Left a good job in the city

Popping up to Botswana for the day again, and watching the silent movie content that South African Airways force-feeds you in cattle class. Along with the slapstick TV gags, they have a loop that runs on the TV plugging Kwa Zulu Natal. One of the features is an artist, who is apparently from an "imminent" family in KZN. Maybe she's pregnant. It reminds me of one of my old posts on a similar subject. Anyway, I was in Botswana for a client's board meeting - very interesting, more for what was not being said than what was. The interesting and important conversations take place in the bars and restaurants at the Grand Palm Hotel and the Gaborone Sun, and by the time the board meets it's a bit late to change things. It's tough for a teetotaller. If flights are anything to go by, then Botswana is booming. The plane from Gaborone to Joburg is always full - I have not seen more than 2 or 3 empty seats at a time in dozens of trips. The seats are often filled with laptop toting consultants like myself, sweating in their suits. The economy is booming because it can afford these people (people like me), and it has the confidence that there are ideas worth throwing money and consultants at. Whether the migration of consultants bodes well for the future of Botswana's economy or not is an open question.

I've just noticed that it's over a year since my last blog here. In the meantime I'd been blogging elsewhere about my work woes - elsewhere because I had got a bit liberal with the address of this blog. I don't mind complete strangers reading about my professional life, but the concern that it might get to the people it was about led me to create another one.

Anyway the upshot of the business bollocks is that I am now freelance. That means that I no longer have a permanent position or a guaranteed monthly salary. It also means that I don't have to fill in budgets, attend board meetings, go to corporate away days, do workshops, be nice people I don't like. It's great! If I'm working, I'm getting paid. If not, I'm free! And broke. Luckily so far I've been busy, with a month off over Christmas. Perfect.

Back soon. Probably

One of the nice things about South Africa is that it’s a metric country. What this means for a relocated Pom is that I live in blissful ignorance of some of the important issues of daily life. For example, I find from the scales in the gym that I weigh about 96kg. Sounds good to me. Then I converted it, and discover that I am over 15 stone, which came as a bit of a shock. I’m not a complete fat bastard – I am 1.91m tall, after all, but 96kg was OK before it was 15 stone plus.

I have the same problem with temperature. Yesterday was bloody hot, and then this morning some mist had come in and it was lovely and cool. Lovely and cool, according to the thermometer on my desk, equates to 26 Celsius. That sounds OK, until you fish out the converter and find that 26 is 79 Fahrenheit. That used to be hot when I was in London – the kind of temperature that merited newspaper comments and columns offering advice like “wear loose clothing” and “drink cold stuff”. After yesterday it’s blissful. Yesterday was about 38 / 100, and still too, so that cupboards opened this morning dealt a waft of hot air trapped there overnight.

The final metric confusion is the tricky one, as yet untested. How do I persuade a traffic cop that I thought the speed limits were in miles per hour…?

One of those email pictures that does the rounds every so often has a picture of an alluring young lady, with a caption that reads something like “somebody, somewhere is tired of her crap”. So it is with old cars. To pinch the old adage from the yachting fraternity, the two happiest days of your life are the day that you buy your classic car – and the day that you sell it. When you first clap your eyes on the next infatuation, you see only the good stuff. The previous custodian has decided that enough is enough, or has moved on to a younger model. He has seen the error of his ways, and found out that under the paint is a high maintenance lady. You, on the other hand, have eyes only for the alluring curves. Thus classic transactions are little oases of happiness – as the buyer rids himself of an expensive affliction, the seller fulfills a dream. Neither can quite believe that he’s getting away with it. It’s a perfect transaction.

Some of us, of course, are in for the long haul – women, cars or both. To my mind, that requires a special kind of man. Infatuation gets you through the early stages, but if you are going to make it for the long term commitment, then you need to put in the work. Just occasionally, too, it helps to get a bit of help or advice from someone who has been around the block a few times. Such an occasion took place this week, with me despairing over a car that had been stuck in the garage for too long with a leaky water pump. Having fixed several non existent problems, I enlisted the help of the older generation. A friend helped me out with a replacement pump from one of the many bits he has lying around, and my own old man, who is out here on holiday - or so he thought – fitted it whilst I was at work.

You will be pleased to hear that there is a happy ending to this story: the new old pump doesn’t leak, and I am now enjoying my second honeymoon. Long may our passion last!

Let me recount an incident that I witnessed a while ago. It took place at a coffee shop near my kids’ school – the one with a carpark that fills up at 8am with 4x4s, erratcially parked by mothers the wrong side of their first cup of coffee. This place is quite smart – it even has some white waitresses, and all the staff are friendly and efficient.

I was having a cup of coffee and minding my own business when I saw one of the staff near the door, miming to a customer on the outside who was struggling to get in. The customer had presumably pulled on the door handle, and his helper inside was miming a push. This went on for a second or two, before the waiter stepped over to the door with a grin on his face, and slid it back on its runner. I thought this was hilarious, then in the painful second as the victim entered, another dimension occurred to me. The waiter was black, and the customer was white. These things have significance in South Africa. If I felt a bit sheepish about not being able to open a sliding door, and felt irritated that a lowly waiter was taking the piss, how would I feel that he was black as well? On the other hand, not that long ago, the waiter would never have dared to do what he had done. A complaint to the manager could well have resulted in unemployed waiter. I watched with interest.

The customer smiled and the waiter showed him to his table. Such is progress in this rainbow nation.

My wife is pregnant (he remarks as if he his last blog was just yesterday), which is creating a bit of a problem in bed. The additional girth, you see, creates a bit of a physical problem. It’s the duvet. Under normal circumstances, I am bigger than my wife, and therefore I have the edge in the nocturnal battle over the duvet, Cape Town still being a bit chilly in the evenings towards the end of winter. As it is now, she has additional leverage, and so when she starts to reel it in, I just spin. The situation seems hopeless.

Fortunately, the solution occurred to me: it’s like big game fishing. When you are reeling in a big fish, the trick is to give it some line when it’s really fighting, then to reel in when your opponent comes in your direction, or tires a little. So it is with duvets. The trick, though, is not to be too greedy. Too much duvet and you will be slumbering gently whilst the whole thing is whipped off because the other side of the bed has got too cold. If you happen to be holding on at that point, then you are liable to whiplash or other injury. Try explaining that one to medical aid. If your opponent is as devious as you, the duvet will be retracted gently until you find yourself dreaming about being arse deep in a snowdrift. At that point it’s too late – you’re too cold to warm up enough to get back to sleep, so you may as well get up and make breakfast. It’s good practice for when the bump is waking you up of its own accord. Isn’t nature ingenious?

This really is the best time of year in Cape Town. The weather is still warm but not too hot, the wind has died down a bit, and most of the tourists have gone. Don't tell anyone. Better still is that the combination of a Christian heritage (Easter), the peaceful revolution (the first elections), and some communists in power (Workers' Day), we get four 4-day weeks in a row!

I just found an article in the Telegraph about South African English: takkies for trainers, robots for traffic lights and stoep for verandah. The writer missed out bakkies and braais, but it reminds me of a friend (who is long overdue a trip back here if he's reading) who was convinced that Cape Town airport had been renamed for some African hero as opposed to whichever Afrikaaner it had previously celebrated. This was because of the signs to "Lughawe Airport", the first word presumably the name of said warrior, and pronounced Loog-ha-way. Lughawe is, of course, Afrikaans for airport, but it makes me smile every time I see the sign...

I have a colleague / employee who just resigned. By email. Let's call him Phil.

Anyway he's now sitting in the office, sulkily serving out his notice period because not having him starting on what he wants to do next actually suits us. Trouble is, I'm now in the same situation as when you've just decided to dump a girlfriend (or a wife - haven't you got the Phil Collins link yet?). His continued presence just serves to remind me of all the reasons I don't want him around. He is from wealthy Cape Town stock, went to a very smart boys school in Cape Town - let's call it Curate's. Curate's boys are a breed apart, at least they like to think they are. They have that impenetrable arrogance and self confidence that comes from never having had to worry about how daddy was going to pay for whatever they needed next. This particular Curate's boy is particaularly irritating, being in possession of an Angelina Jolie style social conscience and a wealth of certain opinions on any topic you care to mention.

Did I mention he's a spoiled brat? This is what those kids who get what they want, when they want, grow up into - and I use the term "grow up" loosely. He's finding that people aren't bending to his will, so he's not a happy camper. I'd like to tell him all this, but it doesn't pay to vent at work, so I'm doing it here. Tosser.

Thanks for listening. I feel better now.