Preposterous Proportions


SizesI used to think that I was fairly smart, until I walked into a motor­cycle store, look­ing for a helmet…

The Hel­met Guy’ pro­filed me from two aisles away, declar­ing, con­fid­ently, that I was def­in­itely (only) a Medium. Per­haps I shouldn’t have been day­dream­ing so much in class in my time at school…

The par­al­lel conun­drum in this equa­tion was that I had recently bought a set of gloves, for which I’d been fit­ted with a pair labelled as ‘XL’.

It wor­ries me so, in a philo­soph­ical man­ner, that I am so dimensionally-irrationally equipped in the bod­ily com­pon­ent spectrum.

My jacket is an XXXL, but the para­chut­ist man­ner in which it envel­opes my per­son whilst upon my motor­ised steed, calms and soothens my upset, greatly.

Given some fur­ther thought, my unmen­tion­ables are a ‘L’, my trousers are always half a foot too short, my shirts are sail-like in their span, in order to fit my neck suit­ably and I seem to wear a shoe size that has escaped the range of seem­ingly all known cobblers.

By all accounts, I should look like The Ele­phant Man.

Hap­pily though, I can report that I look as ‘nor­mal’ as any­one I’ve come across and at least sev­eral people and two delight­ful canines love me no end.

The State of a Nation…

An unruly Std. 3. pupil has been repor­ted as con­tra­ven­ing the laws of decency in parliament.

Image cour­tesy of MG.co.za

Fear not though, for whilst from the out­side, Nkandla, the nation of the state, and home to the harem, the pub­lic private pool, sev­eral goats, a num­ber of pigs, some farm anim­als, illit­er­acy, abject poverty & a clearly back­wards men­tal­ity, may point to the state of the nation as a dire one, it, like its more not­able ancestor, the once-formidable Berg­hof — now a lovely forest, reclaimed by forces greater than it; where many anim­als romp freely, frolic gayly and piss know­ingly — shall return from whence it came; the ground. With time & patience, comes a full blad­der.


There’s a hole, in the engine!

Yesterday’s flight had me in Row 15, the ‘emer­gency exit’ aisle…window seat…directly over the wing & engine…

I’m a Big Child, which means that I get rather excited by the thought of big machines, speed, power, etc.. As a res­ult, I tend to inspect cer­tain things more than most.

When we boarded, I looked at the engine. When we took off, I glanced at the engine. In flight, I observed the engine. At all times, the engine was whole and appeared to be in good order…

When we were com­ing in to land, I happened to look down yet again…however, I was now peer­ing dir­ectly into the engine! Ima­gine my surprise…

Do I worry? Do I call the host­ess? Do I wait…for something?

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I chose the lat­ter, which was a good thing…as I later saw a cover slid­ing closed over what now made sense…the reverse thrust vents.

You know, they really should paint a sign onto the engine for clue­less pas­sen­gers that it’s not a case of shit fall­ing off of the plane, when you hap­pen to see a hole in the engine that wasn’t there a short while ago, but that pan­els do move, on pur­pose, and that you’ll live to tell the fool­ish story.

FFs.

Hiring out the oldies…

We’re approach­ing the end of the year and the seni­ors in schools across the coun­try are get­ting desperate…to outdo their classmates.

Who will don the killer threads, have the hot­test Date and, quite import­antly, who will make the biggest scene upon arrival?

For the lat­ter, that one stu­pendously rich kid might arrive in daddy’s heli­copter, but most will opt to share a limo’ or arrive in a suit­ably bling ‘old car’.

Classic car hire

For those of us who are amen­able to event rent­als with our old cars, this is the sea­son when our phones start ringing in fury.

Patience is a requis­ite vir­tue in these cases. You’re deal­ing with young­sters who, more than likely, have no idea what’s involved in restor­ing, main­tain­ing and prep’ing an oldie for reli­able, timeous and flashy use. Old cars are exactly that, old. They require hard-to-find parts, which usu­ally cost a for­tune. They’re slower, typ­ic­ally less than 100% reli­able and are usu­ally driven by ped­ants who have little patience. I know, for I am one of them.

Whether you’re ready­ing your jalopy for a media shoot, school func­tion or wed­ding, the pre­par­a­tion is usu­ally the same: intens­ive clean­ing & pol­ish­ing, some degree of a Ser­vice, route plot­ting and, if reques­ted, decorating.

All of this, I can assure you, takes a sub­stan­tial amount of time; and money.

Once the vehicle is ready, we need to get ready. You wouldn’t want to arrive at your func­tion chauf­feured by a smelly, unshaven sod in tatty attire, would you?

You may only be trav­el­ing a few miles to your des­tin­a­tion, but you’re for­get­ting that we may need to travel a not­able dis­tance to cater to your address. Once there, we often need to man­oeuvre sev­eral times, for your pho­tos, assist ladies in and out of the vehicle, recon­fig­ure the vehicle to your needs and per­haps wile away sev­eral hours, whilst you dance, get hitched, or whatever.

All of that said, there are always the lazy bums who will hap­pily throw you the keys to their unmain­tained heap for some quick cash. These are typ­ic­ally the chaps with a list of unhappy cus­tom­ers, irked drivers and road­side assist ref­er­ences lit­ter­ing their vehicles’ dashboards.

So, the next time you think of hir­ing ‘an old car’, please think care­fully before you call a sup­plier to ask the fol­low­ing questions:

  • I want to hire an old car”. “Please be more spe­cific.” “An old car.”
  • How much does it cost?” “For what? Sleep­ing in? For­nic­at­ing within?”
  • …but it’s only two miles to…”
  • We only need you for X amount of time.” “Riiight.”
  • Can we drive it?” “Are you will­ing to pay for any & all break­ages and the insurance?”

…and, with spe­cific ref­er­ence to ambu­lance rentals:

  • Can you fit a dozen kids into your ambu­lance?” “It’s an ambu­lance, dear, so, no.”

We also appre­ci­ate a deposit on time, to cover our upfront costs and gen­er­ally express appre­ciable grat­it­ude when your excess­ively catered event can spare us a drink and a sandwich. ;)

 

Throttling: Poetic Justice

There once was a dash­ing swain,
Long of leg and short of mane.
This fel­low did him­self a motor­ised steed acquire;
Scoped by plods aplenty, he quickly earned him­self the title of Liar.
With dap­per dex­ter­ity did he con­trol it,
Impress­ing dolly­birds from here to there, formed from fleshy to fit.
Upon his bike did he obtain right­eous swift­ness & much mer­ri­ment,
Whether upon one wheel or two, hast­ily or lazily, it met cease­lessly with his mother’s dis­agree­ment.
With haste did he depart,
Sel­dom with urgency in any part.
From form to fit, stood or sat, right did he look;
Framed by a Kojak with a Kodak, he was given the book.

Motorcycle racer

The swine!
He delivered his line…
A souvenir did he write.
Clutched, he was soon out of sight.
The throttle fully wound,
He was soon but a dis­tant sound.