Changing my name to Lola...

So, here I am in the money hub of the country, my home town. And how does it feel? Well, at the moment I am not feeling too much and that has something to do with a severe lack of sleep and a bottle of J & B. In fact everything, even the J & B has been a series of revelations.

Firstly I discovered that people just don’t walk anywhere anymore in Pretoria. I am not sure if it is the crime or opulence has ensured that everyone has some form of mechanical transport but, people just don’t walk here. They all pay a fortune and go and get their exercise in a gym. I took a stroll down to the local shopping centre to go and be a Kydaar*. Within 5 minutes of turning into a main road I got offered a lift. Very sweet but my mother taught me not to climb into cars with strangers. And besides, the possibility of having to stuff this body into a swimming costume is still looming so a little bit of wobbling the wobbles might be good. I politely declined.

A bit further on at a large intersection I noticed a banner hanging on the wall of the corner house. It read XYZ Wellness and Performance Consultancy. Now, to start with I have a problem with the concept “consultant.” When someone tells me they are a consultant I still get this rather rude urge to ask “Yes, but what do you actually do?” Now, what exactly would a Wellness and Performance Consultancy do? My mind boggles and the thought process could descend into the gutter. Luckily I managed to stop this descent by asking The Viking and Viking’s friend, Roes what on earth actually happens behind these walls. This is apparently a new service which has arisen as a result of things like affirmative action, skills transfer, etc, etc. My, but things have changed since I was here, getting a job has turned into a whole new art form of anxiety.

The true purpose of my suburban saunter was not to be offered lifts by men with green ties or to discover new and interesting ways people are making money but to hunt down one of those places where you have a hair wash and then they whip out a pair of scissors and a comb and they ‘trim the ends.’ In my day they were called hairdressers or salons and the people who worked there were called hairdressers. Just for the record, I am blessed with naturally curly/wavy blonde hair; I keep it long because in my case I have to accentuate what I consider to be my one asset. I don’t dye it because I was born with this colour, I feel no need to change it. So, enter clean looking establishment with bottles of fancy, expensive shampoos piled in the window as a display and the entire staff gathered around the reception desk talking because they have no customers. Conversation as follows:
Katt: Hi, what are you going to charge me for a trim?
Girl (with impossibly unnatural hair colour): Well, it depends who does it.
Katt: *Blank expression*
Girl: Well, if you have it down by a senior qualified consultant it is R190.00 and a junior qualified consultant it is R120.00.
Katt: I am afraid that is a bit expensive for me.

Problem 1: Why, oh why can I not think of a more sophisticated, less plebian sounding reply? Something like… I want a trim, not a makeover, regardless of what you might think I am in need of.
Problem 2: There is that word ‘consultant’ again.
Problem 3: Due to the fact that there is reference to a qualified consultant does that mean you can have your mop attended to by an unqualified consultant? And what would an unqualified consultant charge? Maybe the hedge trimmer at the local garden service qualifies as an unqualified consultant. Is there a hedge trimmer in the house?

And now for a confession… I must just first remember who all reads this thing… hm, okay, I think it’s safe. Because if Maw reads this I will be disinherited again, not that there is anything to inherit but she likes to believe that threat carries some weight. But she doesn’t read it so, here goes.

Over the last few days I have had a whole bunch of cigarettes. And I stopped smoking a while ago. But, here is the childish excuse: It’s their fault. First Maw ‘phones and tells me Paw is not getting better and he is going back to the doctor for antibiotics. Then Flyboy ‘phones me and tells me that I am going to be minus one feline with bad toilet habits when I get back. So, there I was, a blood pressure off the scales trying to figure out why, when I have flown 1 200 kms to get away from all the nonsense, the ones who supposedly love me ‘phone me to keep me posted. In a nutshell, I lost it, solidly. The Viking sat across the coffee table from me, watching the show without interrupting. Then I got up, grabbed his smokes and stormed outside.

And The Viking, gentleman that he is, joined me, lit up one, stood next to me and sang quietly in my ear:
“… she walks like a woman and talks like a man Oh my Lola, lo lo lo Lola, lo lo lo Lola”

Ladies, this man is tall, blonde, gorgeous and single. It’s an injustice and a waste of good man flesh, doesn’t anyone want him? You will have to be approved by me first though.

To finish off, a thanks to a SARS employee for his helpfulness and understanding that I am a paranoid little girl who has probably read too many conspiracy theories and lives by the “Trust No One” standard.

Stay tuned for further revelations, including the ghastly truth about J & B and the fact that my liver walks at heel next to me on a leash.

* Kydaar is a spin off of the Afrikaans words Kyk Daar meaning Look There. This is what country bumpkins do when they come to the big city, they point at things and say “Kydaar.” And they forget to close their mouths after saying it.