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I was talking to a friend who has applied for something recently and been subjected to some tests.
As she was describing them I said… Oh yes, those are those cognitive tests.
I’m not sure how well I did she said.
Sometimes, I said, I fail those little block tests confirming if you are a robot or not.
Thank you, she said, I feel better.
Quite often, when I slog up the stairs to my little house in the clouds (there are 36 stairs), I get a bit apprehensive and am convinced someone is following me.
So, I whip around, heart in my mouth, to defend myself….
But, its only the sound of my thighs rubbing together I’m hearing.
Spam and telemarketing calls…..
Don’t you hate them?
As I write this I realise I am spam. Still, never mind hey?
I once bought something of Brian Tracy’s. He’s a sale guru, and credit to him, he’s brilliant. But…. My word, he doesn’t give up.. Doesn’t matter how many times I unsubscribe, a bit of time passes and I’m back on that mailing list. I’m not even sure the man is alive even, and he’s still trying to sell me something. Like a phoenix from the ashes…. I feel like I have been in a relationship with Brian Tracy for decades.
And unsolicited telemarketing calls! Hate them. Especially those ones that are just a recording yelling at you. Really? What?
Actually it’s a miracle if I answer my phone. I am not fond of receiving phone calls. There is nothing that can’t be voice messaged or texted people!
If someone has died, kindly text me ‘someone has died, can we schedule a call’ and then I’ll send a meeting request see?
If I do miraculously answer the phone and it’s a telemarketer, I try and be kind. Coz really, it’s got to be one of the most demoralising jobs ever. (And I now get telemarketing calls in three countries). But then I tell them I now live in Kazakhstan, that they are paying roaming costs and I don’t have money to feed myself. I ask if they can please send me money, or at least take me off the call list. They do neither.
I also interrogate them on their success rate. Because honestly, does it work?
In Zimbabwe a common request when anyone is looking to purchase a vehicle is for a ‘fuel saver’. The type of vehicle required is unspecified, it must just run on the sniff of an oil rag.
With, of course, the exception of government officials. They require a ‘gas guzzler’.
Zimbabwe is a horrendously expensive place. So, it’s natural that saving costs is a concern.
As a result, the most popular form of public transport taxi is a Honda Fit. A Honda Fit is not a big car, its a 5 seater. Clearly its been tried and tested as reliable and a fuel saver.
It’s necessary, it appears, to tint the windows of your illegal taxi. Presumably to make it more difficult to count how many people are squeezed in. 10 to 12 is pretty average. It’s not clear if the very little boot has the luggage, or more people.
I am particularly delighted when there is a passenger standing on the running board and holding on to the roof, because they just couldn’t quite get one more inside, but a long distance lift was required.
I’m unsure how the insurance works in these scenarios. Or if the guy hanging on gets a discount on the fare.
I will be stopped at a road block because ‘it appears your reflector sticker may start to peel slightly soon’. This as a Honda Fit rolls by with a spanner as a steering wheel and 44 people crammed inside.
I had a Honda once and remember that it was quite expensive to service. Obviously I was doing it wrong. You know, with genuine parts and a registered mechanic.
Your mate next door can do wonders with cable ties, sticky tape and whatever is lying around. Very economical.
My brother actually has hair, and at one stage kept his hair very long.
My sister-in-law met him at this long haired stage, so she’s obviously a keeper.
He now chooses to keep his hair very short and diligently shaves it himself once a week with some fancy clippers he has.
He offered to get my lovely man same fancy clipper, but my lovely man quite enjoys being pampered by the cuties that come around periodically in Beira and Harare to groom us.
Not to be confused with the groomers that come around periodically to clip my Bella and Alfie.
Prior to my brother getting his fancy clippers, and possibly the reason for him getting the fancy clippers…. He was somewhere (his lovely wife in tow), getting a haircut.
The fellow apparently asked him if he would like his ear hair taken care of (yes, he is also at that age). Unwittingly, my brother agreed.
Before he knew it, he had wax inserted into his ear canal and an ear bud sticking out of each ear.
My sister-in-law’s only regret was not having a camera.
At this point, my brother thought this was his biggest problem. Not so, that stuff was then pulled out.
Spontaneous tears.
Would you like me, the fellow asked, to do your nose hairs?
This relationship, my brother replied, ends here.
My brother and sister-in-law are visiting my lovely man and I from the States. We are spending some time together in Zimbabwe.
My brother has not been back to Zimbabwe for 40 years. His lovely wife has never been to Zimbabwe.
Last week we were in Victoria Falls. What a place. Nothing is too much trouble for the people there. The whole town and surroundings are geared to make your experience exceptional. And it was.
And of course, there is the falls, and the river. The Zambezi. Touches your soul the Zambezi.
In case you didn’t know…
“The Zambezi River is the fourth-longest river in Africa, the longest east-flowing river in Africa and the largest flowing into the Indian Ocean from Africa.”
And now we have a few days in Kariba. Another special place. Again….. the Zambezi…. this time with a lake. Hot in Kariba. Even at this time of the year, the start of summer.
When you spend time in places like this, you realise again how very, very hard it is to leave Africa. How much there is to appreciate.
And here I am. With people I not only love, but I really like.
My cup people, runneth over.
My lovely man can’t hear when I let off a quietish fart.
This has been a fairly liberating revalation.
There are few advantages to having a hard of hearing lovely man. This has to be the biggest.
I’m not a fan of farting. You know, us ladies just don’t. Or we don’t admit to it. And I really don’t appreciate it when others fart near me.
But the truth is we all break wind. Apparently 10 to 20 times a day.
And then… You know, he feeds me lentils regularly. It’s not easy people.
So, I’ve become a bit too casual about the whole thing.
As it turns out, my sister-in-law is not hard of hearing.
My brother and sister in law are visiting from the States for a bit. Aren’t I the luckiest?
So we are away for a few days.
Does your lovely man hover around you as soon as you start packing, requesting if he can close up the suitcase yet?
Now that we are here he is watching me eye the lovely towels, gowns and pillows. Hotels always have great pillows don’t they?
Don’t you dare take anything he warned me, we know these people. They’ll come and find their stuff at our house and then I’ll never be invited to play golf with them again.
What a killjoy.
Also, my little panties I am washing in the shower (as we do, tell me I’m not alone here), are disappearing. Any suggestions on how to broach this at reception?
We flew recently. Yes, like on a plane.
It was a fairly early morning flight, so I was hoping for a nice fresh bacon and egg roll.
Expectations, they’ll keep you miserable.
We got a snack box.
Immediately my lovely man identified the snack box boxes as being potential rat box boxes. Once you are a pest control officer, it’s amazing how you see a rat box in everything.
Can you fit them in your bag he asked.
I actually have an enormous, very heavy handbag. And this, I have realised, is why.
Can you put this in your bag… Is the soundtrack to my life.
Nevertheless, I once again I realised how wonderfully balanced my lovely man and I are.
He didn’t fancy his energy bar, I took his for the team.
I didn’t want my apple juice, he drank both.
He didn’t fancy the biltong stick packet, I helped him out.
He didn’t think much of the little packet of cheddar biscuits…….
Yes, I too have realised I ate everything the revolting snack box offered. He’s hydrated, I’m a dried out prune.
I am at the age of greying hair. I am uncertain as to how grey I am, as I regularly colour my hair.
A number of friends have taken the bold step of allowing the grey, and they all look fantastic. I am not yet this courageous. It’s a bit of a process I believe. My hair grows like a weed and I have a lot of it, so I have to colour regularly. Box colour, full disclosure, I am not glam.
The problem with colour is it gets on your face. You have to be quite diligent about wiping it off carefully when you first apply the colour. Or it stains, of course, in places you don’t want to colour.
Today I failed.
It’s easier to get colour off your skin (it’s not built to colour your skin I guess), but I have a fluffy face. I am grateful, as I age, that unlike my lovely man, my ear and nose hair are not aggressively increasing (what’s with that anyway? Why?). But, my already fluffy face is coming out in force.
I’m like a little Alpaca. A chubby one.
Hair, is what hair colour is meant to colour as it turns out.
So, now I have red sideburns. Mutton chops really.
Best displayed in the sunshine.
The bathroom is sunny. My lovely man walked in and said ‘How’s your hair looking….. oh…. can you shave those?’
I’m quite certain that shaving my face will quickly become a slippery slope.
We have coffee in a bit with friends. In a garden setting. It’s a gorgeous sunny day.
My lovely man never has to worry about me betraying him, nobody else would want me.