Tag: Life in Africa

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It all counts

We have four little fur babies that share our lives. We also feed the birds in the neighborhood. All of them I suspect. Who are ravenous. And two little mice, who come and go and at present are gone, possibly deceased.

The two cats, interestingly enough, are far less fussy eaters than the two little dogs. When it comes to little dogs, it is important to note that if you spoil them with all kinds of delicacies when they are pups, you are screwed forever and have no hope of changing the diet back to anything easy or reasonably priced.

I am in charge of the morning cuppa in our household and this involves feeding the ravenous cats. Lie ins are not permitted ever, they barely make it through the night from dinner to 5am feed. We have a very vocal Ginger, who screams in my face by 05h10. No need for an alarm.

My lovely man feeds the pups a bit later, who do enjoy a lie in, as long as there is a wee snack given to them as we enjoy a cuppa and a choccie bic. (This is not their snack, panic not).

My lovely man reports back as to how the breakfast he serves the pups is received. He is delighted if it is scoffed down and distressed if not. A discussion as to how we can tempt these fat, ungrateful and completely indulged creatures ensues.

I suspect, I suggested, the ratio of pellets to the other goodies, is too high.

How many pellets must I give them then, he asked unexpectedly. Twelve each I randomly suggested, in a panic.

Then, we were thrown a curved ball as the vet suggested we soften the pellets to help with aging teeth.

So, one of my 5am duties is soaking the pellets in advance of the feed in hot water.

Immediately, I received feedback… And criticism.

You are obviously not counting the pellets, I was advised, there were 13 and 15 in the bowl respectively this morning. And there was disdain and dissent at breakfast as a result. Will you count them please? We decided on twelve.

As it turns out, one cannot make and then break the rules here.

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Is that the complaints department?

My lovely man is prone to nightmares. I know, it’s awful, the poor bugger. Everyone in his dreams seems determined to beat him up.

It’s quite traumatic and involves a great deal of soothing and cuddles after a session of screaming and thrashing around. And that’s just for the pups on the bed.

We’ve got some help, so it’s much improved, but the occasional burst of terror sometimes means he throws himself off the bed.

So, to keep him safe, I ordered, (Takealot of course, is there anything you can’t get from them? I think not), a bed rail.

So, now he’s caged in on one side and is limited to throwing himself on top of me.

(Not sure I’ve properly thought this through).

He’s got quite adept at raising and lowering the rail, but before he does that, he follows his little ritual of sitting on the side of the bed and faffing with whatever we faff with before we turn in.

Darling, he says out of the blue, you need to get hold of these people about a potential design flaw of this contraption of mine.

Oh, I said, what’s that?

I’m in severe peril of clamping my ballsack everyday if I’m not careful, he shared.

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It’s OK to be juvenile

I am in insurance. I know, I know, not very exciting, but I am grateful for all that it gives me.

I have the most wonderful clients. Who, once again, I am grateful for.

A few of them are in construction, so every now and again I get an enquiry to put cover in place for a construction project.

This, sadly, as with a lot of insurance, requires the poor customer to complete a form.

People hate forms. Have you noticed? There is nothing that ruins a person’s day more than a message saying ‘will you complete and return this form for me please’.

I actually hate forms too. But only if I have to hand write it. Because I am, sadly, incapable of writing anything. I can barely sign my own name.

I advise the customer, when they need cover for their construction, that I have to apply for ‘Contractor’s All Risk’ cover for them, and will they please complete the attached form and return it.

Quite often, this results in them blocking me.

Unfortunately, the form is named “CAR/EAR proposal form”.

So, I wait…. and inevitably, the call comes.

I get that CAR may stand for Contractor’s All Risk, they ask, but what is the EAR, do I need EAR?

Well, I reply, the EAR is for Erection All Risk cover, do you need it? You tell me.

Silence… a giggle….

Even insurance can be fun.

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Mr Fernando stories…

Mr Fernando is the caretaker (I guess), of the building my little office is in.  Very pleasant fellow, carries my bag in for me, helps me open up etc.  Up until yesterday when my office door was fixed by a carpenter, it was quite an effort to open it.  A solid bashing with my hip if I was in company, and a even more solid rear ending if I was alone.  More effective, much less delicate.  Anyway, those days are behind me and the door now swings open effortlessly.   Mr Fernando does not speak any English and I,  we are well aware, am useless.  This does not stop Mr Fernando bonding with me.  My interjections of ‘Nao falo Portugues’ literally fall on deaf ears.  The man has a lot of shit to get off his chest I suspect. I have decided it is just polite to smile and nod.  It did occur to me this morning after our monologue that I am be agreeing to things I am oblivious to.  A very satisfied smile was bestowed on me before Mr Fernando wandered off to attend to his duties.  I suspect we are either 1) betrothed, 2) he is now in my employment or 3) I have agreed to include him in my will.

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A little misunderstanding

We had cause, recently, to spend some time in a hospital emergency area. (All is well).

They were very busy.. We had quite a wait.. I may, or may not have got a bit sassy in my negotiations for assistance.

A nurse popped in and said ‘I’m so sorry that your dad is having to wait so long, we are doing the best we can’

My lovely man didn’t hear her, we left the house in a hurry and his ears were not attached. Not a priority at the time.

I didn’t correct her, yaaay for me and my youthful glow and my lovely man was in pain and not looking his best.

Time passed.. I went looking for help.. Again.

When I came back my lovely man said…. ‘A lady just came in and apologized that she thought you were my doctor, why would she think you were my doctor, must be because you are bossing everyone around’

Love him the most.

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I’m as surprised as you are

Apparently there’s some summit happening in Johannesburg in the not too distant future.

With an all you can eat buffet I understand.

So, the SA President decided he’d better mosey along to see if the city of gold is prepared.

He was surprised to find the place is a shambles.

Anybody else could have told him this… Coz you know.. Everyone knows.

So, there were some stern words to get their shit together we read.

As with anything that gets tended to in Africa, it will only be nice and shiny where any of the summit delegates may venture. But hey, shiny is shiny.

Not 5 minutes after reading that the big boss is surprised and disappointed an email lands in my inbox.

The City of Johannesburg writes to little old me, that I owe them R125 for a traffic violation in 2012.

I was surprised. I’ve been in the dark on this matter.

I left the city in 2013 and I think by then, none of the traffic cameras were working in Johannesburg.

This was, most likely, this camera’s last gasp.

But hey…. That R125 is going to make all the difference.

So… There is evidence that they are indeed getting their shit together.

I’m a little sorry they had to start with me.

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Sounds reasonable

I belong to all kinds of groups across various platforms.

They often provide enormously useful information, but mostly I’m there for the humor.

A few of the groups are immigration and foreign residency related. So, they provide input on people trying to move to, live or work in different countries.

Dah…

This is a complex business as you can imagine. The Don, of course, makes it a lot easier. It’s just a NO from him.

I digress…

As I said… It’s good humor.

My favorite query to date.

I’ll just leave it here.

“Hy if I’m legally married to my ex husband  .can I get a life patner visa for  my boyfriend”

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It’s an emergency

My lovely man is big on health and safety. Big.

So, he was delighted when a worker injured his eye while helping us with something at the house the other day.

He could launch into action. My lovely man’s launching into action immediately involves me.

The fellow had hurt his eye.

Rosie, we have an IoD he yelled, bring the first aid kit.

It’s also necessary, it seems, to break into code.

Where’s the H&S SOP file he continued.

What? Rousing myself from the depths of an email.

We have an injury on duty he said somewhat impatiently, where is our standard operating procedure file for health and safety? And get the first aid kit.

I have a cotton swab, some bicarb and eyedrops I offered. There is no file.

He sighed… Obviously hoping I was in a position to perform surgery.

My lovely man’s biggest thing is ladder safety.

There was no ladder in this situation, but it didn’t stop him giving the fellow with the weeping, injured eye the lecture anyway.

If the man ever regains his sight, he will know it’s imperative to have someone hold the ladder. Oh, and never be without eye goggles.

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That might kill you

We have a recurring weed patch that pushes it’s way through part of the paving. Just a small section of the paving. When I pondered aloud as to why the weeds were coming up only in that section, my lovely man said that it was probably over the sewage section.

I’m sorry I asked.

So, we have to dig these wees out intermittently. We were told that a concoction of hot water and salt might be easier.

I suffered some conflict in this regard, which was scoffed at by my lovely man. But, it just doesn’t feel right to pour boiling water over any living thing does it?

Anyway, he asked if we had salt he could use to put in a jug of boiling water and I said that he could use some of the dishwasher salt.

The weed patch looks very sad now.

Then he advised me that he had used some of the same (dishwasher salt), to top up the salt grinders.

I don’t think…. I started….

Salt is salt he said firmly. In the VOICE OF AUTHORITY.

Well, Google says it’s not. Dishwasher salt is not to edible standards.

Proceed with caution if we invite you for a meal.

We recently had a visitor who developed a stomach bug. Not sure there is a connection.

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Not mum of the year then?

Circumstances have dictated that we’ve become a bit of a tortoise sanctuary. I get enormous pleasure from my handful of little hinge back tortoises. They, sadly, do not get as much pleasure from me… but there you are… they are a lesson in unconditional love really.

Every time we travel, I come home to jubilant welcomes from my pups and cats. Not to mention Mandova. Heartwarming stuff. The tortoises couldn’t really give a flying… nobody thunders out to greet me.

Tommy, the original chap, did find his way into my office the other day. I was ecstatic. He dropped a large turd and exited. I guess that was a request for indoor plumbing, who knows. We have a little way to go on house training.

We are up to 5 tortoises now.

Because my lovely household know how much pleasure I get from seeing them (I feel like I am living in a nature reserve when I sit on the verandah and a tortoise wanders by), they call me every time one is spotted. Because I am the only one who can tell them apart, I spend a lot of time looking at the same tortoise, who has moved a few metres and then been spotted again by my lovely man or Mandova. I actually don’t mind, I am grateful for their thoughtfulness and I do like seeing the little fellows.

We are still relatively ignorant on tortoises but what I can advise is there is a lot of sex. A lot. This has, inevitably, resulted in babies. Eggs, they lay eggs. The girls take weeks and weeks of rumbling around and digging holes to get to the point of actually producing anything. During this time, the sex doesn’t stop. There should be a crime line they can phone.

But, last night, my old girl, Tummy laid eggs. Great excitement. She is the biggest and presumably the oldest (ages are a secret not shared), and she’s really battered. Perhaps there was an errant lawnmower in her past. Doesn’t stop her getting lucky it appears.

So, she laid some eggs. Nowhere near any hole that had previously been dug. She laid them on the pathway paving. And crushed one of them during her labours it seems.

On the morning of the evening birth, she was quietly having a drink of water when she was rudely pushed into the water bath and assaulted from behind. She probably still doesn’t know by who. When I asked her this morning who the dad of this lot were, she advised that how do you even know what baked bean actually makes you fart?

This morning, Tommy was wooing her again. Straight after a night of labour! Rude.

So, now we have eggs. Whether they are fertilised or not is an unknown. They are surprisingly large. Apparently the survival rate is quite low because nurturing is not really in the nature of a tortoise. I gave Tummy some mushrooms and cucumbers this morning and congratulated her. She was not enquiring of what I had done with her growing babies. Not mum of the year this one.

A friend advised me that I need an incubator for the eggs. I informed my lovely man who said ‘wot, do they have incubators in the wild then, maternity wards and health care?’

Guess the eggs are taking their chances.