tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-43436227737269370422024-02-06T20:47:55.470-08:00confessions of a virgin loserEdyth Bulbringhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11868110241458233296noreply@blogger.comBlogger20125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4343622773726937042.post-86277379960061865392011-02-12T22:30:00.000-08:002012-01-24T23:12:36.662-08:00Goodbye, I have left the building<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’m really crap at saying goodbye. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Several years ago my father was dying of cancer and I went down to Port Elizabeth to visit him in hospital.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was clear that this would be the last time I would see him. One of the biggest indicators was the doctor advising my mom that he should be moved to Frail Care - a really grim place where patients have their watches stolen by people who don’t think they’ll need them anymore. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When the time came for me to catch the plane back to Johannesburg I sort of smiled at my dad a lot because I didn’t want to cry and he growled at me and said, “Why are you laughing at me?” And then he lay back and carried on reading the stock exchange pages in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Herald</i>. And I left. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That was our goodbye. I suppose both of us just didn’t want to say it. He died alone two days later when my mom was away from his side getting a sandwich at the hospital canteen.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sometimes you don’t get the opportunity to say goodbye. (Bye Dad, and thanks) </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A person I cared about a great deal twenty five years back fell off the top of a building last week during a smoke break. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When I heard about his death, I cursed myself for not having been in touch with him for so long. If only I’d had the chance to say hello again before he went away forever. (Hoesit, Kobus ou maat, jou skommelling ding).</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This month I say a couple of goodbyes of a less devastating nature and I am just as crap at saying them.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I say goodbye to my daughter as she heads off to University. At the airport we give each other awkward hugs. There are a million things I want to say to her but of course they’d just come out wrong as always. So instead I say have lots of fun and be safe and come home some times. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am hoping like crazy that I haven’t screwed up too much and that there will be many years ahead of us to have those conversations. (Bye Em, I love you)</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This month I also say goodbye to a book I have been writing pretty much the same time I have been writing this blog. The book is a sequel to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Melly, Mrs Ho and Me</i> and I am calling it<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Melly, Fatty, Raturd and Me. </i>I figure Penguin will change the title but what the hell. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At the end of the month <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Melly, Fatty, Raturd and Me</i> will be done and I will send it off to the most marvellous editor in the world, James, who will then tell me if it’s worth a sausage or not. (Goodbye Book, you have driven me mental)</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am also saying goodbye to this blog and to all you very nice people who have read it. I wrote the blog to describe the process of writing an m-book called <em>Confessions of a Virgin Loser</em>. Each blog post tells you what ideas and influences lie behind the chapters.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The m-book was written for Mr Steve Vosloo from the Shuttleworth Foundation and his bunch of cellphone addicts who like to read books on small screens. It was published in August 2010.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You can read <em>Confessions of a Virgin Loser</em> chapter by chapter here: <a href="http://www.yoza.mobi/stories/12/">http://www.yoza.mobi/stories/12/</a> - (check out the hundreds of comments after each chapter from readers) - or you can read it as one whole story below. I put all the chapters together to make it easier for you - as a goodbye present.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’ve had fun writing the blog and I hope you have had fun reading it. Thanks for taking the time. I’ll be off then. (Goodbye)</span></span></div>Edyth Bulbringhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11868110241458233296noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4343622773726937042.post-53981670840320205172011-02-12T22:29:00.000-08:002011-02-12T22:34:01.696-08:00Confessions of a Virgin Loser: The whole story<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">CHAPTER ONE</span></b><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">My name is Frank and I’m the biggest Loser in the world. I can’t drink without chundering, I get asthma just from looking at a cigarette box and I’m the last seventeen-year-old virgin left standing in Jozi.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">Yesterday, at the school’s prize-giving, my status as the universe’s Number One Douche-bag was made official when I was awarded a gold certificate for Caring. Yip, you got it – I was the idiot serving tea on Pensioners Day.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">My two homies Silas and Mondli say I’m rubbish company and I’m giving them a bad rep. If I don’t come right and get with the programme they’re going to tell me to hit the road. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’ve got a month to learn to drink like a pirate, smoke zol like a Rasta and get laid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">Thirty days, they tell me, to turn from Prize Nerd into Party Animal. Seven hundred and twenty hours to become Ayoba! like them. They’ve got three tests lined up for me. Three challenges. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">I don’t know if I can crack it. I don’t even know if I even want to try. But they’re the only chinas I’ve got.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">CHAPTER TWO</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">I blame my Virgin Loser status on my family. I live with my ouledi and seven sisters. And for sure they love me crazy, but I’m drowning in girl hormones.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">I can’t go to school to escape Team Frank ’cos the whole family’s there. My sisters are spread through the grades like cold sores. And Mama’s the Life Orientation teacher. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">It’s no joke. She’s the one who stands in front of the class and goes all Malema-mouth about Condoms and Crabs and Warts and Aids and all the other stuff you don’t ever want to talk to your ouledi about. Especially not with thirty classmates watching. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">This morning I’m thinking on my homies’ challenge: Learn how to party or take a hike. I’m still not sure. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">But then Mama kisses me goodbye in the school corridor in front of the whole world. And then she asks me if I’ve remembered my asthma pump. And would I buy some tampons for my sisters. She says this loudly. In front of EVERYONE. In front of Silas and Mondli – who do what Benni did to Bafana-Bafana and turn their backs on me. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">And in that moment I make up my mind. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">CHAPTER THREE</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">I catch Silas and Mondli after school. Mondli drives a Jub-Jub – a Mini Cooper – courtesy of his dad (he got it when he finally passed the drivers license after ten tries). </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">We roar off, trying to break the sound barrier. Mondli says we’re hitting the bottlestore. I tell Mondli he can drop me off at home, I’ve got homework. Silas flicks me hard on my ear and says I need to shape up. Test Number One: it’s time to engage a groove. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">Outside the bottlestore Mondli rips a wad of tigers out of his wallet and tells me to get the hard stuff. They’ll wait in the car. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">Inside the store, the manager checks me out. Then he asks for ID. And then he looks at me like I’m some Virgin Loser and tells me to go home. I go back to the car and tell my chomas that I’m not legal. And they look at me like I’m a used condom. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">Silas grabs the cash and heads for the store. He’s back in five secs with the bottles. He flicks fifty cents in the air and says it’s time to play the drinking game. He looks at me with hard eyes. Am I ready?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">CHAPTER FOUR</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">My homies Silas and Mondli and me are playing a drinking game at Mondli’s crib. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">Mondli says it’s the Flip, Strip or Sip game. Strip? No, please, not Strip. My armpits fill with sweat. Mondli says chill, Dweeb, the babes aren’t joining us today so we’ll just Flip and Sip. They’re going to teach me to drink like a real man. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">Mondli flips the fifty cents and calls Heads. And it’s Heads. He passes the coin to Silas who flips and calls Tails. It’s Tails. Silas passes the coin to me. I call Heads . . . No Tails . . . No Heads. It falls out of my hand and hits the floor rolling. It’s Tails. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">Silas passes me a shooter glass. ‘Down, down, down,’ he chants. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">I down the vodka and nearly gag. Silas slams me on the back and takes the coin. He flips the coin in the air and calls Heads. It’s Heads. And it’s my turn. And my turn again. And again. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">I drink shooters until I feel like I’m going to fall off my chair. But I don’t. I sit there drinking and smiling. Like a regular drunk guy. And I don’t park my lunch. Not then. Not there.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">CHAPTER FIVE </span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">I down my last shot of vodka and slam the fifty cents on the table. I’m tired of this crazy drinking game. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">I eyeball Silas and Mondli. There are four of them now. They grin at me as I try to focus. They say I’ve past my first test – I drink like a pirate from Somalia. They must get me home before my ship sinks. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">We pile into the Jub-Jub and Silas opens the car window – in case I want to breathe. I tell Mondli he shouldn’t be driving. He says it’s not far, he’ll keep one eye open and let Silas steer. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">‘No, we mustn’t,’ I tell Silas. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">But he says shuddup and get in the car. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">We are three blocks from my ouledi’s place when Silas shouts stop. Two cop cars are perched on the side of the road. ‘Crap,’ says Mondli, throwing a fierce U-turn. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">Oncoming traffic hoots and the wheels of the Mini Cooper screech like a bunch of girls. I see the blue siren flashing behind us and I put my head between my legs as Mondli drives like the devil.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">CHAPTER SIX</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">The Jub-Jub ducks into a side street and the police car speeds past. And then my bras, Silas and Mondli, howl like hyenas at our lucky escape – driving under hard liquor is a bad rap. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">We leave the car and they walk me home. They tell me I’m the man. I’ve downed half a bottle of vodka in a drinking game and I’m still on my feet. Sort of. And I haven’t chundered. They tell me I’ve passed the first test of becoming a real man like them. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">My ouledi is sitting on the stoep when I arrive home. And she’s got company. It’s the school principal and her daughter Babs. Silas and Mondli see the guests and duck faster than I can say: hey dudes, don’t leave me stumbling around like a drunk in the driveway. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">Mama calls for me to come over and I tell her I’m checking out the flowers. I fall over into a flower bed and lay low until I hear car doors slam. The guests are leaving. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">I stagger to my feet as the car passes. The car stops and I hear a voice calling my name. I topple forward. And then it happens.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">CHAPTER SEVEN</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">I’m leaning against my school principal’s car when I feel the half bottle of vodka do a summersault under my belt. And the principals’ daughter Babs is checking me out with big brown eyes. They grow bigger and bigger until I start falling into them. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">Before I can stop myself, I’m hurling. I’m chundering and heaving and spewing. Tossing my school lunch tuna sandwich all over my principal. All over beautiful, brown-eyed Babs. All over their car. Along with the half a bottle of vodka I drank during the drinking game I played with my homies Silas and Mondli to prove I’m not some Grade One Loser. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">I stop hurling and sit in the driveway. Drinking could get me expelled from school. So I moan weakly about being poisoned by a tuna sandwich. It looks like the principal buys my story. But Mama looks at me with sad eyes and I can see that she doesn’t believe me.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">My ouledi cleans up and sends the principal and Beautiful Babs on their way smelling like a Russian fishing boat. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">My cellphone rings and Silas asks if I’m ready for the next test to prove I’m Ayoba! like them. I feel sick to my stomach but I say for sure. What must I do?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">CHAPTER EIGHT</span></b><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">I’m standing outside my classroom and Beautiful Babs asks me if I’m okay. Have I recovered from the tuna fish poisoning of the day before? That made me chunder all over her and her ouledi – the school principal – and their car. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">She asks this with a sweet glint in those big brown eyes, so I know she knows that I was cagged after a crazy drinking game with my homies Silas and Mondli. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">Before I can answer she sweeps past me and I suddenly realise that this is the first time she’s ever spoken to me. And that she was teasing me. In a nice sort of way. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">My heart collapses in my chest. And then I want to beat myself senseless when I feel strings of drool in the corners of my open mouth.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">Silas and Mondli are watching me. They give me thumbs up and say I’m coming along just fine. I’m talking to hot chicks. And after school they have a second test for me. It’s not a drinking game to see if I can hold my cagg. It’s a lot more dangerous. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">CHAPTER NINE</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">After school Mondli parks the Jub-Jub a block away from a house with a technicolour roof and hands me a fist full of tigers. ‘Get a dozen,’ he says. I look at him blankly. A dozen zols, Silas growls. Ask the Rasta at the Jah House for twelve Swazi. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">I leave my stomach on the floor of the Jub-Jub and wander as casually as I can towards the Jah House. Its multicoloured roof burns my eyes and I look down at my dragging feet. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">Ten metres from the Jah House a voice asks me if I want to buy some weed. It comes from a snot-faced kid the size of my youngest sister. I feel like I’ve been given a reprieve. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">I hold out twelve tens and he hands over a dozen joints. He says it was nice doing business and runs like the blazes. I stuff the product into my blazer and swagger back to the Jub-Jub. Silas asks if I got the stuff from the Rasta. I nod. ‘Now we’re smoking!’ he and Mondli say. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">I lied so that they’d tell me I was cool. But I should have told the truth. If I had, things would have turned out different. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">CHAPTER TEN </span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">Me and my homies Silas and Mondli are smoking weed at the bottom of Silas’ garden. They tell me I’m halfway to passing the second test. I scored from the Rasta at the Jah House. Next I must smoke the product. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">I haven’t told them I was too chicken to go into the Jah House; that I bought the stuff from a kid on the pavement. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">Mondli lights up and drags the smoke into his lungs. He coughs and passes the zol over to Silas. ‘Sweet, this stuff is so sweet,’ Silas says and sucks hard. Then he hands it to me. ‘Feel it. It is here,’ he says. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">I take the joint and inhale gently. It smells like my grandfather’s cow shed. And it tastes like cow crap. But what do I know? I say this in between coughing bits of my lung on to the ground. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">Silas grabs the joint and crumbles it in his fist. ‘This isn’t Swazi, this is cow crap,’ he says. He swings a punch at my shoulder as Mondli cracks up. ‘Where the hell did you get this?’ </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">I tell Silas the truth and say sorry, I screwed up the party. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">‘Come, let’s go,’ Silas says.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">CHAPTER ELEVEN</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">Silas drags me towards the Jah House. He says we’re going to catch the kid who sold me cow crap and after we’ve taught him some respect I’m going to score some Swazi from the Rasta like I was supposed to. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">I’m so close, so close to failing the second test, he tells me with a snarl. Silas is in a big rage at my screw-up but my other pal Mondli is hosing himself. Give the loser a break, he says, it’s not such a big deal. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">I spot the snot-faced kid and he sees me. Then he’s gone. Then I see Babs, the school principal’s beautiful daughter. She’s walking past the Jah House. She sees me and smiles. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">Then a cop car screeches to a stop on the pavement. Two cops jump out and they run towards me and my homies. Then I’m spreadeagled against the palisade fence and the content of my pockets is lying on the pavement. My homies, Silas and Mondli, can’t be seen for dust. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">One of the cops holds up the zols and says I’m in big trouble. They’ve got plans for me down at the cop shop. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">CHAPTER TWELVE</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">Back at the cop shop they rip my blazer off my back and strip search me. ‘Where is it?’ they scream. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">I’m standing butt naked and all they’ve found are eleven zols full of cow crap. Zols that I scored off some snot-faced, rip-off artist kid outside the Jah House. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">Two hours later my ouledi and seven sisters arrive. Mama says Beautiful Babs, the principal’s daughter, saw me getting bust by cops and sounded the alarm. That’s why they’re here. My ouledi is tearing at her hair and my seven sisters look at me with mean eyes. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">The cops say there’s no charge – I can go. They smirk at me like I’m some jakalas that got bust with a blazer pocket full of cow crap instead of prime Swazi. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">Mama says there’s no smoke without fire and she knows I’ve been up to rubbish. She says this even when I tell her that just like Paris Hilton at the World Cup, I’ve been falsely accused. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">But I know I’m guilty of failing the second test. The message from my buddies on my phone says I screwed up big time. And if I don’t pass the third test I’m finished.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">CHAPTER THIRTEEN</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">My homies Silas and Mondli say they’re giving me one last chance to prove I’m a real man and not some Virgin Loser who can’t even score Swazi without screwing up and getting busted. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">I’ve got a final test to pass. And it’s a tough one. When they tell me what it is my heart beats so loudly it’s like an orchestra of vuvuzelas in my ears. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">I’ve got seven days to get laid. If I don’t, I must voetsek and hang out with other arbs. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">I ask them who? Which hot thang in Jozi is going to let me come within five metres of her? I’ve got about as much chance of getting up close and personal to a babe as Bafana Bafana had of winning the World Cup. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">Mondli takes pity on me and says the best place to pull chicks is at the farewell party for the matrics. Silas gives a filthy laugh and says the girls get so trashed they’ll do it with anyone, even with a loser like me. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">The party’s in three days time. I look at Silas and Mondli and say bring it on. I’m ready. I think. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">CHAPTER FOURTEEN </span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">Tonight I’m going to get laid for the first time. It’s the third test and last that my homies Silas and Mondli have set me to prove that I’m a real man and not some Virgin Loser. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">I’m fired up and resolved, but the forces of fate seem bent on throwing boulders in my path. My road to manhood will not be as smooth as a trip on the Gautrain. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">Obstacle Number One: My ouledi says there’s no way I’m going to the matric farewell jol on the party bus with my two buddies and twenty other dudes from school. She says she and a couple of other mothers are going to do a lift club. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">Obstacle Number Two: Mama says I’m being fetched just after midnight – and no arguments. That doesn’t give me much time. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">Obstacle Number Three: My eighteen-year-old sister Dineo is also going to the party. She’s defs gonna kill my swag. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">But these obstacles are mere sheep droppings to a man of my resolve. I’ve got a hip flask of my ouledi’s cooking sherry, a six pack of Rough Rider condoms and a stomach full of butterfly-worms. Things can’t possibly go wrong tonight.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">CHAPTER FIFTEEN</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">There’s me, my sister Dineo and a pimple-farmer called Jethro in the car on our way to the jol. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">Destination: Naughties’ Nightclub in Midrand. Mission: To get laid and pass the third test my pals Silas and Mondli have set me to prove that I’m a real man and not some Virgin Loser. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">‘One last stop,’ my ouledi says, parking outside the principal’s house. ‘You go in and get her.’ </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">I stumble to the front door. And then she’s there. The Beautiful Babs. She looks at me and holds out her hand. I’m three seconds away from kissing it when I pull my hand out of my jacket pocket – the pocket that contains the six pack of condoms.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">As I grab Babs’ hand the condoms fall on to the floor. I hold her eyes with mine. Don’t look down. Please don’t look down, I pray. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">You’ve dropped something, Babs says and bends down. She picks up the six pack of Rough Riders and hands them to me. ‘Eish, Frank, it looks like you plan to be a busy boy tonight.’ She giggles. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">But there’s a weird look in those dark brown eyes of hers. I wish I knew what it meant.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">CHAPTER SIXTEEN</span></b><span style="line-height: 115%;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">Naughties’ Nightclub is rocking. People from my school are dancing and shouting and drinking and laughing inside. And smoking zol and making out in the parking lot outside. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">My homies Silas and Mondli arrive well lubricated with whiskey. Silas knuckles me on my shoulder. It hurts. ‘Are you ready for some action tonight?’ he yells.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">He checks out Beautiful Babs at my side and sniggers. You can go skin on skin with this one. She’s safe. She’s a Virgin Loser like you. Then he shakes his head and says don’t bother, she doesn’t give. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">I glance over at Babs, hoping she didn’t hear Silas, but the light catches a glint in her eyes and I’m not sure. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">Mondli says he’s heading inside to check out the talent. I ask Babs if she wants to hang with us and she says she’ll hang with Jethro, the pimple-farmer. And she puts her arm through his. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">I tear my eyes away from her and follow Silas and Mondli into the club. Then Mondli’s passing around shooters and it’s ‘Down, down, down.’ </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">Mondli says the babes are pretty fine tonight. And they are all stoned and sloshed. ‘Fo sho we’re going to be getting us some action.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;">CHAPTER SEVENTEEN</span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;"></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;">Mondli is slow-dancing with Khanyi Mbau. She’s not the real deal, just a vacant chick who got the nickname for treating all the guys like bank machines. </span><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;">Mondli’s known as the school’s chizboy and always attracts the ATM bombers. Not that he’s complaining. ‘You pay peanuts, you’ll end up partying with a monkey,’ he always says. </span><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;">Silas comes over with two girls at his side. They’re so cagged they can barely stand. ‘Meet Skank One and Skank Two. Our hit ’n runs for the evening,’ Silas says. He winks at me with red eyes as he pushes Skank One across in my direction. </span><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;">Skank One leans against me and puts her head on my shoulder. ‘Let’s go outside,’ she slurs. Her hair smells like smoke and vomit. </span><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;">Silas and me take the two Skanks outside. Now’s my chance to pass the third test and prove that I’m not a Virgin Loser, he tells me as he heads for the parking lot. ‘I’ll see you in five,’ he says. </span><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;">I hold Skank One’s braids back as she upchucks into a bed full of hydrangeas. She breathes her sweet and sour breath into my face. ‘I think you’re hot,’ she whispers. </span><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;">I figure it’s now or never.</span><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;">CHAPTER EIGHTEEN</span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;"></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;">Me and my date are making out in the parking lot at Naughties’ Nightclub. She seems hungry. She’s licking and sucking at my face and making chewing noises. I try to dodge her tongue which sweeps across my chin like a windscreen wiper. </span><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;">I’m coming up for air when my sister Dineo strolls past and says: ‘Introduce me to your date, Frank.’ </span><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;">My mouth dries up. I don’t know her name. She’s Skank One to me and Silas (who’s a couple of metres from me, partying with Skank Two). </span><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;">My sister looks at me darkly. ‘Play safe tonight, hey, bro,’ she says as she walks away.</span><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;">Safe? I feel as safe as a pack of cards in a hurricane. What if the condom breaks? What if Skank One gets pregnant? And I can’t even bear to think about the risk of catching the dread disease.</span><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;">Before Skank One can start chewing on my face again, I say, ‘Hold it, what’s your name?’ </span><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;">‘My name?’ She asks me like it’s a question I’ve got the answer to. </span><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;">‘Don’t you want to know <i>my </i>name?’ I ask her. </span><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;">She laughs and says she doesn’t care. She’ll have forgotten it by morning anyway. </span><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;">I think about tomorrow morning, waking up a real man and no longer a Virgin Loser. Not knowing the name of my first girl.</span><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;">I hold the nameless girl away from me with a hand that is, for some reason, shaking.</span><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;">CHAPTER NINETEEN</span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;"></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;">In one hour it’ll be midnight and I’ll be the same Virgin Loser pumpkin who arrived at Naughties’ Nightclub three hours earlier all set to get laid.</span><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;">I told my date to cool it and she took offence. She’s done an Exodus and I’m alone. But not quite. ‘Hola, Frank, having a party?’ It’s Beautiful Babs the principal’s daughter.</span><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;">She says she’s been watching me for a couple of weeks and she likes what she sees. “You’re not like the other guys, Frank,” she says.</span><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;">I offer her some cooking sherry from my hip flask. She says she doesn’t feel like drinking tonight. </span><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;">‘Do you ever feel like it?’ I ask her. </span><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;">Babs fixes those lovely brown eyes on me and says she feels like doing lots of things. But in her own good time. </span><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;">She says she gets ripped by the other kids for being a party pooper. ‘And for being the principal’s daughter. For being different. Like you.’ </span><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;">She tells me this and laughs. ‘People are really insecure, they feel better when everyone’s the same,’ she says. ‘But I like who I am. I like being different.’ She takes my hand and pulls me up off the pavement. ‘And I like dancing. With you.’ </span><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;">As Beautiful Babs leads me inside, I don’t tell her I can’t dance like everyone else. I don’t think she’d care. In fact, I think she’d like it. That I dance kind of different.</span><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;">CHAP</span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;">TER TWENTY</span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;"></span></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;">It’s the morning after the night at Naughties’ Nightclub and Silas chucks the condoms at me. ‘You’re a loser and a freak,’ he says. He tells Mondli that they’re wasting their time with me. I failed the third test. I didn’t get laid last night. I’ll never be a real man like them. I must voetsek.</span><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;">I tell Silas he’s so right. I don’t want to pass his stupid tests. I don’t want to drink shooters and smoke Swazi. And I don’t want to sleep with some girl whose name I don’t know and who doesn’t want to know mine. Not today. </span><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;">Today I want to dance with a girl called Babs who likes my moves even when I move all wrong. And tomorrow, when I learn if her real name is Barbara or Babalwa, and when she asks if I’m Francis or Franklin, maybe I’ll take the third test. </span><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;">Maybe me and Babs will take the test together. But maybe it will be some other girl who also likes me just the way I am. And if it’s not tomorrow, it will be in my own good time. </span><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;">My homies Silas and Mondli say they’re going now, will they check me tomorrow? Silas voice cracks when he asks me. </span><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;">And I say maybe.</span><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">THE END</span></b></div>Edyth Bulbringhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11868110241458233296noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4343622773726937042.post-42236428141424823342011-01-27T08:26:00.000-08:002012-01-24T23:54:51.004-08:00Out of the Mouths of Cellphone Addicts<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The best and the worst part about writing a book is waiting to hear what people have to say about it once it’s published.</span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My mom is my biggest fan. Half way through reading <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Cornelia Button and the Globe of Gamagion</i>, she says to me: “Do I really have to finish this?” I say she does and she sighs her way through to the end. She’s very loyal.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But my favourite readers are the ones who review books for a living. There is this one who spells my name wrong, another who spells the main character’s name wrong and then there are the bunch who say I haven’t had time to read your book yet, but I’m sure you’ll walk me through it in the interview. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Reviewers - you just gotta love ‘em - or at least act polite when you meet them.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My all time favourites are those reviewers who email you twenty questions and publish your responses verbatim as “an interview with the author”.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Q: Where do you get your inspiration?</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A: I take a lot of hard drugs and sleep with unsuitable men in public parks.</span></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Q: What can we expect from you next?</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A: I’m hoping to assassinate some world leader and become a professional hooker.</span></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I swear on the life of Teen2's dog Zwiggy I’m going to do it next time I get those twenty questions.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So it is that I look forward with much excitement to the responses from the readers of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Confessions of a Virgin Loser </i>when it goes live on cellphones in August last year courtesy of Mr Steve Vosloo and the Shuttleworth Foundation.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The one thing about cellphone addicts who read stories on small screens is that they have the craziest names. This one called <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">$nuz+chick(H)$</b> has the following to say about the story: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“I ddnt lyk da ending it wznt fascinatn sowri”</i></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Well, I am sorry too. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then there is this one young adult called <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">[$(*ţìñ¤.çøm*)$]</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(what on earth does his mom call him?) who has the eye of an entrepreneur. He says: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Awesum , i really like to see a movie based on this. A lot of teens will actually lose their virgni# . Or maybe not. And they will be alot party's goin on every , and someone whose runnin a condom business he/she will earn a profit!”</i></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">He's ripe for a fellowship at the Shuttleworth Foundation.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;">Then there is <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Ryan</b> who says: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“</i></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;">I love this story its so dum and at the same time cool i love it” </span></i><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;">but a chap called <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Makoya </b>says: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Ths stori sucks:[ “</i> – and he gives a sad face.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;">I know how he feels.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Apart from having spelling and punctuation issues, the young adults also have an interesting take on matters of a sexual nature.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;">L4U.COM@</span></b><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;"> says: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Nw ths is the chapter i was waitng 4,so i say bring on the chapter ,an thre nthng wrong with getng laid as long as ur using protection swt niblets ,cant wait”</i></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But <b>A+paragon+of+human+perfection </b><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">says the thought of having sex for the first time is: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“</i></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sheer horror and terribly scary not for the faint hearted”</i></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;">Then there's the guy with the sensible name,<strong> Rushaan</strong></span><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;"> who says: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“The ending needs work on. One should never end any story that abruptly.” </i>– and he remembers his full stop, which is always a nice way to end a review.</span></span></div>Edyth Bulbringhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11868110241458233296noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4343622773726937042.post-17965085209713565112011-01-13T00:52:00.000-08:002011-01-13T01:46:15.048-08:00The Place of Stories<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">There’s a place I go to in the Cape to get my groove back. Sometimes I go there to hang out with my family - like I do these past five weeks over Christmas - and neglect to write this blog.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">And sometimes I go there to be alone to write books that quality bookshops hide behind their displays of Stephenie Meyers and Dan Browns.</span></span><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW7WJLjvx21r8mwZaktbz3U1FUW1vtoyOpVXdU9Wexy3jMmKwc34TJIt81OW7R1n35VnSWqurqfPWdRlThoDBxaCgWWZz9jje3KUjQyCkyIz-_A0D0EAAm55WeEg9sweCX2XRpNDm0Qw2w/s1600/IMG_1654.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="300" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW7WJLjvx21r8mwZaktbz3U1FUW1vtoyOpVXdU9Wexy3jMmKwc34TJIt81OW7R1n35VnSWqurqfPWdRlThoDBxaCgWWZz9jje3KUjQyCkyIz-_A0D0EAAm55WeEg9sweCX2XRpNDm0Qw2w/s400/IMG_1654.JPG" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">This is the place I go to</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">I bought a small house in this place six years ago when my father was dying and I spend a lot of time afterwards sitting on the stoep with my mom knitting and crying and talking about him.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1YGBa7cRj7fhhIZXMmBuEQgCO3s7FGBzf8PTKAlYpaa4r4tE-Hi3xlYF9oCbmtDIeJhbrnYnXsRLj3brqx9KKjPdvuYYPliJC5TqdHU5EAttiIhPnUAvFVthPt35kuAtBq7L2y5ftzu0S/s1600/IMG_2682.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="300" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1YGBa7cRj7fhhIZXMmBuEQgCO3s7FGBzf8PTKAlYpaa4r4tE-Hi3xlYF9oCbmtDIeJhbrnYnXsRLj3brqx9KKjPdvuYYPliJC5TqdHU5EAttiIhPnUAvFVthPt35kuAtBq7L2y5ftzu0S/s400/IMG_2682.JPG" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The house with the stoep where I sit and knit and cry</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">My first book that I get published – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Summer of Toffie and Grummer</i> - <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>is set in this place and is about an edgy teen who tries to find a new man for her bereaved granny. It's a book about coming to terms with loss and allowing yourself to forgive and love again.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">My mom is still pretty frisky and has all her teeth - and we are still looking for her new man-friend.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">I like this place a lot because it’s really beautiful and it has a mountain with waterfalls and a river the colour of rooibos tea. And because it’s a place full of people with stories.</span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span> </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrs4ywirq8OT7nqKGqc_c0CZlwNmeEZpfv4a_ZALF-U-VnyU3g_xK7cKKOAnbirGDxGRS3J0WeY4zYEpC0bW4jsRid5NIwzd8th8QvL4KDJY9X6ia4N8NW7lYF7WsNJckQJap7aIFwqcQw/s1600/IMG_1688.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="300" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrs4ywirq8OT7nqKGqc_c0CZlwNmeEZpfv4a_ZALF-U-VnyU3g_xK7cKKOAnbirGDxGRS3J0WeY4zYEpC0bW4jsRid5NIwzd8th8QvL4KDJY9X6ia4N8NW7lYF7WsNJckQJap7aIFwqcQw/s400/IMG_1688.JPG" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">A place with mountains and a river</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">One of the stories these people tell is that their village has a very large Lake of Wine and I am obliged to do my bit my drinking as much of it as I can. So I do. (I don't have a photo of The Lake of Wine)</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">When I’m not drinking my quota, or floating up and down the river on my boogie board, I walk around the village and meet people - which is something I never do in Jozi where I try to meet as few people as possible.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">One of the people I meet in this village is a woman who talks to fish. She doesn’t wear shoes and has hairy toes and when I leave this place and go home she jumps over my fence and feeds my goldies and guppies. (And talks to them)</span><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOd5_HV7r3i-H5E8J5MBwjFopCxdlIlb08gcQYhACa3byZEkAO9IYqIGtQBQEkchbwemrXwDM3VbOCUqn6zOLxg-vDWzttWFJly6rvRta2eP5MMnIECjg_kMq_lme2471XzukHGp4DBI7a/s1600/IMG_2678.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="300" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOd5_HV7r3i-H5E8J5MBwjFopCxdlIlb08gcQYhACa3byZEkAO9IYqIGtQBQEkchbwemrXwDM3VbOCUqn6zOLxg-vDWzttWFJly6rvRta2eP5MMnIECjg_kMq_lme2471XzukHGp4DBI7a/s400/IMG_2678.JPG" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The pond with talking fish</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">At the top of my hill live three sisters. They are very old and make jam with a label called <em>Three Sisters</em>. Last year two of them crossed the river and now there is just one sister left. But the jam label still reads <em>Three Sisters</em>.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">One of my favourite spots in the village is the Charity Shop in the main street next to the bottle store (one of several trying to cope with The Lake of Wine).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">It is here that I buy some awesome curlers.</span><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpsI-N6gtDRCHNe0uyDMROVWPTkSQD1Pt86grr6IjPAIqXvzTkzVJz9olu97iFHr2QjzDcI8w3muyzrz8N4bQnFnTgIfPrQl-WhYMHutz6iqdyxtIZfdqkVsssdeeYiO2gax3DQn2a8DhZ/s1600/curlers+001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="300" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpsI-N6gtDRCHNe0uyDMROVWPTkSQD1Pt86grr6IjPAIqXvzTkzVJz9olu97iFHr2QjzDcI8w3muyzrz8N4bQnFnTgIfPrQl-WhYMHutz6iqdyxtIZfdqkVsssdeeYiO2gax3DQn2a8DhZ/s400/curlers+001.JPG" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Twenty awesome curlers</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Yes, my mom had a set just like these. I put the curlers in Teen2's Christmas stocking this year and they make her laugh. And they make her hair all curly. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">And at the Charity Shop I meet a man who is looking to buy a hat who says things like: “that idiot knows as much about real estate as my arsehole knows about shooting grouse.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">He also says I must do my bit for The Lake and come and drink wine with him at his house. But I don’t, because it is only ten o clock in the morning. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">Last August, a month after I finish writing <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Confessions of a Virgin Loser</i> for Mr Steve Vosloo and his cellphone addicts, I come to this place with my family for the school holidays.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">And I sit on my stoep and knit and think about writing another book. A book that will probably never be read by people who like to read stories on their cellphones. And I think about this and do my bit to keep The Lake from over-flowing.</span></div></div>Edyth Bulbringhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11868110241458233296noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4343622773726937042.post-16887158524852693152010-12-14T03:51:00.000-08:002011-01-13T02:24:55.154-08:00Hey Dude, speak my language<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><div style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">Every now and again I win four numbers in Life’s Lotto and Teen2 calls me Dude. </span></div><div style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">It’s usually when we are raving about something we are both crazy about - like her dog Zwiggy - who is the nicest dog any person could possibly adopt from the Sandton SPCA.</span></div><div style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">“But Dude,” Teen2 says as we argue how severely Zwiggy should be punished for eating my new shoes. Or chewing a hole in the more significant parent’s favourite leather chair.</span></div><div style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">“But Dude...” Teen2 says, setting out her case for the defence.</span></div><div style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">I always wreck the moment by trying to hug her (Teen2 – not Zwiggy) or by dribbling with pleasure because she is conversing with me like I’m a real person and not the lady with baggy upper arms with whom she shares a gene pool.</span></div><div style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">And Zwiggy always gets off with a bad-girl-bad-girl and a wagged finger and a long walk to make up for it all.</span></div><div style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">Teen language is my kind of music. I can listen to it all day. But when I try to sing along, I’m scared I’m going to get the words wrong. </span></div><div style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">So it is when I’m writing <em><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">Confessions of a Virgin Loser</span></em> for Mr Steve Vosloo from the Shuttleworth Foundation that cold week in July that I throw myself on the mercy of Teen1 and Teen2.</span></div><div style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">Help me get it right. Don’t let me become the poster lady for ridicule and contempt among thousands of cellphone addicts who want to read books on their cellphones instead of using battery time to chat to their families. Help me speak the true language of a Virgin Loser, I beg.</span></div><div style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">Thus it comes to pass that Teen1 and Teen2 and their friends gather in my kitchen fuelled by airtime bribes and promises of mall trips and a bag of biltong for Zwiggy. </span></div><div style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">And they read <em><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">Confessions of a Virgin Loser</span></em>. And they argue about language and why people in different places coming from different spaces can say one thing and mean another. </span></div><div style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">How one boy trying to pop his cherry is another boy trying to peel his banana; one girl cracking up is another girl hosing and pissing herself while the rest of the group gets pissed and chunders and barfs.</span></div><div style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">And they read and they agree. That there are a million different ways for a Virgin Loser to tell his story. And however he tells it, whether in the words of a boy from Sandton or Mitchells Plain or in the words of a boy from a school with no windows or from one with three swimming pools – it’s the same story.</span></div><div style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">And they read <em><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">Confessions of a Virgin Loser</span></em> to the end. And they laugh. And then they laugh some more. And Teen2 says jeez, mom where do you get all this crazy stuff from?</span></div><div style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">And I say: I get it from you, Dude.</span></div></div>Edyth Bulbringhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11868110241458233296noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4343622773726937042.post-49224149154993775432010-12-01T07:18:00.000-08:002010-12-01T09:17:36.972-08:00The Naming Game<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; tab-stops: 42.55pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">It’s not easy having the same name as everybody’s Great Aunt Edith. Especially when your parents get original and spell it wrong just to make sure your life is even more miserable. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; tab-stops: 42.55pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">I am called Weedy Eedy (in my skinny years) and Greedy Eedy (in my fat ones). And then there is Needy Eedy during those grim days when I eat school lunch in the cloakroom in case no one wants to sit with me at break. Warning: this tale gets sadder.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; tab-stops: 42.55pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">It doesn’t stop with the Eedy thing. If you have a name like Edyth, the chances are you’re not going to have a decent surname like Harris or Nchunu. It would have to be something like Bulbring, with a funny, foreign double dot on the “u” that gets abandoned at my coming of age when I can’t get the computer to behave.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; tab-stops: 42.55pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">So because of my problematic surname there are days when I am Bully, Bullybeef, Bullfrog, Bulldust and then it all gets very ugly when my friends get brave enough to say words like crap and shit out loud. Thanks Fatty, Bones, Greasy and Stinky for all the good times growing up with you guys in Port Elizabeth.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; tab-stops: 42.55pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">Having a bad name has given me a taste for names. In <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pops and The Nearly Dead</i>, I call my main character Randolph. He longs to be called Red (cool) but ends up with Randy (ouch) which is hard core when you are a horny fifteen year old boy. His love interest is called Regina (rhymes with vagina) Versagel. And if you say Regina Versagel fast enough over and over you know how badly it can go wrong. Revenge is sweet, in my twilight years.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; tab-stops: 42.55pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">In my very first book - <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Summer of Toffie and Grummer</i> - I give my main character the name Beatrice Wellbeloved. Mainly because she isn’t much loved at all. It is only when she learns to forgive, let go and love herself and other people that she can "be well loved" (gettit!).</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; tab-stops: 42.55pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">And then there is my calendar girl April-May February in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Melly, Mrs Ho and Me</i>. I choose the name to illustrate how much at odds her parents are from the day she is born. They want to call her by their favourite month of the year – but can’t agree on what it is. So they give her two calendar names and live with the uneasy compromise until they get divorced - and split her name.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; tab-stops: 42.55pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">There is hardly a name in any one of my books that does not have a hidden meaning or a personal association for me.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; tab-stops: 42.55pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">So it is with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Confessions of a Virgin Loser, </i>the m-book I write in the cold month of July for Mr Steve Vosloo of the Shuttleworth Foundation (Steven Vosloo - see how sensible some parents are) and his bunch of cellphone addicts (whose names I don’t know).</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; tab-stops: 42.55pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">What name to give the Virgin Loser? He is earnest and anxious and fervent and serious and staid, combined with some troubling loser tendencies. And the story he tells is the honest account of a course of events he embarks upon under great pressure from his peers to lose his virginity. It is told with candour and honesty. It is frankly told.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; tab-stops: 42.55pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"></span><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">Hello Frank, you lovely Virgin Loser.</span></div>Edyth Bulbringhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11868110241458233296noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4343622773726937042.post-14877827432655158842010-11-25T01:44:00.000-08:002010-11-25T22:23:32.759-08:00The Party Bus<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Teen1 is the saddest young adult on Planet Earth. She is the only matric student in the whole wide world who is not allowed to come home from her Matric Dance after-party in The Party Bus.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For this she blames her unreasonable mother. That’s me.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Matric Dance is a big thing. I’ve said this before. The dress is the biggest thing – as previously noted. The after-party is bigger-er than the dress. And coming home at dawn in The Party Bus with ten other young party animals is the biggest bigger-er of them all. And it’s huge for me too.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have fears for The Party Bus. I have sadnesses. I have horrors. That Party Bus cannot be trusted to deliver my first born home from the ball. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Teen1 says you're irrational and mean. Why can't you be like the rest of the world’s moms who let their young adult children come home in The Party Bus? This is what Teen1 says.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The rest of the world’s moms except for the moms of TeenFriend1 and TeenFriend2. They have also said No to The Party Bus, I say.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Yes, except for them. They are also illogical and horrible like you. Yes, they are, Teen1 says.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And so too is Frank’s mom in <em>Confessions of a Virgin Loser</em>, the m-story story that I will write for all the cellphone crazy young adults who have moms who allow them to come home in The Party Bus. </span></span><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Frank’s mom is also unreasonable and says no Frank, you cannot travel in The Party Bus. </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">I say good on you, Frank's mom.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And so it is in the chilly month of April that Teen1’s mom (that’s me) and her dad (that’s him) get up at three and a half hours past midnight to go and fetch Teen1 and her two friends from the after-party at the other end of the world.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We would have fetched Frank as well if we had known about him then. But we don't. Because I only get to write <em>Confessions of a Virgin Loser</em> for Mr Steve Vosloo and the Shuttleworth Foundation three months later.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Half way between Home and the other end of the world we get lost so we ask Aunty Garmin for help. She gets lost too so we ask three drunks at the petrol station. They point us towards the lights. We travel forever towards the lights. Then the lights go out as Eskom plunges the other end of the world into darkness.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">An hour before dawn, we find Teen1 and her two friends on the pavement outside the after-party venue. And we take them home. In the pitch darkness. And nearly get wiped out by a truck at a set of robots that aren't working. Because of the black-out.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We drive like snails. Slowly and carefully. In the pitch darkness. The Party Bus passes us on the way home. And we wave.</span></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW5LU8b1hfCDFhkq3BpGwwoiVDShb7RwIn5YDZs7O1XYEaFUXIe8gCk51EKWmE01sC3Tl6__JW73C2Ny-s5uFw9zVkz1f_iUM6NrOIqDslu1ZCO3syl8Mrm9PuGhQqdtyiFvxbB9xHjmen/s1600/afterparty+bus.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW5LU8b1hfCDFhkq3BpGwwoiVDShb7RwIn5YDZs7O1XYEaFUXIe8gCk51EKWmE01sC3Tl6__JW73C2Ny-s5uFw9zVkz1f_iUM6NrOIqDslu1ZCO3syl8Mrm9PuGhQqdtyiFvxbB9xHjmen/s400/afterparty+bus.bmp" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Drive safe, Party Bus</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"></div>Edyth Bulbringhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11868110241458233296noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4343622773726937042.post-39140863136266000222010-11-18T05:43:00.000-08:002010-11-18T05:55:06.644-08:00The Perfect Dress<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">Matric dances mean different things to different people. </span><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">For many teens it is the night to get drunk or take drugs. Some chops do both. F</span><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">or Frank and his mates Silas and Mondli in <em>Confessions of a Virgin Loser</em>, it's the night you get to pop your cherry. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">But for Teen1, her matric dance is all about The Perfect Dress.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">And so it is, that on a fine summer’s day, months before I've been approached by Mr Steve Vosloo of the Shuttleworth Foundation about writing a cellphone story for technology crazed young adults, Teen1 and me go looking for The Perfect Dress.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">We find lots of dresses. Hundreds of dresses. In dozens of boutiques in countless malls. But they don’t fit right. They don’t look right. And they don’t agree with the limit on my credit card.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">I tell Teen1 you can wear one of my dresses. Just like I wore your granny's best church dress to my matric dance thirty years ago. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">Teen1 says you must be mental. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">And so we find Louisa the Portuguese dressmaker in Bez Valley and ask her to make The Perfect Dress. She has nimble fingers and ruined eyes and says a girl who wants to wear The Perfect Dress must have coo-rage. And Teen1 says she has it. Coo-rage.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">So Louisa </span><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">sends us to Chamdors in Edenvale for red taffeta and we come back with red taffeta. And Louisa sews.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">Then Louisa sends us to the Oriental Plaza in Mayfair for black lace and we come back with black lace. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">But we also come back with a furry thing which is not black or lacy from the petshop next to the place where we buy the lace.</span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYDwZELN0MdD5q0-FRthc_9b-dFLcqFPUqjV_M5qmBd-RbNlmZ0QyKeIHCviFlk-WXrGgSqkBjKYz7HBdgSTmiMP4KSy6rdjrrXtbkU9xBexmEd8NrgYszaczZhus5qxbbDs3B01oy8CNq/s1600/Home+snaps+002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYDwZELN0MdD5q0-FRthc_9b-dFLcqFPUqjV_M5qmBd-RbNlmZ0QyKeIHCviFlk-WXrGgSqkBjKYz7HBdgSTmiMP4KSy6rdjrrXtbkU9xBexmEd8NrgYszaczZhus5qxbbDs3B01oy8CNq/s400/Home+snaps+002.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hello Raisin you cute Oriental Plaza petshop kitten</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">And we come back with her sister.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQnJjjGbsdl_hWFJ4jE2Vio_sv6rDgkCYpQ2pQvs_K97VKr8Cu1wtKpBstRPoy8JAirqN8r7FFCMuf-0GEt7TtPWzO4d7G98lTXHyU7oy2ceiAPVWJmUBe0C9CFpgr1JUZ9RoVIUEk51-l/s1600/otis.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQnJjjGbsdl_hWFJ4jE2Vio_sv6rDgkCYpQ2pQvs_K97VKr8Cu1wtKpBstRPoy8JAirqN8r7FFCMuf-0GEt7TtPWzO4d7G98lTXHyU7oy2ceiAPVWJmUBe0C9CFpgr1JUZ9RoVIUEk51-l/s400/otis.bmp" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hello Otis who we couldn't leave behind at the pet shop</td></tr>
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">So Louisa makes The Perfect Dress. And I buy Teen1 a hairdo, ear-rings, bracelet, ring, underwears, dancing shoes, make-up and an after-party-dress to match The Perfect Dress. But no matching bag. I put my foot down.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">Teen1 wears the The Perfect Dress with coo-rage.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"> <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg36f1d_SKKisAOf3UTZ-9nnBh3-vwFSWHmlL2feQAOcrwFcc1MAXdM6LrJjkyWRopZnhRHPNiMQQpX19FbchksiZDV-raCzUWvpRB_tTCrbCEYRQCbBKa9nrOLC4b9_T48MevepMQYjgdk/s1600/matric3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg36f1d_SKKisAOf3UTZ-9nnBh3-vwFSWHmlL2feQAOcrwFcc1MAXdM6LrJjkyWRopZnhRHPNiMQQpX19FbchksiZDV-raCzUWvpRB_tTCrbCEYRQCbBKa9nrOLC4b9_T48MevepMQYjgdk/s400/matric3.JPG" width="265" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What a perfect dress</td></tr>
</tbody></table> <br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">And goes to her matric dance with a boy who meets her on the pavement outside the house and wears shorts with a dinner jacket. Weird.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">She stumbles home in her skimpy after-party-dress with The Perfect Dress stuffed in a garbage bag with the shoes that give her blisters.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">Next year I'm getting The Perfect Dress dry cleaned and flogging it on Gumtree. Along with some ornate French pillars I didn't use on my stoep, and some old textbooks I have no further use for. And the dancing shoes which look good standing still. </span></div>Edyth Bulbringhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11868110241458233296noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4343622773726937042.post-81476116274485679932010-11-08T03:43:00.000-08:002010-11-08T04:28:40.225-08:00A few guilty pleasuresI<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"> have many passions. </span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">My top nine are: drinking tea, hardware shops, trees, Old People clothes, rude notes from teachers, a well tossed salad, a compost heap (well tossed), Gregory House and flannel pyjamas.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">The tenth delight, and possibly topping my list of obsessions, is smoking. And since the age of seventeen, when I learn the art of blowing smoke rings from my bedroom window in Port Elizabeth, I am the most committed smoker on Planet Earth.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">I have many joyful memories of smoking. I smoke while breast feeding. I smoke floating on the Dead Sea. I smoke the contents of a rooibos teabag one night when the Bennies and Hennies run dry and the shops are closed. My all time favourite is smoking while driving to work on those cold winter mornings with the heater going and the car windows tightly shut. Bliss.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">But at the end of March 2010, I quit smoking. Finally. For Good. Really. And in that cold week in July, when I sit down to write <em>Confessions of a Virgin Loser</em> for Mr Steve Vosloo and his bunch of cellphone crazed young adults, I am still no longer a smoker.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">I put my hands on the keyboard and the five fingers on my right hand feel lonely and unappreciated. And my mouth feels slack and my lungs feel under-used and in need of exercise. But I cannot smoke. I mustn’t. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">So instead of smoking, I eat.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">I eat and I eat and I eat and I eat. Mostly I eat a lot of bread. I dismiss my mother’s caution that a young girl should not get fat on bread. Because bread is my favourite food, along with butter. And I am not a young girl. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">My housekeeper Zama says you are always eating. Eat, eat, eat. Whenever I look you are eating. Hawu, you are looking worse these days. I tell Zama not to talk so much. I am trying to write <em>Confessions of a Virgin Loser</em> for the cellphone addicts. And stop hiding the bread and butter.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">At the end of writing <em>Confessions of a Virgin Loser</em> I get on the scale and I am worse. I am fat. I can no longer fit into my wardrobe, or into any of my clothes.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">Today I am writing the sequel to <em>Melly, Mrs Ho and Me</em>. My deadline is at the end of November. I am still doggy-paddling around Chapter Three because I can’t smoke – and I can’t eat. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">I can’t stuff my face with bread and butter because in five weeks time I have to put on a bathing costume and lie on Hermanus Beach. And watch the skinny people lying on the beach smoking - watching the fat people - watching them.</span></div>Edyth Bulbringhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11868110241458233296noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4343622773726937042.post-91559145461636973342010-10-27T05:46:00.000-07:002010-10-27T05:50:09.834-07:00Alistair The Awesome-ist<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">I obsess on silly things when I write. Like the finger marks on my walls and whether the trees that were planted for the Soccer World Cup are getting enough water. Things like that.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">And so it is in that cold week in July when I am writing <em>Confessions of a Virgin Loser</em> for Mr Steve Vosloo from the Shuttleworth Foundation and his cellphone mad young adults that I become obsessed with the dog next door.</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">Nameless Dog is the unhappiest puppy in the world. He is ugly. He doesn’t have a name. And he lives in a cold concrete courtyard at the back of an empty house with The Caretaker who never walks him or says what a good dog you are.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">Nameless Dog howls a lot. And on one cold day in that week of July he escapes and makes his way into my garden. And he and Zwiggy, the pavement special from the SPCA that belongs to Teen2 become best friends. </span><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">And Zwiggy and Nameless Dog play. </span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsIqcDPNG7coBUNZriJjEOLjBRuTZyGq05lX7148OFJAVimufYtkmiKCModm0e8aLHY0Dt8cXLq6ijJuiO2x5lFXQ2YBJQaMVJxGa9k0loGQgV3fjmIllMaVxIyqwC6mdBGyEHhhkTfG58/s1600/Home+snaps+015.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="300" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsIqcDPNG7coBUNZriJjEOLjBRuTZyGq05lX7148OFJAVimufYtkmiKCModm0e8aLHY0Dt8cXLq6ijJuiO2x5lFXQ2YBJQaMVJxGa9k0loGQgV3fjmIllMaVxIyqwC6mdBGyEHhhkTfG58/s400/Home+snaps+015.JPG" width="400" /></a></div> <span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"> And play.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhVIvDJgPT45osrQA1D9vJBADfDWopoQ53csVF9kpy3mp3Rq07APXFVK39ZvWpVJ3XhY8ZGgadjiJDKKSohuVmy9wihdZCkwO5hLBUae0JJqhnbWFTvDVED58QHKFU50lP1VMLJM6o-N2Z/s1600/Home+snaps+014.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="300" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhVIvDJgPT45osrQA1D9vJBADfDWopoQ53csVF9kpy3mp3Rq07APXFVK39ZvWpVJ3XhY8ZGgadjiJDKKSohuVmy9wihdZCkwO5hLBUae0JJqhnbWFTvDVED58QHKFU50lP1VMLJM6o-N2Z/s400/Home+snaps+014.JPG" width="400" /></a></div> <br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"> And play</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdLZkfpv6lZKV8Mb3kMx_spdz4f6JlvbENgfD-mcAmbeb0uMWsxxQ7S81JlQEHVx4LkP0Pj33CPW7f6uVcvhev-IIKwKKfHxPLmo1RrCADofQbawl-0S4uN4fqR7fyIvuMR9pVH9LmZLTS/s1600/Home+snaps+017.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdLZkfpv6lZKV8Mb3kMx_spdz4f6JlvbENgfD-mcAmbeb0uMWsxxQ7S81JlQEHVx4LkP0Pj33CPW7f6uVcvhev-IIKwKKfHxPLmo1RrCADofQbawl-0S4uN4fqR7fyIvuMR9pVH9LmZLTS/s400/Home+snaps+017.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">But The Caretaker comes around and beats Nameless Dog and takes him back to his cold concrete courtyard. And Nameless Dog howls. And I obsess on Nameless Dog’s howling.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">The Caretaker doesn’t feed and water Nameless Dog too often. So I throw bones over the courtyard wall. And Nameless Dog sleeps outside on the concrete so I throw a blanket over as well. But still Nameless Dog howls. And Zwiggy howls too.</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">One Sunday morning I track down Nameless Dog’s owner who lives in another house in a posh suburb and I offer to adopt Nameless Dog. The Owner says no, I am fond of the dog. So I say: what’s his name? And The Owner pauses too long and says the dog's name is Sunday. And I don’t believe him.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">I obsess about phoning the SPCA and I obsess about kidnapping Nameless Dog and every ten minutes instead of writing <em>Confessions of Virgin Loser</em> I look over the courtyard wall at Nameless Dog and I tell him that I’m so sorry. For everything.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">Then I make a hole in the fence and let Nameless Dog crawl through to have play dates with Zwiggy. And they play.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWrUpG1yntyW4T9d6xpuCeGdyQPJq9mvnsoW17JoatHnSpIlXPTpgZ9vlkAaWZhAuQfRzHcCHovmQi-7Jchlrf7s7uWuUbQ1z8FXlS8Pfh9ExZoL0W4-ZVsi341iqfcjPeXfs3isva7Zit/s1600/Home+snaps+021.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWrUpG1yntyW4T9d6xpuCeGdyQPJq9mvnsoW17JoatHnSpIlXPTpgZ9vlkAaWZhAuQfRzHcCHovmQi-7Jchlrf7s7uWuUbQ1z8FXlS8Pfh9ExZoL0W4-ZVsi341iqfcjPeXfs3isva7Zit/s400/Home+snaps+021.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"> And play.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh346WPFN71-DgqVvVOgDr-O6HtAg3MBR4KzY6XP5fc3eJmgMSzCsmjcL_6PQ7pD1i8Jrd2E6lZMV5BnyNA86opKGPALKvSjBJTSPUA3J1aPm_Fep3lWspzZ-gYV95kzi2qeWyTGDa2zn0D/s1600/Home+snaps+022.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh346WPFN71-DgqVvVOgDr-O6HtAg3MBR4KzY6XP5fc3eJmgMSzCsmjcL_6PQ7pD1i8Jrd2E6lZMV5BnyNA86opKGPALKvSjBJTSPUA3J1aPm_Fep3lWspzZ-gYV95kzi2qeWyTGDa2zn0D/s400/Home+snaps+022.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"> And play</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhWu6y0pJwOkoTKHqjGu7nBqllctVmgA24ix8CJlppnq0MqMDCiKrRjca5Si3X4aEYkknU-qs3gMNfyOJpl32lE8ZYetniy4-b7IT0qFqSEsHTi6hMTANNU0eOt2y66C8ibIGbW0Cpg_Dd/s1600/Home+snaps+025.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhWu6y0pJwOkoTKHqjGu7nBqllctVmgA24ix8CJlppnq0MqMDCiKrRjca5Si3X4aEYkknU-qs3gMNfyOJpl32lE8ZYetniy4-b7IT0qFqSEsHTi6hMTANNU0eOt2y66C8ibIGbW0Cpg_Dd/s400/Home+snaps+025.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">And before The Caretaker gets homes I push Nameless Dog back through the fence and block the hole.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">But Nameless Dog digs and digs his way under the fence. So I block this hole. Then Nameless Dog digs some more. And I obsess about blocking the holes faster than Nameless Dog can unblock them.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYRA5oyn5sbyAEsSfcsnQWj9dL1N_dtMRpPDZmVG42JHLRlBo67z0zCUvDMp7fVUqFskw6BBmBihZeAZE_vuhiErtbo7c1ldG8kaoP4UzozuUlfX3tSKx9PAZaT2VIymRx5X40qPirFpOA/s1600/blogwalking+and+alastair+040.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYRA5oyn5sbyAEsSfcsnQWj9dL1N_dtMRpPDZmVG42JHLRlBo67z0zCUvDMp7fVUqFskw6BBmBihZeAZE_vuhiErtbo7c1ldG8kaoP4UzozuUlfX3tSKx9PAZaT2VIymRx5X40qPirFpOA/s400/blogwalking+and+alastair+040.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"> It obsesses me.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs6ISrCBWGyltMop1zfQUsjNbOJrpGRARZgMkSOzIP3IkAbDBulpl6fsL5ATsh3IzyPqtIK-knLMuvz4NpYqHqcnWvDCUcJosNOFcwvUIhXdekemnBvhnBNCgojnnMc6GN7W1ArS5xQ6DB/s1600/blogwalking+and+alastair+042.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs6ISrCBWGyltMop1zfQUsjNbOJrpGRARZgMkSOzIP3IkAbDBulpl6fsL5ATsh3IzyPqtIK-knLMuvz4NpYqHqcnWvDCUcJosNOFcwvUIhXdekemnBvhnBNCgojnnMc6GN7W1ArS5xQ6DB/s400/blogwalking+and+alastair+042.JPG" width="400" /></a></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"> It obsesses me more.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGuQNuPvSvOr87a0YNSe6zM68REyAalZs_UfnOHikvJc2A8EtS873U0mhlrxBKN3KULtUlx6KEvtbZtZY6EPMgxxM_PO1aWqc1POFefSjUj__krovOvtfHF5dbBITgpNZkVhWAoa1v2MUF/s1600/blogwalking+and+alastair+043.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGuQNuPvSvOr87a0YNSe6zM68REyAalZs_UfnOHikvJc2A8EtS873U0mhlrxBKN3KULtUlx6KEvtbZtZY6EPMgxxM_PO1aWqc1POFefSjUj__krovOvtfHF5dbBITgpNZkVhWAoa1v2MUF/s400/blogwalking+and+alastair+043.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"> And more.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmDJG7pvUIKwPadd68Nv_UAZjOcSVr3Lx8VLnJy5sqP0i67q0uFCfS2gkL3fW_w9dERFNYZ0HLJDjzVIBw3y0Qmbine63MrjAWWFwdvvDCWqlDeBtqpwzA6kscy0BYJHRZ8mC2_YyWIQX1/s1600/blogwalking+and+alastair+044.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmDJG7pvUIKwPadd68Nv_UAZjOcSVr3Lx8VLnJy5sqP0i67q0uFCfS2gkL3fW_w9dERFNYZ0HLJDjzVIBw3y0Qmbine63MrjAWWFwdvvDCWqlDeBtqpwzA6kscy0BYJHRZ8mC2_YyWIQX1/s400/blogwalking+and+alastair+044.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">And sometimes Nameless Dog gets the better of me and spends days in our garden. And has sleepovers too. And The Caretaker doesn’t notice. Or doesn’t care.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">Then one day Teen2’s Nameless Friend comes to visit. He meets Nameless Dog. He says what a handsome dog you are. He also says you are the awesome-ist dog I have ever met. He then says I’ll call you Alistair. Alistair The Awesome-ist. He finally says I wish I could have a dog like you.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">And then one Saturday, months after <em>Confessions of a Virgin Loser</em> has been written and read by thousands of cellphone addicts, Alistair The Awesome-ist goes missing.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">And a week later, when he cares to notice, The Caretaker asks if I’ve seen the dog. And I say no. Through zipped lips.</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9zwsW8fGOZwIfyr5HkkdEjYP-fFKasMdw7T4HcS2DpxLsMR_CuBYq7X0ndkhGwTAq7pLSoFf0HHdtjiyBKAEztCRRoaemN8QrpSIfxWdJFc25ss1KB0vMhSrxdU0fSeeSIRPZCNsnXqCx/s1600/Home+snaps+031.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9zwsW8fGOZwIfyr5HkkdEjYP-fFKasMdw7T4HcS2DpxLsMR_CuBYq7X0ndkhGwTAq7pLSoFf0HHdtjiyBKAEztCRRoaemN8QrpSIfxWdJFc25ss1KB0vMhSrxdU0fSeeSIRPZCNsnXqCx/s400/Home+snaps+031.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Alistair The Awesome-ist - where did you go, hey? ;)</td></tr>
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</div></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Edyth Bulbringhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11868110241458233296noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4343622773726937042.post-69489424953433459492010-10-20T00:56:00.000-07:002010-10-20T02:44:17.764-07:00Walking the block<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">Writing a cellphone story isn’t much different to writing any other kind of story. The chapters are just shorter by a couple of thousand words. And getting writer's block every now and then happens just like it always does.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">So it is in that cold week in July when I am writing <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Confessions of a Virgin Loser</i> for Mr Steve Vosloo of the Shuttleworth Foundation. I hit my first block. It happens in Chapter Ten, half way through this story of 20 chapters.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">My dilemma is that I don’t want Frank to smoke weed and get high. I want to get him out of the situation and I don’t know how.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">When I hit a block, I go walking. There’s always something on my walks that makes me see things differently. Like these people and their dogs.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxF_LCulCzKKgC1n-KR7ni3JXuDyH2HT6WNwhOYaB8kgvHl17ODkaFUZa_aSHJCdnYX2rFsMOJdKjmauz_eZEuZ3XmstjHULoOKG74Utx_ehiXZtTD-4BKqgfx8QbjI1BsOlrXmydauBp7/s1600/blogwalking+and+alastair+008.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ex="true" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxF_LCulCzKKgC1n-KR7ni3JXuDyH2HT6WNwhOYaB8kgvHl17ODkaFUZa_aSHJCdnYX2rFsMOJdKjmauz_eZEuZ3XmstjHULoOKG74Utx_ehiXZtTD-4BKqgfx8QbjI1BsOlrXmydauBp7/s320/blogwalking+and+alastair+008.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgekmHAAEGLCelV5n36x0A08ASzEPUbm1hdOlfAK3boWWvRtAlIOj48SehGijcLppxGDA2dCpDDABaNjZO86hRjHXSrin3VSXwNE7f4Tbs9xIsTTl5bPS_5mAfEh-FL3A_WILY7Nk2aUFLY/s1600/blog+walk+012.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" ex="true" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgekmHAAEGLCelV5n36x0A08ASzEPUbm1hdOlfAK3boWWvRtAlIOj48SehGijcLppxGDA2dCpDDABaNjZO86hRjHXSrin3VSXwNE7f4Tbs9xIsTTl5bPS_5mAfEh-FL3A_WILY7Nk2aUFLY/s320/blog+walk+012.JPG" width="240" /></a><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">How inspirational is that? Colour coding your dogs with your outfits.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">And this chap. I call him the Tramp Man, although it’s not his name. <span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">I see him on my walks all the time. He stands outside people’s houses and won’t leave until they cook him a big egg and bacon fry-up.</span></span> </div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg41qCo49Qfubp9YFg1tmJtApgnPidWZTCiN6aqsUeG864qEpuMpNriWjcbYatAsVpIDrzQBBI3XyHVLdn5GMhdixGmoU5gwpKIVS8F__wIies-dMauUN7JuENPPWeVZOjpE_6_sFSYVlcc/s1600/blogwalking+and+alastair+021.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" ex="true" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg41qCo49Qfubp9YFg1tmJtApgnPidWZTCiN6aqsUeG864qEpuMpNriWjcbYatAsVpIDrzQBBI3XyHVLdn5GMhdixGmoU5gwpKIVS8F__wIies-dMauUN7JuENPPWeVZOjpE_6_sFSYVlcc/s400/blogwalking+and+alastair+021.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Tramp Man</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">The Tramp Man has been given guest appearances in two of my books, the most recent one, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Melly, Mrs Ho and Me</i>. And he also appears in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Club</i>.</span><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">Then there’s this guy here. He walks in my neighbourhood every day. He also looks like a tramp, but he’s not, he’s actually an MD for a huge media company. I wish his wife would buy him a new T-shirt.</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx_gDD1yE9-ovg2r2iurboKzwZKvjHrTUXY-lSR4Jq85cviNqko3Y4cVll-lU6U_AtHDrm3XJ6JZ-Mzm7AHe2l-eMxCrbl3zo9WqveKk4c5GvxZIhf8fqbFJLdQSv0A27HhFx6v_TT2mAl/s1600/blog+walk+053.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" ex="true" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx_gDD1yE9-ovg2r2iurboKzwZKvjHrTUXY-lSR4Jq85cviNqko3Y4cVll-lU6U_AtHDrm3XJ6JZ-Mzm7AHe2l-eMxCrbl3zo9WqveKk4c5GvxZIhf8fqbFJLdQSv0A27HhFx6v_TT2mAl/s400/blog+walk+053.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Holey T-shirt walker</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">Sometimes I find stuff on my walks. Like this chair over here. It was a bit rusty but I brought it home and painted it. If I found a cushion too I would be able to sit on it.</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"> <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Groovy chair sans cushion</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">And then there are always the dogs. The nice thing about Zwiggy - Teen2’s new dog that sometimes walks with me - is that she doesn’t bark at the other dogs. But that doesn’t stop them from barking at me. I meet a lot of dogs on my walks. They make a helluva racket.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Annoying yappy dog</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">I also come across disgusting garbage in the streets.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ6PaUA4ZKWsV4irrCcRFmnG9Uwx1qZKRkdv0hot3zSrtPrtpdUNBl-REbaG9bc2CXsBew6QSWX3Jhs-xWpwd-8X52TGsAhOH_g0Cu4R9PlQPpNi69-naDPhvV5R3Fwh4tfxRpqxrEkJpx/s1600/blog+walk+025.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" ex="true" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ6PaUA4ZKWsV4irrCcRFmnG9Uwx1qZKRkdv0hot3zSrtPrtpdUNBl-REbaG9bc2CXsBew6QSWX3Jhs-xWpwd-8X52TGsAhOH_g0Cu4R9PlQPpNi69-naDPhvV5R3Fwh4tfxRpqxrEkJpx/s320/blog+walk+025.JPG" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBRgNkUfiMk8NmFVZQYD6wcnfIC-AwGNl4hOqEo1S6TxjMLABeqVVhNYfL0JHiFeKKR4nTbrH5cN10tSZhQDvXAOiQQ0Or5Omeab7YvqGRP2GsK53hJ919nzVPz685QD2esMaKjV3Bxnef/s1600/blog+walk+016.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ex="true" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBRgNkUfiMk8NmFVZQYD6wcnfIC-AwGNl4hOqEo1S6TxjMLABeqVVhNYfL0JHiFeKKR4nTbrH5cN10tSZhQDvXAOiQQ0Or5Omeab7YvqGRP2GsK53hJ919nzVPz685QD2esMaKjV3Bxnef/s320/blog+walk+016.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">And I meet a lot of private security guards with names like Professor and Doctor and Christian. They come from places like Mozambique and Zimbabwe. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">Between the garbage that is never collected, and the security guards who are privately employed by people who don’t want their stuff stolen all the time, I think about how my tax dollar is being spent. On things like helicopters and submarines and German cars. I think about how much I’m being ripped off.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">And when I return from my walk, inspired and unblocked, I decide I’ll let Frank get ripped off too.</span></div>Edyth Bulbringhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11868110241458233296noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4343622773726937042.post-30141354106020700312010-10-13T23:09:00.000-07:002010-10-14T01:01:10.661-07:00In pursuit of wacky backy at the Jah House<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">Smoking dope is not my strength. It either makes me fall asleep or get weird. After my first year at University I don't do it much anymore, and as the years pass, I lose The Knowledge.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"></span><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">So getting Frank in Chapter Nine of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Confessions of a Virgin Loser </i>to go out and score some weed is a challenge. It's the old journalist in me - I like to be accurate or as close to the truth as dammit.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">Back in my University days there were a couple of streets in Woodstock where the words: “a five rand bankie, my china” scored a bank bag packed with weed. But where to in Jozi – and how to? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">When in doubt, I ask my two always-up-to-something-Teens. Between them resides the Wisdom of Solomon and the wickedness of Death By Chocolate. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">Thus I find myself one cold week in July with Teen2 and her two pals Nameless1 and Nameless2 on the way to the Jah House. It's a couple of streets down the road from their school - the one I have mortgaged their father and our house to pay for. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">The Jah House is one of those old character houses in the eastern suburbs of Jozi with the high pressed ceilings and wooden floors. Its roof is painted an acid trip - or perhaps the colours of the Rastafarian movement. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">We reach the Jah House and I’m sweating. Should I stop? Should I park? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A green palisade fence surrounds the Jah House and people pass. Some enter. A normal day in a Jozi street. </span><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">I circle the block. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">No sweat, Mummy, Nameless1 says. All I have to do is walk through the front gate. It’s really safe – see there’s a cop close by, I won’t get mugged. And then they laugh at the Old Fart - that's me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">Through the front door I’ll find a couple of dreadlocked Rastas. Speak to the older looking one, Nameless2 says. It’s ten bucks for a ready to go rolled joint. Just ask for a dozen Swazi. Or how ever many I want.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">I don’t ask how come they're so well informed - or if they have an account. Sometimes you just don’t want to know.</span></div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqjArHei_D4KiwhZqj2w7_YVmT74gjzQL-wfVbT47_w5Mi7MGc84fmWQ3PbTr1IiGjdPwqn05mr2P0Ow6huY7X32j7qaes46nYVOC24z5CSj8SOrqdWzceoy6v8_RQlC2mwBBG0whF9mSf/s1600/jah+house+010.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" ex="true" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqjArHei_D4KiwhZqj2w7_YVmT74gjzQL-wfVbT47_w5Mi7MGc84fmWQ3PbTr1IiGjdPwqn05mr2P0Ow6huY7X32j7qaes46nYVOC24z5CSj8SOrqdWzceoy6v8_RQlC2mwBBG0whF9mSf/s400/jah+house+010.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In pursuit of Babylon at The Jah House</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Edyth Bulbringhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11868110241458233296noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4343622773726937042.post-31458705781056378112010-10-10T23:20:00.000-07:002010-10-16T21:54:51.725-07:00The Amazing Brick<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This is my cellphone. I call it The Brick. It was born long before Noah even got a twinkle in his eye about building that ark of his.</span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"> </span> <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Brick in its fulsome awesomeness</td></tr>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I use The Brick for making calls, sending and receiving messages and it also wakes me up in the morning. What more can a person want from a cellphone?</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then Mr Steve Vosloo of the Shuttleworth Foundation came along and asked me to write an m-book which young adults could read off their cellphones. It seems that young adults like doing all sorts of stuff on their cellphones, apart from texting and calling.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Mr Steve Vosloo also asked writers Fiona Snyckers and Charlie Human to write a story for the young adults, so they could have three m-books to read.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">Confessions of a Virgin Loser</span></i><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"> is the twenty chapter story I wrote for Mr Steve Vosloo. He put it on the cellphone in the month of September along with Charlie and Fiona’s stories.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Last week Mr Steve Vosloo sent me an email containing the presentation he made at a conference in Barcelona about how much the cellphone junkies liked the stories. Barcelona is a nice city. I wish I could have been there to hear Mr Steve Vosloo talk, and not just get the presentation via email.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">If I had been at the conference in Barcelona listening to Mr Steve Vosloo telling the conference delegates about his project to encourage reading among young cellphone addicts, I would have heard that </span><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><em>Confessions of a Virgin Loser</em> got 18 000 reads. This means that a lot of young adults read the story.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">They seemed to like it too because there were about 15 000 comments about <em>Confessions of a Virgin Loser</em> in that month of September. One of the comments said: "This story is da B.O.M.B." Which is a good thing, I am told.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">I think that’s great. </span></span><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But I wish these readers would take their noses out of their cellphones and get out and buy real books – especially the ones I have displayed down the side of this blog.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then maybe I could go on holiday, to Barcelona. And Madrid. Or buy a real cellphone and send The Brick on holiday.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Mr Steve Vosloo’s presentation can be downloaded here: http://m4lit.wordpress.com/2010/10/07/statistics-of-the-last-year/.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"></div>Edyth Bulbringhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11868110241458233296noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4343622773726937042.post-27155804281266473922010-10-06T00:22:00.000-07:002010-10-06T01:13:52.952-07:00The unbearable vomiting of teens<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">I always have a bit of vomiting in my books, thanks to Teen1. She has impressive vomiting tendencies. So because of her, Confessions of a Virgin Loser also got a good chundering.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">There was the time four years ago when Teen1 hit the Hawaiian pizza too hard. The next morning I had her on her hands and knees scraping bits of pineapple and mushroom off the bedroom carpet with an egg lifter. (You have to give your daughters something to talk to their shrinks about)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">This vomiting incident made it onto page one of <em>The Summer of Toffie and Grummer</em>. The first line, in fact. I am grateful to Teen1 for the inspiration.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">Then there was the time, a few years later when Teen1 mistook the Alco-pops for fruit juice (yeah right!) at a friend’s coming of age party. She upchucked on the back seat of her friend’s mom’s brand new car, claiming a toxic prawn allergy.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">The car was so brand new it had only left the shop the day before. On this occasion it was left to Teen1’s dad to apply the egg lifter to the back seat of the car. Teen1 paid for the professional cleaning service. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">This incident made it into <em>Pops and The Nearly Dead</em> when poor Regina Versagel marinated the back seat of her mom’s brand new car with a cocktail of Gluhwein and punch after the Christmas Carol evening. I included this in the final edit. It was irresistible.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">Frank’s vomiting incident in Chapter Seven is the combo of the toxic prawn incident (as it is called in the family lore) and the 2010 incident. This incident (also legendary) occurred when Teen1 once again mistook wine for water and christened the outside of one of her few remaining friend’s father’s car – the night before the start of the Soccer World Cup.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">There was a lot of family fun that day at Soccer City. Thanks Teen1 for a memorable day.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">After every alcohol/toxic prawn vomiting incident I have freaked out and proved to be even more useless than I usually am. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">Telling my daughter - “you’re grounded for under-age drinking” is as stupid as saying - “you can booze binge and vomit your guts out over everyone's cars when you come of age."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">But I say this, every time, and Teen1 gets grounded. And I still don't have any answers.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhhHlYhRv_2HSq2LTb74XPFGJE4RYirAiXQusPkQCC3xXufLlgqAhbgdx8rwx4EQP6boSaRxNV9KIZKYNtE_EEzoNgVo2tvCa8qqs8ofTZlhas5_J-eocl3mkfP_Fuj2IECttUmHvwROem/s1600/boozeblog+006.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhhHlYhRv_2HSq2LTb74XPFGJE4RYirAiXQusPkQCC3xXufLlgqAhbgdx8rwx4EQP6boSaRxNV9KIZKYNtE_EEzoNgVo2tvCa8qqs8ofTZlhas5_J-eocl3mkfP_Fuj2IECttUmHvwROem/s400/boozeblog+006.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hey Booze Boys, don't be selling hard liquor to my girls. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>Edyth Bulbringhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11868110241458233296noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4343622773726937042.post-83081041480496718722010-10-03T01:19:00.000-07:002010-10-03T01:19:51.270-07:00A bit of Goodwill<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When I am writing, apart from building a stoep and dealing with domestic meltdowns, I like to garden. Or rather, I like to watch my gardener garden.</span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This is Goodwill my gardener.<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And he is also Claire and Patti and Diana’s gardener. We share him.</span></span></span></span><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJV8R65cHf1XuIfxLd7kaUZDIsm_rHLgeRm4Xk5yjc5PWihl4rv8IMZXDcojKmrfpWj88ClHtyxmgI4sJ036_mEGytBj9hEAX40gWMj6YtKwM4tl4HFCKPo4FKNmvn_hqYMJRmV2jkY3f5/s1600/garden_blog_013.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJV8R65cHf1XuIfxLd7kaUZDIsm_rHLgeRm4Xk5yjc5PWihl4rv8IMZXDcojKmrfpWj88ClHtyxmgI4sJ036_mEGytBj9hEAX40gWMj6YtKwM4tl4HFCKPo4FKNmvn_hqYMJRmV2jkY3f5/s400/garden_blog_013.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Goodwill</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I get to garden with Goodwill on Mondays and Fridays, which is far too little Goodwill for me. Because without Goodwill, I can’t garden. And I can’t write.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I sit down to write the second half of Confessions of a Virgin Loser for Mr Steve Vosloo of the Shuttleworth Foundation and my fingers freeze on the keyboard.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I look out of my office window and this is what I see. I see an archway leading to a swimming pool. And I want to walk through that archway and flop belly first into that pool.</span></span><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlXNxt7O-6s4t45esFqwNnvP74kiQt7IV-vAM1K2_kGmeW6yDW0JZOTQtNhyTlW6LOEdNcxvgeefjyn7nXC784JbPCSeyT9WC-aXXjCgqDW3iUJKozYcg_29GReM428seFbA-Y3xgIvkyv/s1600/IMG_0207.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlXNxt7O-6s4t45esFqwNnvP74kiQt7IV-vAM1K2_kGmeW6yDW0JZOTQtNhyTlW6LOEdNcxvgeefjyn7nXC784JbPCSeyT9WC-aXXjCgqDW3iUJKozYcg_29GReM428seFbA-Y3xgIvkyv/s320/IMG_0207.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The arch outside my office leading to the swimming pool</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">No I mustn’t, because it is one of the coldest weeks in July and I will get hypothermia.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But things aren’t making sense any more. Especially that archway outside my office leading me to the swimming pool and third degree frostbite.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I tell Goodwill that we are going to be doing some garden redesign today. He says what? I tell him we’re moving the archway from outside my office so that I can eliminate the obstruction to the free flow of ideas.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I also tell Goodwill to please stop crying and don’t even think about running all the way back to Zimbabwe. He too can contribute towards promoting literacy among the cellphone addicted young adults at the tip of the southern hemisphere by helping me write an m-book.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Goodwill says fine he’ll get the spade. </span></span><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I tell him not to forget the string because he is hopeless at getting the lines straight.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Goodwill digs and digs. The chapters of Confessions of a Virgin Loser flow from my fingers onto the keyboard like the Amazon River in flood. Goodwill plants and plants.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This is what the garden looks like now. The lines are very straight. Thanks to Goodwilll's spade and my string. </span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoEtorMZFVmMmxtomJRAZ3xQFmMHupGcXTTVHBmQK1piSJ05oLVanwhyphenhyphenl_n4IJib3nWw2ByHv5waiHSU4UhD5HwrKkLzkl93jFCbTseqjEt3_oDnPOh4pAq-Llf-NSFTSMt2u0Gmh5TMlc/s1600/garden_blog_001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoEtorMZFVmMmxtomJRAZ3xQFmMHupGcXTTVHBmQK1piSJ05oLVanwhyphenhyphenl_n4IJib3nWw2ByHv5waiHSU4UhD5HwrKkLzkl93jFCbTseqjEt3_oDnPOh4pAq-Llf-NSFTSMt2u0Gmh5TMlc/s320/garden_blog_001.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An archway leading to a table and chairs, not a swimming pool. Much better.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Yip, I also noticed that the roses didn’t survive the transplant. They should look like this.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqMsJvJB1_Fjw1a9toLBRPF_Yen4Ffg4GltGi5xl7zSNAcJ3cKg0spHIf7z2Wt6He0qmPgTK9rvctmxSEWC5wxHanwof480VZ8jna9CXXE-WfOqxiuddymISCkRT7HmQrJH67DXIitCzMr/s1600/garden_blog_005.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqMsJvJB1_Fjw1a9toLBRPF_Yen4Ffg4GltGi5xl7zSNAcJ3cKg0spHIf7z2Wt6He0qmPgTK9rvctmxSEWC5wxHanwof480VZ8jna9CXXE-WfOqxiuddymISCkRT7HmQrJH67DXIitCzMr/s320/garden_blog_005.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Roses in full bloom</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But of course they don’t. Because roses don't like to be messed about with.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Today I am supposed to be writing the sequel to Melly, Mrs Ho and Me – which is a book for people who like using their cellphones for making calls (and not reading books).</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I look at the dead roses and I tell Goodwill that these roses are very dead, aren’t they?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We should replace them with a nice creeping Jasmine.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Goodwill says no, give the roses some more time. And some water, perhaps, I say? In the meantime the Jasmine can live in the pot outside my office.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0a6wyLMy9lLxOGyN_5Lbl5LkOLiDCcXNDxb8d8wVd4GbkXFYxDpxpYpW46G_8gLeTh5GCbuUSbmjX250l9IyEdnQ1XANkzxlBxj-6LmfleIoZG0MjACPjMTNuVzuY6rRTzgV6Yix2Ea9T/s1600/garden_blog_015.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0a6wyLMy9lLxOGyN_5Lbl5LkOLiDCcXNDxb8d8wVd4GbkXFYxDpxpYpW46G_8gLeTh5GCbuUSbmjX250l9IyEdnQ1XANkzxlBxj-6LmfleIoZG0MjACPjMTNuVzuY6rRTzgV6Yix2Ea9T/s400/garden_blog_015.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Note the sticks in the pot to deter Zwiggy the dog</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I look at the view outside my office. There is no longer an arch. This is what I see instead of the arch of roses leading me to the swimming pool.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnNfri_P_0tAT7Um-nk7JGY3H50aMJKn2F5VDX8TSDqUO9KItC5Hc8yDf9_PZdZfP8uVsYCPGstzuOimIKivLdRpXT9IPCAklcKMIHNp8Fw8Ton_dFBTrxTT1MVdW6tbptT5QsAAuYSb2c/s1600/garden_blog_018.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnNfri_P_0tAT7Um-nk7JGY3H50aMJKn2F5VDX8TSDqUO9KItC5Hc8yDf9_PZdZfP8uVsYCPGstzuOimIKivLdRpXT9IPCAklcKMIHNp8Fw8Ton_dFBTrxTT1MVdW6tbptT5QsAAuYSb2c/s400/garden_blog_018.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A tree that won't grow and a weber that can't</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I tell Goodwill I think we need to do some garden redesign; I need to write. Let's get the spade and string.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Goodwill says he thinks I need to get a towel and sunscreen. I need to take a running jump into that swimming pool.</span></span></div>Edyth Bulbringhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11868110241458233296noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4343622773726937042.post-67757470368021125942010-09-29T01:00:00.000-07:002010-09-29T01:16:19.087-07:00Peace and Quiet<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="color: #222222;"> I need peace and quiet to write - that’s what I tell the family.<br />
<br />
This month there will be no fun-and-games-and-gadding-about. And if the electricity and plumbing and everything else conks out then things will have to be fixed after I’ve finished writing.<br />
<br />
That’s what I say.<br />
<br />
I sit down to write Confessions of a Virgin Loser in a cunningly cold week in July. I am snug in my quiet office with a peaceful view of my new stoep to which my builders must still add the finishing touches (screeding the floor, painting the walls and ceiling and so on).<br />
<br />
I call Trevor and Phineus my builders, but everyone knows they are really Friend-Lisa’s builders. When Friend-Lisa needs something done, Trevor and Phineus are off to her place before you can say hey, you haven’t finished building my stoep.<br />
<br />
The stoep project started in February.<br />
<br />
Now it’s July and Friend-Lisa releases Trevor and Phineus to come and clutter up the front of my office in the week that I’m seeking peace and quiet to write. Thanks Friend-Lisa.<br />
<br />
And Teen1 embarks on a nervous breakdown over matric prelims; Teen2 adopts a pavement special from the SPCA with serious toilet issues - and Penguin wants me to finish up with my latest book Melly, Mrs Ho and Me.<br />
<br />
I want to scream bugger off the lot of you, I need peace and quiet to write Confessions of a Virgin Loser for Mr Steve Vosloo of the Shuttleworth Foundation. I need to write a story to promote reading and writing among young adults who like reading stuff on cellphones.<br />
<br />
Instead I say: “Want a cup of tea?” to Trevor and Phineus. And they say - every time - “Only if you’re making.” And I say of course I’m making. And I make cup after cup of tea while Trevor and Phineus screed and paint; and Zwiggy from the SPCA expresses her toilet issues on my office floor and walks all over the fresh screed.<br />
<br />
Twenty cups of tea, twenty chapters each of 200 words later, I have product for Mr Steve Vosloo of the Shuttleworth Foundation. And the stoep is finished - except for a few finishing touches.<br />
<br />
Today I have peace and quiet to write. Zwiggy is toilet trained and asleep on the couch, the Teens are at school. TeenDad is earning the bacon. Peace and Quiet.<br />
<br />
I call Trevor and Phineus and say they must come now to re-screed the stoep floor. I need to write. And I’m making tea. </span></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0flZLaDMeWv_wljNGr2kg1Yf05cU1MjsTOmXnqptA9HCchzYIry3gXZohjrsCQPYf1DCgg7s2Mrw4zj19reLmUXsVZ6E-brw1wWkW_z_RvMPErFZgIovu3qk_BMPuMCbEX15LIsFatBzT/s1600/Trevor+and+Phineus+007.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0flZLaDMeWv_wljNGr2kg1Yf05cU1MjsTOmXnqptA9HCchzYIry3gXZohjrsCQPYf1DCgg7s2Mrw4zj19reLmUXsVZ6E-brw1wWkW_z_RvMPErFZgIovu3qk_BMPuMCbEX15LIsFatBzT/s400/Trevor+and+Phineus+007.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My (and Friend-Lisa's ) builders Trevor and Phineus - back to chip away<br />
and rescreed the floor so that I can write and make tea<br />
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<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJbemCSbpQ2P8Uc3Ce80eLTv4wTklf3DB2T711Z1vFUPw4pDp79UuxdEVlZDV8Em-p3qjN_AaP-gG-jYWUzEk_ULSEktOzF7Khi6YpPv8F-EC4opKJA5n3i8-23649w_Y73TnfpyMMh7KC/s1600/zwiggy+005.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJbemCSbpQ2P8Uc3Ce80eLTv4wTklf3DB2T711Z1vFUPw4pDp79UuxdEVlZDV8Em-p3qjN_AaP-gG-jYWUzEk_ULSEktOzF7Khi6YpPv8F-EC4opKJA5n3i8-23649w_Y73TnfpyMMh7KC/s400/zwiggy+005.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hey Zwiggy - you sure have grown into a nice dog</td></tr>
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</div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span>Edyth Bulbringhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11868110241458233296noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4343622773726937042.post-75086428873692260452010-09-26T00:13:00.000-07:002010-09-27T23:02:48.444-07:00Crazy silly games<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;">My up-to-something teens are always playing games. And I’m not talking about Monopoly and Scrabble.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;">Earlier this week about twenty matric boys at their school arrived for class in shorts – they had hacked the legs off their trousers and sewed them into Bermudas or bum shorts. (Teen1 was one of the tailors; Teen2 one of the stylists). How I laughed at those wicked boys, playing silly buggers with those cross teachers.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;">The aim of these sort of games is to see how far they can push the school authorities. What tends to happen is that the parents get phoned to come and take their troublesome teens home. It’s a double jackpot – pissing off both teachers and parents. You can’t go wrong with this.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;">When my teens play these sorts of games, I’m not too much bothered. It’s the other sort of party game where the rules are a bit hazy and I’m not asked to play that scares the hell out of me.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;">One night I picked Teen1 and a couple of her friends home from a beach party. Later I found Teen-Friend examining a galaxy of love-bites on her neck. Goodness, how that thin neck had been mauled! </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;">She saw me looking.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;">“This one is Geoff. And here is Carl and Leonard. And oh, this one here is Damien,” she said, naming each love-bite with eyes as red as one of those hard liquor labels. Then she saw the expression on my face.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;">“Yeah, you’re right,” she said, acknowledging my dismay. “Those boys sure have weird names.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-ZA;">I just had to laugh – but the taste of fear was at the back of my throat. Crazy silly games!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdPgJfFEOnuNnJDyEo_WAlyoIEQCH9vLukAxshlUdjLmjyaXgG8v6kQsf8O5KMLXqHL4JzqPk0mfdY_AuU6tLFUQ7mUJGL9apuZDaoaoSXrCfmmGcFBSOgtAB9hJvK7hLuWhfx1jYPJss7/s1600/007.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdPgJfFEOnuNnJDyEo_WAlyoIEQCH9vLukAxshlUdjLmjyaXgG8v6kQsf8O5KMLXqHL4JzqPk0mfdY_AuU6tLFUQ7mUJGL9apuZDaoaoSXrCfmmGcFBSOgtAB9hJvK7hLuWhfx1jYPJss7/s400/007.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Boy in shorts drives teachers crazy</td></tr>
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</div>Edyth Bulbringhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11868110241458233296noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4343622773726937042.post-28437797103865045072010-09-22T07:11:00.000-07:002010-09-22T10:29:18.714-07:00That drunk idiot Jub Jub<div class="article-para" style="margin: 3.75pt 0cm;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My two daughters sometimes make their own way to school when they want to prove how well they can do without me. The oldest one walks and the other one rides her bicycle if the wheels aren’t pap.</span></span></div><div class="article-para" style="margin: 3.75pt 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="article-para" style="margin: 3.75pt 0cm;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"></span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The school is only about a kilometre away, but when I see them leaving through the front gate, I want to chew my heart in two. Anything could happen on that stretch of road.</span></span></div><div class="article-para" style="margin: 3.75pt 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="article-para" style="margin: 3.75pt 0cm;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Walk on the pavement,” I yell after the walking one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“And slow down it’s not a race,” I scream at the cycling one - who never hears me as she hurtles onto the road into the traffic.</span></span></div><div class="article-para" style="margin: 3.75pt 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="article-para" style="margin: 3.75pt 0cm;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">They say I’m annoying in my worrying ways. And I really am. But I can’t forget that gospel singer Jub Jub (Molemo Maarohanye) who diced drunk, wrecked his car and killed four kids who were walking home from school in Soweto six months ago.</span></span></div><div class="article-para" style="margin: 3.75pt 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="article-para" style="margin: 3.75pt 0cm;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">These days they call his killer Mini Cooper the Jub Jub. It’s not really fair on a nice little car that never asked to be driven by a drunk idiot. If I was a Mini Cooper, I would sue.</span></span></div><div class="article-para" style="margin: 3.75pt 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="article-para" style="margin: 3.75pt 0cm;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But names have a way of sticking – like calling the Combi taxi Zola Budd after that skinny bare-footed runner who tripped up Mary Decker in the Olympics.</span></span></div><div class="article-para" style="margin: 3.75pt 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="article-para" style="margin: 3.75pt 0cm;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When I wrote Chapter Three of <em>Confessions of a Virgin Loser, </em>I needed a car for Mondli to drive. I thought the Jub Jub was a good choice. It tells you everything you need to know about the driver.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial;">If I saw Mondli driving his Jub Jub in my neighbourhood after school I would have a serious heart attack.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBxEH05lV3icn13P5b_XCEFkUo9Xkxfh3posq_3eMktcCpm5xKqNK9VKvFb6qgzIgomNkHNeY7Wgws-m-0efjpIHz2gcXcVLaxi812oX5tR92rpiSYFiEgVsXu4FC8ZgdVtLkxqdv4O5_6/s1600/008.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBxEH05lV3icn13P5b_XCEFkUo9Xkxfh3posq_3eMktcCpm5xKqNK9VKvFb6qgzIgomNkHNeY7Wgws-m-0efjpIHz2gcXcVLaxi812oX5tR92rpiSYFiEgVsXu4FC8ZgdVtLkxqdv4O5_6/s400/008.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Teen2 wrecked her bike chain going down a hill too fast last week so the bike's out of action until she can persuade me to take it to the shop to get fixed. Until then I get to take her to school, which makes me really happy.</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div>Edyth Bulbringhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11868110241458233296noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4343622773726937042.post-16446251685972211062010-09-18T23:49:00.000-07:002010-09-18T23:54:38.595-07:00Families that embarrass the hell out of you<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I couldn’t imagine giving Frank anything more horrible than seven doting sisters and a teacher for a mother. They must embarrass the hell out of him every day without intending to – just because they love him so much.</span><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I embarrass my daughters terribly sometimes – especially in front of their friends. Mostly I feel bad when I do, as I don’t like to make them sad and awkward. Also, they get so cross with me that they punish me for days by not letting me pack their school lunches or make them breakfast.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The one thing that really gets them is if I chat to their friends. They can’t stand it. I’m supposed to be this invisible taxi driver and provider or funds – never seen or heard unless they give me a signal. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But sometimes I rebel at their disregard for me and I make a point of yelling, “Hello, hello,” out of the car window to their classmates when I pick them up from school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When we drive off I shout and wave and grin like a mad person to everyone. Even to people I don’t know.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My daughters get furious and say, “Stop waving at these people you don’t even know. They think you’re a crazy person.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I keep on waving because it makes me smile inside. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I know one day it’s going to backfire and my daughters will have their revenge.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In the mornings when I take them to school, I wear my pyjamas and slippers. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I see myself running out of petrol or getting stopped by the cops and getting hauled out onto the streets in my sleepwear. My daughters will die laughing at me when this<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>happens!</span></div>Edyth Bulbringhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11868110241458233296noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4343622773726937042.post-44128571794255202412010-09-17T07:25:00.000-07:002010-09-17T07:25:17.658-07:00The idea behind the story<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When Steve Vosloo from the Shuttleworth Foundation approached me about writing a cellphone story for young adults, I looked to my daughters for an idea. They are always up to something. These “somethings” are usually things that make me bleed from my ears with fear for their safety. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When I moan at them and yell, “Come on, just don’t do that, you’re under age - and it’s stupid,” they have two retorts for me. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The first is, “But <em>you</em> do it, and you’re old. Don’t you know how stupid and uncool <em>you</em> look?” </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The other retort comes after we have calmed down and are talking more quietly - usually when I’m driving the car and we can’t make eye contact. They say, “Hey Mom, you just don’t understand the pressure we are under to fit in. It’s so hard to say no.” </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So that’s where the concept for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Confessions of a Virgin Loser</i> came from. The idea that two friends could callously challenge their dorky buddy to do stupid things under threat of being dumped. It’s an idea taken to an extreme, but I think it’s happening on all sorts of levels every day.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Here are my wickedly clever daughters. They are always up to something.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Teen1 - She does things that make blood pour from my ears.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_Remyukr1-s19u-mseLRGs7BKAFNnJLO81JTDRG_t2ujye64DPG8bWsvGxU3IOZ8M1ZzpjpEcT545ObfTeYa_YTxcDNtsQwgw6dSztzbq3EFZUx24RJ5r8YNG2GtmOi4KVbrZ1C4E4pXA/s1600/world_cup_011.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" qx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_Remyukr1-s19u-mseLRGs7BKAFNnJLO81JTDRG_t2ujye64DPG8bWsvGxU3IOZ8M1ZzpjpEcT545ObfTeYa_YTxcDNtsQwgw6dSztzbq3EFZUx24RJ5r8YNG2GtmOi4KVbrZ1C4E4pXA/s320/world_cup_011.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Teen2 - She thinks I'm uncool.</td></tr>
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