Metrofail. Again.

 

The trains during the World Cup have done anything but run on time. “The such and such a train from Simons Town to Cape Town has been cancelled, we apologise for the inconvenience” is a great line we hear blared over the loudspeakers in a barely distinguishable accent, almost daily. Fantastic, that just makes everything all better. Take a few weeks ago as an example. I had a doctor’s appointment after work at 6, and this is one of those doctors who you pay for if you don’t turn up. You’d think an hour would be sufficient for me to get from work to the doc, seeing as I work across the road from the station and the trip is 20 minutes. But no, thanks to Metrorail I didn’t get there on time. My train was cancelled. The next train, 15 minutes later, left late. Then the train broke down and stopped on the tracks for 10 minutes. I got there at about 6.20, having left work at 5. 

On Wednesday, the train I was on broke down and all the lights went out. Now, at 7 in the evening, this was such a lovely experience – being surrounded by a group of strangers in a dark train carriage. This was after my original train was cancelled, and the next train to leave was late coming in so we were late to leave. The estimated leaving time of the train kept moving 1 or 2 minutes forward. Now, the board with the train times and platforms had told us our train was leaving from platform 7. Then, Metrorail announced that it will be leaving from platform 3. You’d think someone could update that on the board seeing as its electrical. But wait, only one of the boards announcing the train times is actually working, the other is blank. This is happening during the World Cup people. 

The people on the trains are also pretty retarded. In the morning during rush hour, the trains get so full that you can’t get on them. But on closer inspection, you notice that there is lots of standing space further down the carriages, but people still choose to hover around the door, as if moving down the carriage is some threat to their personal safety. Common sense much? NO! Not any! When I board the train, I usually move further down the carriage so I don’t have to stand squelched next to someone who hasn’t discovered good hygiene, and also so people are able to get into the carriages. 

You should see people’s faces when I say ‘excuse me, can I get past please, there is so much space there.’ They look as if I have kicked them in the groin with a steel capped boot. The look of utter horror and shock as I push through to get to some space is unbelievable. I have seen people unable to board the trains because they are so full around the doors, but have standing room further down the carriage. It is as if people cannot put 2 and 2 together: crowded space next to un crowded space – move to un crowded space and crowded space becomes less crowded. 

Another joy of train rides is the token DJ, playing music from their phone to the whole carriage. Oh yeah, we all want to listen to Akon or other drivel like that after working a long, crappy day and getting rained on for 10 minutes before boarding the train, Thanks buddy, it’s all good now I have your cellphone music in my ears. It’s a real treat when you get not one, but two wanna be DJs on the train! What joy! And neither one wants to give up their music so we sit, listening to two shitty RnB/Hip Hop artists for 20 minutes, AT THE SAME TIME. 

Last but not least is chivalry. It seems to be pretty dead. I have seen elderly women standing on trains, while twenty-something, healthy men are sitting happily on the seats. I have seen pregnant women standing too. If I am lucky enough to get a seat and I see a pregnant woman or an elderly person – I give up my seat. It’s just good manners. This would be another time when people’s mouths drop open in shock. The other day I gave my seat to an elderly lady and after the (once again) horrified stares from people in the carriage I felt like shouting ‘well it seems I have more balls than all the men on this train so I thought I had better behave like man is supposed to, and offer her my seat.’ 

I really need to get my driver’s license, and get away from these morons. Metrorail morons and passenger morons.

Rant rant rant rant

When am I going to meet a man that does not have ‘conditions’ attached to him?

I am so fed up of hearing utter crap like:

“I don’t do housework, paid work, wash often or mix with your friends. That’s just the way it is.”

“I work away on oil rigs for months at a time and have lied about screwing your housemate. That’s just the way it is.”

“My best friend is a pregnant pre-divorcee and I am willingly filling in the role of the absentee dad. That’s just the way it is.”

“I have a problem with heroin and crack and will steal your stuff. Oh, and I cheated on you. That’s just the way it is.”

Where do I find these guys?

I mean, is it ME that causes this? I can go overboard on the paranoia, but do you blame me?

FFS.

Mugged AGAIN. Gosh, darn it.

Last night a friend, her boyfriend and I were mugged in the lovely hippy-town of Observatory.

To be quite honest, I used to live in Obs myself, and lets just say, two of my exes had dreadlocks and “only smoked hash, man.”

In the years I have lived in Cape Town (since 2001), I was mugged, had a gun pointed in my face during a robbery, had my house robbed when I was at work on two occasions, a friend from university’s boyfriend was murdered, a friend was murdered, two people I know have been stabbed, the list goes on.

Part of me is shaken, the other part angry. I find it so arrogant when people take something that is not theirs, and they have not worked hard for.

Now my friend has been left without a bag, a phone, any ID documents (she’s foreign so this is a big problem), flat keys or her university notes. Worst of all, her diary was taken, a complete violation of her privacy.

But, rather than continue to bitch or give in to my sudden interest in leaving the country, I am trying to get on with things.

There are so many things that annoy me about South Africa, but there are so many more things I love.

But ‘skaroo’ those assholes that mugged us. I hope they don’t come out as good as they did the next time they attack someone.

MetroFAIL

Yes MetroRail, I really do hate you. You are the epitome of the South African incompetence that I am so sick of. Here I sit on a broken down train that is supposed to be the express train. The only thing express about this train is how quickly it is pissing me off.

On Wednesday night, I worked late. There is a train which leaves the station at 6.58pm exactly and I was on the platform at 6.57pm wondering where the bloody train was. I asked a guard who was standing near to me and probably needs therapy after dealing with me.

‘Excuse me, but where is the train?’ I asked her. ‘Oh it left already’ she replied with a beaming smile. ‘How can it have left already?’ I bellowed, ‘look at the board, it is not meant to leave for one more minute!’ ‘Oh’ she replied, ‘there is another train at half past seven from platform 5′ she beamed. ‘But why did the train leave early! It does this all the time!’ I shrieked. ‘Oh, I don’t know, sorry, you have to complain to the manager if you have a problem.’ ‘Well, seeing as I have over half an hour to kill, I’ll go and do that, where is their office?’ I asked, to which she replied, beaming smile intact still, despite the fact that I had steam coming out of my nose, ‘oh sorry madam, the office is closed’.

I’m very proud of myself however as I managed to restrain myself from punching her teeth out. But this is a daily occurrence with Metrorail. Trains leaving early, leaving late, not arriving at all or breaking down. And this is the best part- on the odd occasion that they do announce delays, their way of making it up to everyone who is late for work is to say… ‘we apologise for the inconvenience caused’. Bastards.

I don’t even know why I bother to buy a ticket, as the guards are usually too busy gossiping amongst themselves to check that my ticket is valid. As usual, the monopoly wins.

SPCA HELPS WITH TABLE MOUNTAIN FIRES

Table Mountain fire:

SPCA rescues injured wildlife COGH SPCA Chief Inspector Andries Venter carries the severly burnt grysbokkie to safety.

Andries Venter with injured bokkie

The greysbokkie when we found her

Wildlife is the main casualty of the fires on Table Mountain – and the SPCA has had its hands full with urgent rescue and relief missions.Although numerous wild animals have been rescued, more casualties are expected while the fire still burns – and in its aftermath – and SPCA Inspectors remain on full alert. To date, no domestic animals appear to have been affected, but the SPCA urges pet owners to keep a close eye on their dogs and cats. One of the heartbreaking casualties of the fire was a grysbok, whose plight was brought to the attention of SPCA Chief Inspector Andries Venter by the City of Cape Town’s Disaster Management team. The grysbok was found in a quarry near Vredehoek, with severe burn wounds on its legs and face. It was unable to move because of its injuries. The animal was rushed to Dr George Coury at Citi Vet in Gardens, where it was put on a drip and given emergency treatment for its pain and injuries. Unfortunately it suffered internal injuries from smoke inhalation and passed away.

To report injured animals – or for more information about the SPCA’s rescue efforts – please call 021 700 4158/9 or contact the SPCA after hours emergency number: 083 326 1604.

Meep.

Dilemma. I have much to write about. But my topics generally concern people I am good friends with and who read my blog.

When I am wanting to rant or talk about something in my life that is reasonably humorous and good blog fodder, there is always the ‘risk’ (certifiable DEFINITE chance) that someone will read it who knows that I am talking about them and get pissed off.

Oh the dilemma.

I’ll just write about people who don’t read my blog.

Serves them right for not reading it.

ASSHOLE!!!!!!!!!!! *%&#$^#*!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I am seething right now. Abso-fucking-lutely SEETHING.

As previously mentioned, my complete DOOS of an ex-boyfriend likes his facebook profile picture to be of him and his new, shiny faced, big teethed girlfriend. And the most recent pic he has as his profile picture (and no, I am not friends with him on FB, I deleted his cheating, crack smoking, heroin injecting, money stealing, manipulative ass) is of him and the GF as per usual. Bit in this pic, he is wearing my sodding hoodie that I bought with my first ever pay cheque, when I was 22. I could kill. And that pay cheque was important to me because it was the first sign that I was capable of being a responsible adult after I cleaned up. And now that bastard is wearing it in his profile pic. GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.

I felt sorry for him last year, and lent him two of my hoodies that didn’t fit me anymore. A black hoodie from Bushido in Cape Town, which is one of about three that they had at the time, the only one in black, and my UCT hoodie I bought in 1st year (2001) as an innocent 17 year old, learning to find my way after leaving home. Both hoodies have a lot of value to me. And I guess I was stupid for giving them to him. But did the ass-face have to wear one in his profile pic?

I have done this before though. I had an incredible Blur tshirt from the time that Country House was released. My sister went to their concert in London when we lived just outside the big city, and I was too young to go. She never wore the tshirt so I appropriated it. I then gave it to another ex because he loved Blur. And the first time I saw him 3 months after we broke up, he was wearing it. But that particular ex is decent so I don’t mind him having it. I do regret giving it away thought.

I have learned my lesson. No more giving away stuff made of complete awesomeness to please people I love. Because invariably they show their true colours and I regret having done so.

Seriously, I hope this ex gets run over. Actually, he was hit by a taxi when he was on his motor bike, which pleased me greatly.

I was even considering making peace with this guy later this year. Not now. I will just be asking for my two hoodies back and the R6000 he owes me (which he stole to buy crack with).

Durban was great!… Except the horror movie I found myself in on Saturday night

It was my third-to-last night in Durban tonight, so two friends and I decided to go and see a movie (Madagascar 2 – a disappointment, considering the first Madagascar film was brilliant) and then off to Spiga D’oro (Shabir Shaik’s favourite hangout – an awesome place actually) for a bite to eat. The day was sunny, a first for the near two weeks I had spent in town already and the evening thunderstorm approaching from the horizon provided a great atmosphere for the perfect end to a hot and humid day. We sat at our table on the pavement outside the restaurant, watching the storm roll in.

Jennifer, Peter and I left town in very good spirits, just as the first of the rain began to appear. After a slow drive back to Westville in a torrential downpour, surrounded by a brilliant ligtning show, we sat in Jennifer’s flat and watched the film “Love Actually”. At about ten forty five, the storm had passed and Peter and I left, him giving me a lift back to Hillcrest where I was staying. But we didn’t even make it into the next road from Jennifer’s flat before the night got pretty creepy, and I lie in my bed writing this and feeling rather freaked out.

About a hundred meters after turning out of Jennifer’s road, we spotted a soggy, but well-fed-looking German Shepherd walking along the grass verge of the roadside. Peter slowed as we drove past and I could see the dog had a collar on. So we stopped and I hopped out and called the dog to me. The dog came straight away and I could see that this was no stray – it was well fed, obedient and collared, yet no tag was on the collar. After making calls to the people we knew in the area, we were left with no choice but to ring people’s doorbells, to see if they could give us any information as to whom this sweet but incredibly dirty dog belonged to. It stank and was drenched from the storm.

We considered taking it to the SPCA, but we would have had to put it in Peter’s mother’s car (he was also on holiday in Durban and had borrowed the car). Now I may have self esteem issues, but I value my life. Knowing Peter’s mother, we decided against putting the dog in the car.

It seems that the vibrant people living in Westville all go to bed before 11pm on a Saturday, so we were not having much luck with people answering their doorbells until one lady answered our frantic buzzing at her gate. We explained the situation and she said that the people living across the road owned a German Shepherd. We thanked her and made our way across the road. This was where we got a bit creeped out.

Across the road was the beginning of a driveway. Standing at the bottom of this driveway, all we could see was a thick overhang of bushes and nothing beyond that – it was pitch dark. And I mean PITCH black.

Peter had parked the car down the road where we had found the dog so we were on foot. He went to fetch the car so that we could shine the headlights up the driveway, seeing as most driveways in Durban suburbs are not enormously long. After he got the car, we shone the lights up the driveway, only to see more and more driveway. It was a long one. So Peter, the dog and I started walking up the sloping drive, slipping on the mossy, wet bricks paving the ground.

We made it to a pair of white gates that were open and from there could see that at the end of the driveway, swinging around to the left was a house. A dark house of which we could only make out the outline.

Again, Peter decided to go back to the car and drive it up the driveway so we could see what was there and if it looked inhabited. I stayed by the gates. But the immense panicked feeling, accompanied by the visions in my head of a pair of hand reaching out from the bushes to grab me and slit my throat made me whine like a little girl and plead “oh please don’t leave me here by myself!”

I walked half way back down with Peter and he got the car while the dog and I moved out of the way so he could pass. When he reached the top of the drive, we could see a house without any lights on, with a table outside the front door, a dingy caravan in front of the garage and a boat under a protective cover that looked as if it had been there since before we were born. A damn creepy sight. But everything was so dark.

“Great. This looks like something out of one of those horror movies with inbred Americans who kill tourists and eat them in casseroles” I thought, but chose to limit my scared appearance by saying “Dude, this looks fucking freaky. This is a seriously creepy house.” It was at this time that Peter realized if those white gates started closing, we were in a lot of trouble. Luckily he kept that to himself or I would have probably started hyperventilating.

We went up to the front of the house where there were two doors, one of which was open with a security gate in front of it, a board at the bottom and a CEILING FAN resting against it?! The table was covered in junk like another fan and pots and pans. The windows were open too. I was expecting someone to come out of the house and blow our brains into vapour for trespassing. It looked like we had stumbled upon an inbred colony. The house was dark with no sign of life, except two small dogs barking inside the open door, which we couldn’t see because of the board across the bottom.

We knocked on the door and called (yelled actually) out “hello” countless times with no answer. Eventually, the German Shepherd began to bark at the neighbour’s dogs on the adjacent property that were going ballistic from all the shouting. By this time we were so creeped out by this house that was a mixture of something out of the film “Psycho” and the teen horror flick “Wrong Turn”, that we decided to eave. The dog seemed to be walking around a lot, more than it had when we were out on the road which we took as a sign that it was familiar with this place. We got back in the car quickly and checked to see if the dog followed us. It didn’t.

Peter reversed as quickly as he could down the driveway to get the hell out of there but when we reached the bottom, we decided to check with the neighbours about the dog, thinking that maybe we had the wrong house. As I got out of the car I could hear a man yelling: “Sid! Come here! Come inside!”

There were lights on the top of the hill that were not there before, presumably from the creepy house. We began calling “Hello!?” up the hill as there was no way we were going up there again and we hoped the man calling the dog to come inside would come down and confirm that the dog was his. The man called the dog again, and we heard a door close. And that was that.

The bastard ignored us, even thought it was now twenty five past eleven and we had been running around with this poor dog for well over half an hour. I told peter to put his headlights on full to shine up the driveway, and when he did, we could see the dog was gone. Relieved but pissed off, and pitying the poor dog that has such an asshole of an owner, we set off on our way. WHo the hell leaves their dog outside in a storm, with their gates open? And when people bring him back you ignore them? What a freak.

Both utterly freaked out, I kept checking the back of the car to make sure no axe murderer had gotten inside the car while we were at the front door and Peter asked if we were being followed. I said I was just checking for a psycho in the back and he thought I was joking – I wasn’t.

I got home so late, and my parents were a bit worried as my phone had died. I was so glad to be home, but even our house looked a little creepy at this stage After telling my mum the story and giving my hands a really good scrubbing, my mum explained why our house was so dark – lighting had blown half the lights’ fuses in the house during the storm. Meaning my room would be pitch-black when I went to sleep. “Greaaaaat” I thought, especially as my cat used to sleep under my balcony. My dead cat now. And the day we had her put down last week, I heard a few “mews” coming from outside…

Durban has some creepy shit going on. Fun in the sun – creepy shit at night.

OMG!!! It's a bloke who doesn't give a crap about his pet dog! But wait... the inbreds are eating the bloke! Good inbreds... Gooood inbreds...

2008

December 31st has always been a day when I begin to make false promises to myself and God, usually involving my dedication to never eating again and attempts at slimming down to being the smallest person in the world. Hope springing from the realization that I will be able to walk into a shop and buy what ever clothing I want and be involved with (what I deem) the ‘hottest’ boys, I enter the next year with the excitement that ‘this time next year, my life will be perfect’.

I daresay that 2008 was the year I grew up.

2008 started with unemployment (I left my previous company on the 5th of January), ill-fitting clothes due to major weight gain at the end of 2007 and a very, VERY messy love life.

The middle of 2008 saw me reaching a bodyweight I had never imagined possible, not even in my fiercest nightmares, reaching 4 years of abstinence from drugs and alcohol, an emotional breakdown due to stopping my anti depressants and the emotional rock bottom which followed, accompanied by a horrendous break up and ill performance at a job I had excelled at since starting in late January.

The end of 2008 brought an 18 kilo weight loss with no boyfriend in sight, saw me re unite with my father, focus on bettering myself in a healthy way such as becoming career motivated instead of my desperate appeals at aesthetic success and the death of my beloved cat Lily, who has been my soul mate since I was 8.

All in all, my paradigms seem to have shifted somewhat. My interests previously involved marriage, children and being thin. These were all things that I thought would make me happy (mainly because they made other people happy which made me happy). People would ask me “what do you want from life?” All I could answer was “to be content” and “to get married and have kids”. I see things a little differently now.

After a rocky year of being dumped three times and gaining a lot of weight in January to June, I began to wonder how exactly does one love themselves? The wife of a good friend of mine once told me “self-love starts with clipping your toe nails”. Now I know this statement sounds insane, but to me it makes perfect sense.

I began doing things that were good for me, and nice to myself. Even though I didn’t love myself at all, I tried acting like I did. I started to eat healthily, not disorderly and did not deny myself things, but didn’t gorge on them either (well, often). I joined the gym and began working out four times a week. I went into therapy again, and went on a new anti depressant. I looked at my life and for the first time since I took my first screeching breath, I had a slight vision of what I wanted for the future and felt ambition. I began to want a career, my own flat and to live for me and no one else. I began to want to live for me, not anyone else. And with these realizations I began to get a feeling of hope for the future that was a feeling more powerful and far more important to me than the hope of getting into a size 6 (and with a height of 173cm and hips that are meant to give birth, a size 6 is a bit of an unreachable goal, and that is ok.)

But I say goodbye to 2008, the year in which I experienced major hardships but major growth with great sadness that my little soul mate will not be joining me in 2009. My cat Lily came into my life when I was 8 and she brightened it ever since. Even when I left home to go to university, whenever I came home for holidays, she would sneak into my room to sleep there, follow me around as she always used to and mew outside my door when I had gone back to Cape Town. She knew when I was sad and would come and sit on me or next to me. When I am upset, I can’t stand people talking to me to try and make me feel better. I prefer silent company, and she knew exactly what I needed: a kitty-head-butt and some purring and not to leave my side. What a treasure she was.

She is a cat who travelled the world, living in Holland (where she was born and ran straight to me out of a litter of kittens we were choosing two of which to take home and I named her on the spot), the UK and Durban, where the endless bushes and creatures of interest kept her roaming for days and had the family so worried we couldn’t eat.

My mother (“the one with the food”), my dad (Lily’s hero for whom her adoration never waned, even thought he was married) and I cried many tears this morning for this little creature who in her 17 years in our lives had made us laugh and feel happy for every day she was with us. My sisters could not be there but they cried a lot too. I don’t like sentimentality, but in this case, every sickly word is sincere. I miss her so much and will remember her with absolute love and happiness for the rest of my life.

Your Standard Wank – Simpler, Better, Faster

From now on, I have decided to call Standard Bank – “Standard Wank”, just like the Laugh it Off tshirt that got banned in 2003 (I think?). No wonder Standard Wank wanted the tshirt banned – it pretty much summed up what they must get up to in  their 9 till 3.30 working day: Absolutely FUCK ALL.

My peril started when I realised my bank card was missing yesterday. I know myself pretty well and I have a memory like a sieve so the chances of remembering where I lost it are slim to none, so I cancelled the card straight away with no problem.

Like any normal person, I then decided to transfer all of my funds across to my credit card for the month so I would have a card to use whilst I waited the 7 working days it was going to take for my new card to arrive (it has to get sent down from Johannesburg and then I have to go and pick it up from my branch).

Then I went onto Standard Wank internet banking to be told “There is a problem with the card number you have entered. It is either illegal or has expired.”

In other words: “FUCK YOU, you dumbass client!!! You wanna lose your card? Well we are gonna make your life a living HELL. Even more of a living hell than banking with us!!! Aha! AHAHAHAH!!! MUWAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!”

I phoned the call centre straight away, asking why I can’t get into my internet banking after I had cancelled my card. It took a while to get the message across to the operator that I had not cancelled my ACCOUNT but my CARD.

When we had established that I had only cancelled my card, the gentleman on the other side of the line told me “you can’t use your internet banking until you have the new card or you have to go  into a branch.”

So basically, if you lose your card, you can’t use your internet banking for transactions etc for seven days. Screw paying rent. Screw paying bills. You just have to sit with no card and no internet banking and get into sheit with your creditors. Or go into the bank, wait in a queue for an hour, come back to work late and get into more shit. Could the woman who cancelled my card not have warned me about this teensy little detail?!!! I pay R170 a MONTH for my account! That is R2040 a YEAR!!!

Nice.

Now, the entire reason I have internet banking is so that I don’t have to go and stand in bank branches for my entire lunch hour, squeezed in between dunbious people, most of whom need a good scrubbing or at least some deodorant. If the banks could stay open later than 3.30pm or have their employees roll out of bed just a bit earlier to open up at 8am, this would be a different story.

But banks in South Africa don’t really seem to be able to grasp the concept that in order for their clients to be able to bank with them, they have to be EMPLOYED. That means they have to have JOBS. And jobs usually START BEFORE 9am and END AFTER 3.30pm. But why should Standard Wank and other banks get up a bit earlier and work a bit later to suit their clients? Puhleaaaaaase, I shouldn’t be so self centered should I?

Plus the bastards are going to charge me R75 for a card replacement.

I think every single person, and I mean every single individual I know has had problems with their banks. One friend was charged for a petrol card which she didn’t apply for. One other friend applied for a credit card which was then sent to the wrong branch. Because banks cannot send cards between branches, the card had to be cancelled and she had to reapply for it. They failed to include the origional application specifics, such as a budget facility so when she discovered that her origional requests were not valid on her new card, she was told she would have to wait for six months to change it or pay off the entire amount owed on the card.

But this is stuff that happens every day, all day! It is such a regular thing in this country – literally millions and millions of these fuck ups happen a year! That is a couple for every single person in the country every year.

And the problem is not just with banks. The council repeatedly forgets to send me my water bill, or sends it to the wrong address, then charges me interest when I don’t pay it (because I have not been sent a bill). ADT has taken double my monthly installment out of my account on numerous occasions and when I complained, I was told that they could not pay me back the money. Even though they had literally charged me double my fee more than once. It was only when I wrote an incredibly snotty and vicious email to the regional ADT manager in August that the problem was noted. I was paid the money back A WEEK AGO (it is December now, they decided to pay me via a cheque so I had to wait seven days for the money, even though they have my account details and could have done a direct transfer).

The scary part of all of this is that when you complain, the reply “I’m sorry, there is nothing we can dooooo” is the regular lifesaver for all incompetent service providers, thriving off their monopolised power. Now, I’m sorry, but that reply is just not good enough anymore.  Actually, it never has been good enough or acceptable, but as a country that is pretty much devoid of any skilled labour, appalling has become so accepted that these bastard companies just get away with shitty, inconvenient and costly service (to the consumers) time and time again.

I think it is time to move to another country, because South Africa is not moving forward in any way. Yes, nice football stadiums and statues of freedom fighters are nice and pretty, but couldn’t we spend the money on education instead or feeding kids that are so starving that their brains are being chewed up?

Bleh, that is my angry rant for the day.