had two cars to our four-person family. We each had our own room. I'm not saying that it was cushy, or that my parents had it easy financially. Not even slightly. But it was better than 90% of the population. Much better. 

So, yes I benefited from the system of inequality. Sometimes I feel guilty about it, knowing what other South Africans were subjected to during those years. 

Other times I feel angry that I am expected to apologise for the inequality.

Peet van Aardt is succinctly refreshing about his feelings on this matter. To the point that I felt inclined to comprise this entire post with three simple words and a link: What he said.

It's a man's world

The men's loo is situated right next to the kitchen at the office, the doors are adjacent to each other. So every time I go to the kitchen for a drink, or something to eat, or whenever I leave the kitchen, chances are high that I will see and hear some one peeing. Because apparently men have no compunctions about standing at a urinal, treating us all to The Stance and the acoustic accompaniment of gushing liquid on porcelain. 

And for some reason, it really bothers me. I don't actually know why. I can't see anything. It's just that I know what he's doing. I know he's got his penis flopped out in his hands and I can hear it. I also know that most of them don't wash their hands and for this reason I'm loathe to reach in and close the door while they're there, which is how one of my colleagues chooses to handle it... by leaning in and asking in a very sweet, sing-song English accent, "Would you mind closing the door next time? Thank you". It's almost worth it because it always makes them jump. I'm just concerned that she might receive some splash-back one day. 

But that's just the way it is for guys, isn't it? They can like to pee, whenever. Wherever. 

Sure, they might get a fine for public exposure, but I haven't seen many men perturbed by the thought of this. The world is their urinal. I can't imagine, if the roles were reversed, and the ladies loo was right next to the kitchen (rather than on the opposite side of the elevators) whether the door would ever be left open. Even if there was a slight wall to shelter visibility, so that no one could actually see anything, I would want to be able to close doors. I want privacy when I drop my pants and I think most western women prefer this option. It's what we've been socialised to expect.  

Come to think of it, why is okay for men to pee in public, while not for women? If I see a woman openly peeing in the street (which certainly happens in the red light district, the beacon of class), I am horrified and even disgusted. How can a woman debase herself like that? Yet when I see men peeing on the side of the street, I usually roll my eyes and (depending on the mood I'm in) look the other way or make a point of staring. If they can't be bothered to do it somewhere private, then they must accept that people are going to look. Similarly, if I happen to cross paths with a guy peeing without bothering to close the door, I force myself to look into the loo - to look at him. It's all the more effective if he happens to look at the same time. If you want privacy, close the fucking door. 

I've done my fair share of peeing in bushes and I'm not exactly proud of it. But it is always as absolutely the last option and always in nook where I'm pretty sure I'm likely to see someone coming before they see me. I hope. It's a humiliating act, having to squat. And I think that's what it ultimately boils down to - men don't have to submit themselves to the ground, in fact they barely have to change their stance. Further to this, their clothes are designed to facilitate easy of urination. Women's clothes are not. Unless you choose to wear long skirts without any underwear, which is not a common combination (that I'm aware of anyway). 

For most men, if there isn't a toilet within 100m of where they currently stand, they're likely to stroll behind the closest tree. As long as they're sort of sheltered from the front, they don't care who can see them from behind. And so it is in the office place, and I find it incredibly disrespectful to anyone who is unlucky enough to have to witness it. 

The Year Of the Baby

I know it's just another stage of life, but it is still mind-blowing as to how many acquaintances, friends and relatives have either gotten pregnant or popped one out this year.

Of course, being a self-declared narcissist, I am certain that it is my power of association that is causing this gestation-affliction. No, not in that way. I just mean that clearly people around me are very fertile and I am clearly the common element. And due to the exponential growth of pregnancy announcements around me, I can also only conclude that my powers are growing. I've warned celibate friends to avoid eye contact with me, unless they are hoping for immaculate conception miracles.

That said, I think I am getting better at interacting in expectant circles. I still can't stop the wave of revulsion that washes over my face when unsuspecting strangers ask me if I'm "also hoping to have kids" at some stage. But I am getting better. I've learnt not to call the little scan-splotches tadpoles, thumbnails or worms. Apparently Bean, Lentil, or Pumpkin Seed are permitted. Similarly, I am not allowed to refer to pregnant friends as "preggo" or "knocked up" or "up the duff". I'm not sure why, they all sound like compliments to me.

It's all bravado from me, I know it is. You see... If I make it well known that I don't want details, I've realised that most people don't make any effort to stay in touch. It's sounds callous, and it probably is. But I don't want to hear emotional/soppy stories of how fulfilling/blessed the process is. And if I make my distaste known, then soon-to-be-parents who are soon-to-have-no-life-outside-baby-puke won't expect me to interact with their child when it is here.

And the ones who do have the patience to put up with both me and their kid, are the ones who count. They're the ones who don't expect me to get as excited or enthused as they are about their news. They don't try to convince me how wonderful the expectant period is; or patronise me with bullshit about "how I'll want it, one day" (tilted head, condescending smile). They don't struggle to find other things to talk about, besides their nursery preparations and prenatal classes. They tell me about their day and they don't sugar-coat it.

Yesterday, out of nowhere, I offered to take a 12-year-old for a cycle around the park. It came as much as a surprise to me as it did to her aunt (my friend). I honestly don't think I registered what I was saying until I had finished the sentence. Offering to take responsibility, on my own, for a preteen, who I have literally just met under an hour ago? I did a subtle breath-check on myself.... I couldn't smell any alcohol, I certainly didn't think I'd been drinking on a Sunday on my own... So what possessed me?

I still don't know. But I think it might be the fact that she didn't fit the bill of "little person". I never know how to talk to kids under 10. I genuinely have no idea at what stage of development they are, or should be, at. Can they converse freely? Are they still bemused by combinations of primary colours, can they read? Should they know things about current affairs yet?

And babies scare the crap out of me - if they're not pooping, puking or crying, then they're staring. Always with the staring. How are you supposed to handle that, besides making ga-goo-ga-ga noises in their direction, which appears to be the standard response for even the most intelligent of adults? Ignoring them is virtually impossible, because every other grown-up in the room will be attending to them or trying to get their attention. Babies are conversation suckers.

The difference with the kid yesterday is that she wasn't a baby, or a little person. Rather, she is a precocious preteen. I can relate to that. I was fairly confident that I could talk to her in an adult-manner, without screwing up my face and squealing in a high pitched baby-voice.

Perhaps I should make this a selling point... "Congrats on the birth of your baby! Let's pick this relationship up again in about 13 years or so."

I'll be the estranged Aunt Koekie, the one who teaches them how to swear profusely in at least three languages. Every kid needs one of those, right?

Telephone etiquette

I hate talking on the phone. If you can do it online or via email, please let's. I especially loathe receiving "blind" calls, where you don't have any context. There is a lot of waffling and nicety that you have to wade through before the caller usually gets to the crux of the matter, which is inevitably going to require a follow up email or letter (especially in a work context). 

Of course, one of the best things about the Dutch is that they are so good at getting to the point, but this is negated by the fact that our dealings are in English, their second language. Which admittedly is much, much better than if we were doing this transaction in my foreign tongue, but that's not the point here.

The point is that any call is usually a frustrating process as we try to spell things phonetically. They can't understand my pronunciation and there is always the confusion between the wonderful vowels. 

In English, a = ay; e = eee and i = eye. 

In Dutch a = ah, e = ay and i = eee. 

You can see where the problem comes in, right? 

"Okay, Meneer Fokker, you have convinced me to sign up to your mailing list for cheap bike deals. My name is Koekie, Kay-oh-ee-kay-eye-ee."

"Kay-oh-eye-kay-ie-eye-ie-eye-oh?"

"No. Kilo, October, Echo, Kilo, India, Echo. We haven't even gotten to my surname yet, which is Flamiefaejihg."

"Zegt..?" 

Also, if I see a call coming from a blocked number to my mobile, I am not going to answer. Okay, I can't do this at work, but in my personal life, it's a general policy. 

So now you know not to take it personally, because I realise this can offend friends and family. But I have received far too many "blocked" calls from unsolicited credit card/insurance/telecom providers, who chose to hide their calling details - and for good reason. So now I do not answer if I don't know who's calling. 

Based on the fact that the unrecognised number is not saved on my address book, I probably don't want to be speaking to you. If you've chosen to keep your mobile number hidden for personal reasons, I can respect that. Just don't cry to me when I don't immediately guess that it's someone I know and probably wouldn't mind speaking to.

So I have ignored your blocked number and you are now required to leave a message, how about adding a bit of context? Voice message protocol - if we don't have a personal relationship or previous communication, leaving your name and number is not enough to entice me to call you back. 

"Hi Kate, this is Tim. Please can you call me on oh-six-five-five-four-four-three-three-two-one?"

Yes I could, in theory, call you back. But I'm not going to. Because I don't know you. I don't know who you work for and I don't know what it's regarding. Based what you have not provided, I am going to extrapolate that you already knew if you had divulged this information, I wouldn't want to talk to you anyway. 

If it's that important you can call back - and this time, leave me a message, so that I can make a more informed decision as to why I won't be returning your call. 

*BEEP*

Hoffice Show and Tell

I almost understand why parents bring their reproductions in to the office. Almost. 


They're proud of what they've produced. A little monkeyesque in likeness, but still.. it's theirs, they have successfully completed the mammalian act of reproduction and they want the world to know. Fair enough. Society dictates that you have to be proud of this achievement and show it off (apparently hiding it in the basement until it is old enough to drink is frowned upon. Go figure). 

But why do people bring their parents in for a parade around? Or visiting friends? I just don't get this. Especially as it is apparently protocol in our office to introduce your guest to everyone, even if you don't work with them or talk to them on a regular basis. 

Intern (who wouldn't talk to me if we shared an elevator together): "Hi Koekie. This is my friend."

Koekie: "Hi. I'm Koekie"

Intern's friend: "Okay"

Koekie: "Good talk. I'm glad we could share this moment. May you live long and prosper, stranger-who-I-shall-never-have-reason-to-talk-to-again-so-not-even-pretending-to-remember-your-name. Have a nice day now."

Today, one of the finance employees brought their father into the office. I watched them doing the rounds, getting closer and closer to my desk. And then I did something of which I am not proud. I ran. And hid. 

I couldn't even handle the thought of pretending to talk to the Hungarian's father. So I walked down five flights of stairs and back up again, figuring that this should be enough time for them to do the rounds and skip my absent desk.

Don't get me wrong, I understand the need to show family and loved ones where you spend most of your waking hours. I really can. 'This is where I work, mom.... Now you can picture the base of my misery and mental frustration.'

But why do people need to introduce their family to me in particular? This is a stupid social requirement. Just bring them in, give a general "this is my dad" shout out (if you really must have us know) and then those who are interested/give a shit, can come up to you and your loved one for further conversation. 

Win-win. Dad gets to see the office, gets to see what we look like. If it's really that important to you, you can even point me out and tell him, "that's the one. The Office Bitch." I'm okay with that. 

But please don't drag the poor dude around, subjecting him to individual introductions of everyone at their work stations. Which is always followed by standing around awkwardly while you all desperately try to make conversation out of fragments of stale office air. 

"So... do you like Amsterdam?"

"Yes. But it is raining. It would be great if we could see it in sunshine."

"Yes it rains a lot here."

[polite chuckle all round. What a funny joke the weather is. Every time]

I hate small talk. I really do. 

Warning: do not come between a girl and her ice cream

A perk in my office is that we occassionally get DVDs. Some good, some bad, but they're new and up-coming shows so it's fun to watch before the rest of the world gets to them. I receive them, cos that's my department and I I make the other minions aware that a DVD titled "Blahdittyblah" or "Working Title" has been received. We generally don't know much or anything about the shows. They're unknown entities, view at your own risk. 

So this morning, I got a short email from a colleague in the finance dept asking if they could borrow one to screen at lunch time in the boardroom as a treat for his team, it being summer and quiet season. Sure, I replied, I'll put Blahdittyblah on your desk for when you get in. He thanked me and that was the end of our correspondence. 

At 1pm, as I was just starting to tuck into my post-lunch treat, he stormed up to my desk to demand why the screening wasn't "set up". I was genuinely taken back - I didn't realise that I was supposed to be putting on the DVD and pressing play. So I duly escorted him to the boardroom, where his team were waiting in eager anticipation. 

Facing him and his team, I held the DVD like a game-show prize on display. "Dee-Vee-Dee", I started, loudly and clearly.

"Dee-Vee-Dee Ma-chine", I pointed to the appropriate device, making sure I had everyone's attention, before pressing the open/close button, placing the disk in and closing it.

"Turn on Tee-Vee", I continued in Troglodyte. With a sweeping (and some might say, sarcastic) gesture, I pressed the button like Eddie Eckstein in his prime on Telly Fun Quiz.  

"So, in summation, DVD goes in machine, TV goes on. DVD starts automatically. Here is the remote for volume." I handed the remote to the team manager. "I think you can handle it from here."

I know the patronising tone was not necessary, but if he had made it clear that he wanted or needed me to coordinate his group screening, instead of arriving and bombing on me for his lack of communication, it might have been a different situation.

Maybe... but we'll never know for sure. Because the main reason for my irritation was that he completely destroyed my ice-cream indulgence experience.

Ben'n'Jerry's can only be fully be enjoyed without disruption or distraction; it melts much too fast when subjected to rude and unnecessary interruptions. 

Consider yourselves informed for future reference: Ice-cream comes before dumbasses on my list of daily priorities. 

Mentopausal

Blessed colleagues.

There are always a few characters, but my favourite at the moment is Mento. By general water-cooler consensus, we're all pretty sure she's on meds for cerebral reasons. I'm also fairly certain that she doesn't take them as regularly as she should. She is in her 60s, so for the most part we tolerate her... idiosyncrasies... 'cos, you know, some woman have issues with hormone levels at that stage of life.

She works on the other side of the office, but will on occasion take it upon herself to stroll over and inform me that she doesn't like what I'm having for lunch. It's never anything offensive. Maybe a potato salad, or a toasted sarmie... innocuous. It's not smelly and she can't see me from her desk. In short, she has to go out of her way to determine what I'm eating. So, just to be clear, she doesn't like what she is NOT eating, which nobody has asked her to eat and which by all accounts does not affect her all. 

Another favourite little trick is to stop at my desk and then rummage through my handbag. I don't know if this is part of her office supply stock-take, but she certainly didn't appreciate it when I asked her to let me know if I needed to buy more tampons. She looked at me as I'd lost the plot and quickly walked away without another word. Yes.... I'm the crazy one in this equation.

At least it's not personal. She has moments like that with everyone. She has on a previous occasion marched up to colleague and loudly informed him that he was going to Italy that weekend. Which he wasn't and when he pointed that out, she took offense, told him off for being rude and then stalked away leaving us all standing with bemused grins. We still have no idea what she based the statement on.

We're not sure if she genuinely lives in another universe, or if she's just fucking with us. Could be either. Both are equally disturbing.

Today, I was making lunch. Cheese on toast. Not smelly cheese, just your bog-average processed stuff. Not very exciting, for sure. Mento marches into the kitchen, peers over my shoulder, wrinkles her nose and proudly declares that she's having "a nice lunch". I put on my most tolerant smile and made suitably approving noises about her cottage cheese and bread selection. Very nice. Yes. Well done, you. 

All in all, fairly standard interaction with Mento. But then she upped the game. I stopped making my lunch when I realised that it was very quiet. Too quiet. There was no movement in the kitchen, even though she was still there. I turn around to see her standing right behind me, bread knife in hand. Just staring at the back of my head.

Not creepy at all.

She wanted to use the toaster, but instead of a) asking me to move so she could get to the appliance or b) waiting somewhere out of my personal space invasion range or c) coming back another time, she skipped straight to d) FUCKING PSYCHO.

I gently told her that a normal person would have vocalised their wish to use the same space, rather than standing over the offending person with a weapon. That, I explained is not what socially-aclimatised people do. Even I don't do that and I'm the first to admit I have aggression issues.

I departed the kitchen as calmly as possible, and think it says something to my bravery that I didn't break into a run screaming blue murder. I feel I need to publicise this little happening... just in case I come to a nasty end, where it looks like I accidentally tripped and fell on the bread knife seven times. It might not just be me being extra-clumsy. That's all I'm saying.

Lord, give me strength not to reply...

...Because it will get me into trouble. I share nothing with this email sender, besides our email domain.


-----Original Message-----
From: Bob
To: @International All
Subject: Announcement: My son

Hi everyone,

I would like to announce the birth of my son, born Friday 5/8/11 at 7:39 am. He weighs 5 lbs, 12 oz. and is 18.5 in. Both he and Mommy are doing just fine.

Thanks and regards,
Bob

------------------------

It is so tempting to reply...

"No, thank YOU Bob, how lovely to hear from you. I recently visited the gynae myself and she was just telling me how many people have babies. Every day. And not just people... Mammals do it too, successfully, on a daily basis without sending out a global newsburst. Congratulations to you and your wife nonetheless.

Please do keep me updated as the little tyke develops, I love random newsletters from strangers. It saves me the hassle of having to buy a newspaper just for the classified announcements.

By the way, I got the all clear on any STDs and ovarian cysts from the doc. Thought I'd reciprocate with an update from my side - I know how much you value this level of interaction.

Huge hugs and fondly inappropriate smoochies to you and wifey -
Koekie

Dunkley's 419 scam

I may need to find a new apartment in the next few months, so I'm keeping an eye out on the usual online websites and classified ads. Unfortunately dodgy scammers also like to keep an eye for housing hopefuls trawling these sites, so most of my interest has been met with crapola.

Original ad online:

EUR700 / 1br - FULLY FURNISHED 1 Bedroom Apartment (amsterdam)

---

Datum: 2011-03-14, 12:14PM CET
Antwoorden naar:

---

This is one bedroom FULLY FURNISHED apartment boasts over 60 square meters of living space. Luxuriously appointed and includes a modern kitchen with SMEG stainless steel appliances, air conditioning, open plan spacious living area, generous sized bathroom, balcony and internal laundry.Make use of the luxurious shared facilities which include a 20m indoor heated lap pool, spa, sauna.

• Lokatie: amsterdam
• Deze adverteerder kan NIET gecontacteerd worden met diensten of andere commerciële aanbiedingen

Right, so I have to admit, I saw the luxurious shared facilities and gave a little snort, but okay - let's see what this is about. 700 euros is relatively cheap for Amsterdam, but as with any city it depends what area, what neighbourhood and what size you're actually talking about. And "living space" can include stairwells and basements. Chances are, if it is for real, it's in a neighbourhood that I don't want to be living in, but anywho, go on... let's have a laugh.

I responded asking for the usual details on location and maybe some pictures.
I got this (I've edited some of the crap out, because it was just too long):

On Wed, Mar 16, 2011 at 9:20 AM, htr gwegw sdrdjfhvbhm@hotmail.com> wrote:

Thanks for your interest and inquiries about my apartment.Yes the Apartment is still available for rent and we are looking for a responsible person/family to occupy and maintain the Apartment now that I am not around.

I just traveled to West Africa [ED: in the region of Nigerian perhaps?] for a programme called Empowering Youth to Fight Racism, HIV/AIDS, Poverty and Lack of Education, the programme is taking place in major countries in Europe and Africa [blah-blah- blah about how he is such a good godly Christian blah-blah-blah]... We will be away for 3 to 5 years or more that is why I have made up my mind to put up my Apartment for rent to whomever that will take good care of it. Here are details of the Apartment:

Bedroom:1
Bathroom:1
FEATURES :
Electric Range [wow - electricity? And at a range too? Surely not!]Electric Heat
Garage [hahahahaha - NO ONE has covered parking in Amsterdam. Except maybe the queen]
AMENITIES:
Air Conditioning [and don't forget the electric heat mentioned above]Patio/Party Deck
Cable TV
Ceiling Fans
24 hours Internet service [this guy definitely comes from Africa]Dishwasher
Firepit [this is my favourite feature. I am sad that this flat does not really exist]Garbage Disposal [rubbish]Microwave
security alarm
Refrigerator
Washer / Dryer

Rent:700Euro per month
Security deposit:700Euro
Please feel free to ask any questions you do not understand and i will be looking forward to recieve your email as soon as possible.
Here is my phone number: Here is my phone number 0112348132758551 or +2348132758551 [this is a question for the class in general... who knows the dialing code for Nigeria?]
I am not around to show the inside, you can go check out the Apartment and the neighborhood from the outside and get back to me if you really like it for more information [great idea, how about an address or should I just stroll around Amsterdam?]

*********RENT APPLICATION FORM********
(Private and Confidential)

Also, Pls let me get answer to the application below :-
1)Your Full Name ?
2)Your Full Address Where You Reside Right Now ?
3)Reachable Mobile Phone Number ?
4)Age ? [No longer nubile. Too old for human trafficking]
5) Sex ? [Yes, so of no virginal value. Sorry]6)Are You Married ? [No, but I am worth 33 camels, 9 sheep and 4 goats]7)How many people will be living in the apartment? [dunno - how many other people have fallen for this?]8)Copy of Photo ID..(Optional)? [Optional, because we're going to slap someone else's face on the new ID we make from all this info anyway]9)Do You have a Car ?
10)Occupation ?
11) Citizen Of Which Country ?
12) How Many Month Rent Are You Willing To Pay ( First 1month rent + security deposit ) or If You Pay ( First 2months rent + security deposit) And Get 1 Month Free...So which one do you prefer ? [Call now and we'll include a free mail-order bride from Thailand!]
Looking forward to hear from you with all this details so that i can have it in my file in case of issuing the receipt in your name and contacting you. Await your urgent reply so that we can discuss on how to get the documents and the keys to you, please we are giving you all this based on trust and again i want you to stick to your words. We are putting everything into God's hand, so please do not let us down in this property of ours and God bless you more as you do this. Hope to read from you as soon as possible. Thanks and GOD bless you. I look forward to hearing from you asap.

Cheers!
Dunkley [hahaha, funniest part of the entire email!]

Other responses I've received have been less detailed, less obvious. Some of these guys actually bother to find a Dutch-sounding name (Nienke, Thom) and can even respond with pictures of some random flat, but all are unfortunately out of the country, unavailable to actually show the place in person - but with the security of a cash deposit "they can send the keys via Fedex in good faith".

I wonder how many people they actually catch out? Blessed be the meek and stupid, who shall inherit the earth - and then, god-willing, hand it all to the good Christian scammers from Nigeria anyway.

I'm thinking about changing my email signature... "We are putting everything into God's hand,so please do not let us down... God bless you more as you do this."

Poetry.

Toilet Paper

Yeah, you heard me. Toilet paper. TP, LP, bogroll, the thinking man's note book, that stuff.
So simple, so elementary, so useful. So fucking annoying at the most inopportune of daily moments.

Take for example the bog-roll in our office loos. It shouldn't stretch your imagination too much if I ask you to picture a standard communal/staff loo. The toilet paper is of course deeply ensconced in a metal casing. With a lock on top. Because of all things to steal, managers HATE to see whole rolls of TP waltzing out the door in their staff's back pockets.

Post-it notes and pens are fine. Epson finest quality printing paper? That's right there in the storage cabinet. We've got reams of the stuff. Free access to it - no questions asked. One-ply bottom of the range, most-quantity-for-least-quality, cheap-ass TP? We lock that shit away.

Anyway, so... metal casing. A tiny slot at the bottom (or the side, depending on model or sadistic tendency of the maker) through which the long-suffering cleaner/toilet staff will patiently feed the one-ply, recycled paper. And then the bog-user can patiently, and with great care, break off individual squares at their own discretion (we have no choice... the paper is so fine and the serrated line is so effective that even the minutest gust of wind is likely to break the perforations). So, square by precious square you are able to gather enough to complete your daily business.

But this only works for the first roll - and only as long as it does NOT break off at that precarious point when the weight of the remaining roll will rip the free end back through the feeding slot. Anyone.. it can happen to anyone, okay - because the toilet god hates us all. But most of all, the toilet god hates chicks. Especially chicks with tiny bladders. He is definitely a misogynistic god.

So there you sit, ablutions done, gently... geeeently... attempting to coax the toilet paper just a leeeetle further out of the metal box. Just one, maybe two more squares that's all you need to complete the deed. Suddenly, you feel the pressure changing. No-no-no-no-no! Riiiip... *Klunk* (heard from the back of the metal case as the toilet roll bashes against the wall with momentum from falling backwards and out of reach. If you listen closely, you can also hear a cackle and a hoarse whisper of, "my precious, I have you all, my precious.")

Frantically, you try to regain control of the toilet paper roll (oh, the saddest of power struggles). You can get one, maybe two fingernails through the gap in the metal box. You can almost, almost rock it back and forth... maybe just enough to find the torn remnants of your bogroll. You claw, you plead, you wheedle... but you cannot find purchase. There is nothing to grip. Eventually you lose patience (and all trace of sanity). You scratch at the inaccessible toilet paper like a cat that can smell the catnip but can't find it, attempting to create a new edge... a desperate attempt to start again. But now, contrary to all indications shown previously, you simply cannot get the 1-ply, rice-paper thin bog roll to break. It has taken on the consistency of malleable rubber. You can dent it, but you cannot tear it.

Realising that you have to be back your desk to coordinate a conference call in less than two minutes time, you gouge your finger around the side of the roll and scrape it back. Finally! You have succeeded getting some loo paper! Sure, it's the size - and length - of your index finger (which is now bleeding somewhat profusely), but it feels like one-ply gold sheet in your hand. Plus you have created a new edge with which to pull yourself to freedom to the end of this lavatory break.

You just wanted a wee... why couldn't you have been born a man? The world is their urinal; they don't have to fight for their dignity (and three squares of toilet paper) every time their bladder calls.

Yeah, this may be one occasion where I'll admit to having penis envy...
In. Unzip. Wee. Zip up. Wash hands [optional]. Out. Done.

Oh god, I need to wee. Again.

WARNING: This post may contain traces of swearing. If you don't like it, don't read it.

I blame the sun. The weather has just been too damn good for my passive-aggressive rants. There has been no incentive. But don't worry, the rain is back, the weather is turning. And I've just been through a UK airport.

Fuck I hate it. Just thinking about it gets my blood pressure up again. Inevitably I end up a) squeezing my eyes closed trying to will myself to not scream, hiss in someone's face or worse, attack a self-important uniform or b) in tears of pent up frustration, due to suppressing the mentioned emotions.

We had checked in online. You know, that marvelous little time saver, that they encourage you to do so that you can skip queues and have far more enjoyable travel experience? "Thank you for checking in online, if you do not have luggage to check in, you may proceed directly to departures. Have a nice flight!" or cheery misleading words to that effect.

What it doesn't say (well it does, in the fine print somewhere at the bottom of page 3 on your unnecessarily long boarding pass print out, just below the rental car adverts and above the gratutious hotel promotions) is that if you are a non-EU traveller, you have to get a stupid fudding piece of worthless crap red stamp from the airline you are flying with, to say that they have checked your documentation. But most times, this little red stamp isn't necessary (as it wasn't over Christmas and Easter when I flew in and out of the UK in the last 12 months), so we don't usually bother.

So, Mills goes to check in our one item of baggage, I wait in the background. If we can avoid them seeing that I am non-EU, it is usually much faster because the staff on the SleazyJet (or whichever airline we're flying) check-in counter, don't know which countries are EU and non-EU; they don't recognise a valid visa when it is sitting under the nose and inevitably we end up having to call over support staff while I explain that the card they are looking at is in fact valid EU identification. So we try to avoid them seeing my passport at all - it's USUALLY easier.

This time it wasn't. Checked in, boarding pass ready, we successfully beat the Russian tour group who appeared to also be milling towards the departures pathway... Definitely want to stay ahead of that confusion. Unfortunately the dudey checking boarding passes decided that, on this particular occassion, I did need the red stamp. I have no idea what determines when you should have it and when it doesn't matter. I think it largely depends on just how inconvenient it will be to my particular travel plans.

So I shouldercharged my way through the Russian cattle pack behind us, back to the SleazyJet (or equivalent) check-in counter, slammed my boarding pass on the counter and stated that I need a red stamp. Without looking up check-in dudette muttered, "what nationality?" She stamped the paper without asking for ID or even if I have a visa. She didnt even open my passport, and I don't think she looked at where I was going. But what a relief to know they have that red stamp system in place. Very effective measure of control.

Shouldercharged back to the departures queue, which was by this stage full of Russian tourists, lowing gently in their herd. Shoved red stamped boarding pass under dudey's nose and moved through to hand baggage - where this particular airport has decided to re-institute the "all liquids must be in a clear, see through, plastic bag".

Really? This hasn't been required for any of my flights this year. In fact, I'd actually heard vicious rumours and seen in articles that airports were easing the restrictions on liquids. But apparently, this particular airport had heard that the talent scouts for the "Anal and Aimed at bottlenecking painful Processes" awards were in the vicinity. And there were several contenders.

Right, so liquids must go into a clear plastic bag. I don't travel with one any more (because everyone else seems to have done away with this tedium, have I mentioned that?) But don't worry, for just 50p you can buy an empty plastic bag. Ja... about that... fuck off.

Instead, I grabbed a handful of my liquid/flammable products and simply held them in my hand. When I got to the front of the hand baggage queue, I shoved it into the lucky uniform's face and informed them that I didn't have 50p to buy a piece of fucking plastic (not in those words... I may have been irate, but I'm not stupid and I'm not finishing up a weekend away with a full body cavity search). Amazingly, she was able to produce a clear piece of plastic to hold my terror-inducing liquid and flammable products, for free.

I went through hand luggage without further incident. And here's the kicker - on the other side, I realised that I had only put half my liquid products into that essential "do it now, or admit that you are a suicide bomber" plastic bag. The other half went through without so much as a blink from the scanning operator. So I implore anyone who can answer this, to please explain... what the fuck is the point?

This sport is full of Kaka

Okay, I have to take a deep breath before writing this. It is not going to be objective - no pretense of that - but I am going to try to keep it lucid. I am going to try to explain why I don't make a habit of watching football/soccer on a more regular basis.

The sport itself is truly skilled. While most people in the world have trouble running in a straight line, these guys do it (not necessarily in a straight line, which makes it even more impressive) while propelling and controlling a ball - avoiding the overwhelming evolutionary temptation to simply pick the damn thing up. Also footballers are uber-fit, arguably some of the fittest athletes in the world. And yet, most top level footballers take pride in portraying themselves as eleven-year-old nancy-girls, desperate for sympathy from their overbearing mothers.*

I hate the fact that players are molly-coddled with a pet prodigy kind of affection when they make a habit of diving and performing after they've taken a glancing blow. I don't have a problem with actively looking for a penalty. Yes, it's frustrating - for both the fans and the player who has been forced into a wrongful position. But I think that is all part of the mental strategy of sport. Rugby teams do it. And I'll be the first to admit that I've put a few balls on to unsuspecting feet in the hockey-D (and received a fair few too). It happens.

But I hate that football (not soccer - I think that countries who still call it soccer are not [as] guilty of this) has made a culture of theatrical dives. Prima donna rolling and writhing is acceptable behaviour for a professional, grown man. This, in my eyes, puts international footballers on the same level as "professional" wrestling. When they do actually get hurt, I feel something similar to gloating... I feel like they deserve a little pain. Does that make me a bad person?

Don't get me wrong. I don't for one second think that these footballers can't handle pain. There's no doubt in my mind that they can. They are professional athletes, you don't get to that level without a little eina. Drogba is currently playing with a "FIFA-approved cast on his elbow". That's pretty hardcore. But the fact that they put such effort into acting hurt... that's what makes my blood boil. Just play the bloody sport. You've got the skill, we all know that. Now use it.

I've watched most of the World Cup games. I love the vibe. I've even downloaded a Vuvuzela app on my Koekie Kumquat... so that when Cloggies or Poms complain to me about the darn "South African trumpets" I can respond noisily without saying a word. But when I watch a South American team playing, I am reminded of why I cannot watch this sport on a regular basis. Because I cannot handle the theatrics every time someone so much as nudges past their elbow.

This is what I see on the screen:

It starts with a gentle tap from an opposition player in a stationary position... and the Brazilian is off! First, he opens the routine by pirouetting three times on the spot. Then he seamlessly bends his knees, crouches forward, and springs into elegant dive, twisting one-and-a-half times before planting his hands firmly on ground and completing seven elegant head-over-heels tucks... before eventually coming to a rocking stop, writhing back and forth while wailing and clutching at his left knee. No, it's his right knee.... No, it's his ankle - his left ankle must surely be broken! Bring on the stretcher! Oh... wait... it appears that no foul was awarded. He's shaking his head in disorientation and disgust, but after several months of therapy he may just be able to walk. He's up... he's limping... for all of one-and-a-half steps. Oh, he's fine.

(Hey, I warned this wasn't going to be objective. )

Once they've finished flailing on the ground and nobody has sufficiently bought their Raspberry Award winning act to give them a free kick, they decide that this is clearly because the ref simply can't see more than 30cm in front of his face. Which is something that we have all thought at some point in just about every sport. The footballers remedy this situation by aggressively demonstrating their case by shouting and flailing their arms directly in to the face of the ref. Again, this frustration is something that translates to every sport - but the difference is that even if you don't agree with the decision, in other sports (rugby, hockey, tennis) he who holds the whistle (or the mic, in tennis) has the final say. Massive, single-celled tighthead props might offer a monosyllabic objection to a rugby ref, but that's it. It's not a discussion, it's a decision. Footballers don't respect the ref, and I just can't bring myself to accept that.

I hate that Kaka got a red card in the recent Brazil-Ivory Coast game. The Brazilians had been diving as their livelihoods depended on it (as they do), and the Africans were getting visibly more and more agitated by this football style. Eventually one of the Ivory Coast players played them at their own game. He took a (horrible, over-dramatised) dive. Kaka got carded for it. Subsequently the Brazilians were the victims of an unjust decision and the Ivory Coast team were villified for their "cynical" behaviour. Say what now?? When the Brazilians were theatrically tripping over their own toes, the commentators were playfully offering constructive criticism on their diving technique. I wish the Africans hadn't played The Samba Kings at their own game, but they did. And they did it better.

But that match, and the way it made my blood boil, epitomises why I do not watch more football in a football-mad world. I would love to see a siting regulation set up for footballers. Where, upon subsequent TV-footage review, they could be penalised, post-match, for "cynical" and unsportsmanlike behaviour. In my happy (wishful) world - diving / tripping over your own feet / sending a swift elbow to your marking opponent's solar plexus would get you banned for the next three or four games, depending on perceived intention and severity. Then maybe I'd start watching.

But as it currently stands, I have full respect for the sport... I just have no respect for the players.

* Here's a video montage of some great nancy-girl Raspberry winning examples:

If there was one thing I could do without in the office...

...it would be awkward birthday gatherings. God, I hate them.

The general rule seems to be that the birthday person should provide cakes or snacks for the office community. I think this is rotten, stinking rule. Not only are you being forced to share your birthday with people you don't care about, and haven't selected to spend most of your waking hours with, but you also have to pay up and force them to "celebrate" with you. Urgh. Just so you all stand around awkwardly, as you patiently tell every person as they arrive what you did/are doing for your birthday, what presents you got and how old you are. And then... once you've run out of those topics and the cake is all but consumed... everyone inspects their fingernails to avoid eye contact, there are a few nervous smiles at nothing in particular and eventually someone mumbles something about those invoices not filing themselves and you are released from the horrific social torture.

And there is always one persistent pain-in-the-ass who insists on forcing a painful and listless "haaap-peeee-buuuuurth-day-to-yoooooooou," out of the audience. And then you all have to either sing along (I don't. I refuse point blank) or wait with a grimace until it's over.

To make the torture even worse, some offices expect co workers to put together a collection for an insincere, but well-meant, gift. Which you probably don't want, and wouldn't have chosen. In these circumstances, I feel inclined to say (and have actually done so in the past - but people thought I was joking): how about I not bring any food, and you don't buy me a present, and we just call it quits?

I sat through this actual conversation at an awkward birthday gathering. To avoid naming names, I'm going with the characters from the US Office series. Which is quite apt anyway. Sometimes I really do think I am living The Office. I wish I had a camera to pull faces at...

[To set the scene, we had just gotten to the point of awkward silence, nervous smiles and inspecting under nails to avoid eye contact]

Birthday Boy: Is it really sad that the first person to wish me happy birthday this morning was my divorce lawyer?
Jim: Yes.
Phyllis: Hey, come on - cheer up. It's your birthday!
Birthday boy: It's my birthday and I'll whine it I want to. [Mild tittering. That was almost a joke... awkwardness slightly less palpable. Maybe this isn't so bad?]
Dwight: It's his birthday and he'll wank if he wants to!

End scene. What the hell do you say after that?

I can understand why corporate bigwigs and HR would think it's a lovely concept. What a motivating idea, getting to know your team mates and other departments a bit better - without out it having anything to do with expenses! But, gawd, I hate the birthday burden.... so much that I am seriously concerned that one day I am going to actually vocalise my thoughts. You know, instead of saying, "well, thank you for the cake - enjoy the rest of the day"... I'm going to say, "Well, I can't be asked to pretend to care anymore. And I hate apple crumble." Or more succinctly, simply screaming incoherently while mashing cake into my face and hair. And then running out of the room.

I know of an employer that gives staff the day off on their birthday. Now THAT is motivating. It's not disruptive, everyone else just gets on with a usual productive day without having to pretend to want someone else's cake choice. The birthday person gets to spend it how he or she actually wants to spend it, instead of having to pretend that they actually like their colleagues.

*Disclaimer: I know that there are actually environments where the birthday gathering is not an awkward affair. I have worked in such environments, where it is actually fun to get away from your desk and have a little social natter over cake and a scone. Sadly these are the exception and for the most part, I would prefer not to have to deal with birthday obligations at work.