The Waffle Group

When I was first trying to figure out what to do with my life, I was very concerned about money. No money equated to death, in my mind. Considering that, perhaps I should have become an investment banker. They seem to make a lot of money even when they are actually losing it. That’s a sure bet if there ever was one. I guess I’m just not enough of a socio-path to feel no guilt at that sort of behaviour.

Instead I pursued a career in engineering. It seemed the pragmatic approach to going about things. It was a vocation useful to society, and one which would eventually yield high economic returns guilt-free (well my 17 year old self imagined it to be free of difficult ethical decisions). I remember researching average income for engineers and found the results to be comforting.

Another consideration was the need to acquire a bursary to support my studies. I sensed some pressure from my father in this respect (not blaming you Dad). There weren’t a lot of bursaries on offer for Bachelor of Fine Arts degrees, but bursaries from industrial and mining companies in South Africa were literally growing on trees (the trees are rather odd in South Africa — also, lions prowl in the streets of Johannesburg which is the real reason for the high murder rate). Both my brothers had been awarded bursaries for their academic results, and my academic results were of a similar standard, so it seemed the bursary was mine for the picking. But the political climate in the country had changed, and those bursary trees in the white sand were looking a little withered. Their bursary leaves curling up and falling from the branches, all crackly and brittle.

The ANC had been unbanned and Nelson Mandela had been elected president of South Africa. My pale male skin was no longer a particular advantage to me, and may even have counted against me. There was great pressure on companies to support and train young black talent. My numerous bursary applications yielded a number of interviews, but no financing for my studies. Realising this, and sensing the pushing he may have made for me to pursue a bursary, my father told me to study whatever I wanted to. “You like writing. Study English, or journalism. Study whatever you enjoy.”

It was too late though. I heard what he told me, but I wasn’t going to let it interfere with the way I’d predefined what my future would hold. I had conclusive proof in my mind that pursuing any career other than engineering would leave me destitute on the street. I’d beg for small change and scraps of stale bread. I’d dig in dustbins to survive. I’d be bad at that. Then I’d die.

My parents weren’t the only ones I chose to ignore. I ignored everyone that told me that a career in writing was the thing I should be doing.
On the last day of high school my English teacher wished me well and said, “Look forward to seeing you in print.”
Every year I won the English prize at school.
I was rejected by AECI for a bursary in Chemical Engineering, and the reason they gave was “Neil wants to be a writer.”

People working at a chemical factory had a better idea about what I should be doing than I did. I look back at it now, and I want to go and smack my 17-year-old self about the back of his head, and shout, “Look! Look! It’s staring you in the face you bleeding idiot!”

I also created a myth. The myth of doing something one really enjoys to earn money would ruin the love and enjoyment of the activity. Thus writing for a living is something I could never really contemplate, because that would destroy my ability to gain any satisfaction from the activity itself. Broken logic to protect myself from disappointment. I saw myself as a writer, but if I tested this hypothesis and failed to make a living from writing, what would I be?

It’s time to test the hypothesis.

It’s been a long arduous journey to break down the fear that paralysed me. Quitting work in South Africa during a recession, and moving to the haemorrhaging UK economy can hardly be described as “wise.” It has shaken the risk and fear perceptions I’ve held. It’s teaching me to fight.

It’s stupid to fight for something one doesn’t want. For a short while here in the UK I tried to make a professional photographer of myself. This would have been a great idea had I been taking photographs for pleasure all my life, but I haven’t. I felt I could monetise it faster than I could writing, and maybe that’s true, but so what? It will be a fight to get a photography business going. A war even. I’m not going to fight a war I don’t believe in.

Short fiction, longer fiction (Commitmentman? That would be hilarious if I were to make my fortune off that!) freelance article writer. I’m researching journalism courses in Scotland, and have a couple of prospects that I’ll apply to. I’ll also apply for unpaid internships or whatever I can get at publications in the area, in order to get some journalism experience.

However this works out, there is one thing I’m certain of. I’ll be writing about it.

Kelty Dog has passed from this realm of existence. He’s moved on to wherever it is that Goose-Chasing-Stinky-Stonky-Peat-Bog-Dogs go.

Kelty, we shall miss your sock-chewing ways and biscuit-begging dances. We shall miss your silky fluffy-fatness and your grumpy-growl when we moved you from a comfy spot. Rest in Peace.

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We’ve been living in Edinburgh for about two and a half months now, which is enough time to get halfway settled, and certainly enough time for some spection.

Spection isn’t a word. Retrospection; introspection; inspection; but no spection. The closest seems to be Spectioneer, or Specksioneer. This is “the chief harpooner, who also directs in cutting up the speck, or blubber; — so called among whalers.”

Cutting through the blubber of my experiences. Feels like a strangely appropriate metaphor.

A Brief Summary of Things

We’re living in Edinburgh. We found affordable (at the moment) shelter. It has the things we need, like beds, an oven, refrigerator, TV, heating, hot water. It’s in a decent area.

We have public transport. We can get around the city as we need to. Haven’t had any real need for a private vehicle so far (although missing buses can sometimes be a drag).

We found Jethro a nursery to meet other children.  He goes three times a week for 5 hours. We’d send him more but it costs a lot.

That’s all the blubber cut up, which leaves me with the mess of a vivisected whale. And the mess is this…

Underemployment

Disclaimer: I am predisposed to melodrama. Vivisected whale metaphors included.

I also feel that tweeting has done my writing of lengthier, thoughtful pieces, a disservice.

Underemployment is arguably better than unemployment, but both are a rocket-harpoon to the belly of your ego. The ego doesn’t really survive being disembowelled, so instead it is reincarnated into some other form. My current place of underemployment is at a telephone call centre, as a market research telephone interviewer. Good thing I spent all those years of pain getting that Chemical Engineering degree under my belt!

It’s a job that is less terrible than one might imagine, and really makes me wonder why I bothered educating myself at all. It’s straightforward work. It isn’t stressful (once you get some experience). And you get a broad range of interaction with the human condition — a fascinating and often hilarious sample of the world of people out there. It really can be quite entertaining. The work isn’t exhausting either, leaving me some energy for more creative pursuits. At least, I’d have more energy if I didn’t have to match a 2-year-old’s endless supply. Two-year-olds are the solution to our fossil-fuel economy, if only we can find an efficient way to harness them as a power source.

All I needed to do was kill my Chemical Engineer self, and replace it with a more humble accepting self. One that had lower expectations. Or perhaps the humble one was there all along, getting trampled on and being ignored. Not exactly suicide, but some sort of psychological insurrection is running its course within me. I’m hoping to limit the collateral damage.

I’m not the only underemployed one in my household. Angie is struggling with some underemployment issues herself. Considering her epic CV, this is really a bit of a mystery. The recruitment agents keep putting her name forward for jobs. The insane employers keep not employing her. It’s not really a total mystery. We have our suspicions about the problem, but all I’ll say is this: The Nazis had an over-developed sense of nationalism.

I know about Godwin’s Law. I don’t care.

It’s not all a pool of bloody water and disembowelled Cetaceans

Well it is in the whaling nations, but not so much in Edinburgh.

There are good things, so I probably should try to bring some balance to this woeful account of my woeful woes.

Light-hearted musings

Pavements: They have them here in the UK because the powers that be aren’t entirely taken by surprise by the fact that one may want to walk from point A to point B. I note this because of the stark contrast to South Africa. In South Africa the municipality seems to believe that it’s only worthwhile building pavements for the rich people, and since the rich people drive everywhere, they don’t bother laying too many pavements.

In the UK a huge amount of consideration goes into how a pedestrian might get access to something. While doing maintenance on the road, the builders are likely to close off massive stretches of road to vehicular traffic, in order to ensure that pedestrians can still walk safely. Brightly coloured barriers guide us safely along.

I’ve noticed less jay-walking in Edinburgh, than I experienced in South Africa, but the reason isn’t what you might expect. British people are just as inclined to jay-walk as any one else in South Africa would be, but in South Africa the powers that be have more important things to worry about. In Edinburgh the city council puts up all manner of barriers along the road to discourage people crossing the roads at convenient places. People sort of bounce off the barriers in a confused manner, and slowly shuffle their puzzled sheeple bodies over to the pedestrian crossing points. Keeping us all safe from ourselves, as any good nanny-state should.

Foul! | Photo credit: Gene Hunt

Dog-fouling: The thing about having pavements is that dogs can crap on them. This can cause quite a bit of consternation, with dire warnings posted everywhere regarding the terrible financial consequences of allowing your dog to foul the verges and pavements.

 

The £100 fines don’t deter every dog owner, as I frequently discover that my shoes have become malodorous due to a misstep of mine. Perhaps those were stray dogs?

Silly rules about alcohol: South Africa certainly had stupid rules about the sale of alcohol. Only licensed liquor stores can sell all types of alcohol, but not on a Sunday after a randomly chosen time. Supermarkets are only allowed to sell wine. Licensed restaurants can sell any type of alcohol at any time, including on Sundays when the retail places have to close their doors.

It’s sort of nuts in Edinburgh too, but there are extra levels of complexity that are, frankly, incomprehensible to me at the moment.

Supermarkets sell wine and malt, but the licensing in the restaurants is weird. We tried going out with Jethro in tow on a Sunday evening and were turned away from several pubs because of the child — but for different reasons. At one establishment, Jethro got us barred because he was under the age of five and the restaurant/bar didn’t have small child facilities. At the next place, we were barred because children weren’t allowed after 5pm, and at the place where we finally stopped, we were barred because children weren’t allowed on the premises at all.

How is it that we stopped where children were not allowed on the premises? Jethro was asleep in his pram, so we sat on the edge of the pub’s property, and placed Jethro on the other side of an imaginary line which marked the boundary between the pub property and the neighbouring property.

Comparison of the air: The air in Edinburgh is cleaner than it is in Johannesburg. Evidence, other than the fact that one cannot see the air in Edinburgh (while this is possible during winter in Jozie), is that my asthma is gone. Perhaps the lower altitude, and consequential higher concentrations of oxygen are helping me out there too.

The air is colder though. It’s October now, and the frosty chill in the atmosphere is getting noticeable and I know it is only a an aperitif before the main course of winter. I’m going to miss the African summer, methinks.

Walking around at night: People do this in Edinburgh. People do this in Johannesburg. Life expectancies are vastly different between those two populations of nightwalkers. Not saying I haven’t come across some dodgy folk on my night adventures around Edinburgh. Just saying that I haven’t taken any extensive nightwalking samples in Johannesburg.

Public transport: I’ve been using the buses in Edinburgh, and they are excellent (except the No.10 which generates a disturbing resonance when the engine idles, causing my brain to rapidly oscillate around inside my skull, bashing the sides and making me feel quite nauseous). They have a different approach to service than the South African mini-bus taxis.

• Buses in Edinburgh stop at the designated stops. South African mini-buses stop anywhere the customer is or wants to be.
• Buses in Edinburgh adhere to passenger capacity limits. South African mini-buses ignore passenger capacity limits.
• Buses in Edinburgh leave a stop once the passengers waiting get on. South African mini-buses leave the stop when the mini-bus is full.
• Buses in Edinburgh have their drivers intimidated by antisocial passengers. South African mini-buses have their passengers intimidated by antisocial drivers.
• Buses in Edinburgh have bus lanes reserved for them. South African mini-buses have to reserve normal or emergency lanes for themselves.

I think both parties could learn something from the other one.

In Conclusion

I think I need to meditate more on patient acceptance.

 

We visited the Bean-dog in quarantine on Saturday. They actually locked us in her dog-run (she also has as heated sleeping area that isn’t exposed to the elements). I assume that people have attempted to jailbreak their pets in the past.

Nevermind—we’ll be better prepared next time when we smuggle in the wire-cutters.

Packing proceeds before the big removal of stuff on the 20th.

Previously I reviewed a film called Revolutionary Road, and I mentioned it doing something life-changing to me.

I watched that film, and rated it more depressing than Schindler’s List (which was certainly no happy adventure film) because it looked like my life. I’d never been directly affected by the holocaust, and could maintain a level of detachment from the atrocious events portrayed in Schindler’s List. By any objective measurement, Revolutionary Road is a far less disturbing film than Schindler’s List—unless you find yourself living on Revolutionary Road.

My life of cautious pragmatism. My life of radical ideas and conservative action (or sometimes, just non-action). My house on Revolutionary Road.

A new radical idea hatched in Angie’s and my shared consciousness.

The idea: hoist our lives out of South Africa and deposit them somewhere in the United Kingdom.

It could have been more radical. We could have decided to go to Afghanistan, but our radical ideas are still tethered to cautious pragmatism. This time, we’re following through on the action. We’ve bought the plane ticket and Angie, Jethro, and I will be in the UK at the beginning of August. The Bean-dog will be following once we find a place to settle. The Kelty-dog is going to the Geriatric-Services Doggie-Retirement-Home (aka my parents).

We’re selling our assets (but hedging our bets by keeping the house). We’ve resigned from our jobs with no employment in the UK yet

(although Angie came close; still looking).

It’s madness! But it feels good. It feels like being alive again.

Watching Revolutionary Road has, arguably, changed my life.

I didn’t attempt suicide, but it is the kind of film that makes one think that perhaps suicide isn’t such a dubious option after all.

Frank Wheeler (Leonard di Caprio) and April Wheeler (Kate Winslet) decide their suburban American-Dream lifestyle is actually more like an American-Nightmare. The kind of nightmare where, no matter how hard you try, you just can’t get from where you are to where you want to be. It’s like wading through molasses.

April is an actress, but the small town, amateur acting circuit doesn’t do her justice. Her acting career is over.

Everyday, Frank competes in the rat race to the top of the corporate ladder, but he doesn’t look like he has much prospect of winning. His father worked for the same company and didn’t make much of an impression either. He finds his job unbearably dull, and foresees that his fate will mirror that of Dad’s.

They have two children, and people with children need to behave responsibly and provide economically for their off-springs’ well-being.

Frank and April argue a lot and are completely miserable a lot. Their relationship is clearly going to hell, because they both hate their lives (although not necessarily each other).

The quiet desperation of their lives (quiet, even taking the shouting-matches into account) leads them to make a revolutionary decision. Let’s move to Paris, France! The art scene there is much more developed, April can take up acting again and support Frank and the children. Frank can spend the time to figure out what he really wants to do with his life, and then he can do it. This movie is set in the 50′s, so that really is some crazy revolutionary idea right there.

SPOILER ALERT

Outstanding! At this point I began to think that perhaps this movie was going to brighten up a bit. It’s Hollywood, right? It’s Leo and Kate, from Titanic. There might still be a sad ending, but at least if they go to Paris the whole movie won’t carry this burden of crushing-defeat the whole way through.

Everyone else in this 50′s setting is bemused by the Wheelers. Leaving the USA? Going to France? The woman is going to be the bread-winner? Okaaaaaay. In fact the only character, other than the Wheeler’s, who thinks extracting oneself from one’s middle-class prison is an excellent idea is a guy from a psychiatric facility (brilliantly played my Michael Shannon. The film is worth seeing just for the scenes he is in. I even recommend skipping the rest of the film in order to avoid wanting to kill yourself at the end). At one point, Michael Shannon’s character tells the couple, “Hopeless emptiness. Now you’ve said it. Plenty of people are onto the emptiness, but it takes real guts to see the hopelessness.”

So, the crazy guy cheers them on and commends them on their brave decision. This just sets the viewer up to take a huge emotional dive into the depths of depression, mortification, and total numbing impotence.

From this point onward, shit happens. Things do not get better. Hollywood does not play its usual tricks.

April falls pregnant. Frank, because he no longer cares about his job, manages to get offered a promotion (à la Office Space, but depressing instead of hilarious). The Wheeler’s dream (or perhaps just April’s dream) of a European life spirals away and dissipates into nothing. Nothing will change. Frank will continue in the rat race that can never be won. April will continue in her suburban prison, overseen by her juvenile wardens. Even the psychiatric-ward guy lambastes them on during his final visit, and despite his enraged screaming during that scene, he seems like the most sane character in the film.

With her escape route to Paris blocked, desperation strikes April again and she carries out a home abortion. Then she bleeds to death.

The end.

—

Highly Abridged Review

A really excellent film, but not enjoyable. Too disheartening to be enjoyable.

To get enjoyment out of it, only watch the scenes starring Michael Shannon.

—

I mentioned something about this film changing my life. I think the life changes I’ve implemented deserve a post of their own, uncoloured by this black and foreboding tale.

We had a celebration to mark the occasion of my Dad’s 70th birthday. Close family in the country converged on Aloe Ridge Hotel. The plan was to see the Star Show on offer there, but alas, it rained.

These are some of the pics of the people, but mostly of the creator himself:

Although we gave him lovely birthday presents, the universe gave him shingles for his 70th.

Get well soon Dad!

And if anyone has an idea what species of beetle this is, I’d be interested to know (just for curiosity’s sake). This is one place where Google is of no help at all. When will be able to submit a picture as a search query?

—

UPDATE: There is TinEye, but my search failed because TinEye doesn’t search the content of the image. It tries to find the exact same image on the internet. I can use TinEye to check if someone uses the beetle in a derivative work, and whether I’ve been credited or not — so still nifty.

Little Neil, being me, is actually all growed-up now. I suppose that, despite what I like to think, I’m not all that happy about being 30 years old. This conclusion is obvious when one considers that I hired a jumping castle for my 30th birthday party.

But so what? Jumping castles are awesome!

If you couldn’t make the party because you’ve gone overseas (or just never made the migration to Joburg) I missed you. The more jumpers on the castle, the merrier it would have been.

Not only was there a jumping castle, we also had Zoo Biscuits, Chomps, Creme Soda, and Sparberry. Adam and Nadia seemed to think that Pick ‘n Pay’s No-Name brand Creme Soda and fake Raspberry soda didn’t cut it. “It just doesn’t taste as good,” they (especially Adam) argued.

“Elitists!” I labelled them.

As retribution for my venemous attack, they left behind the bottle of Sparberry they brought. Now I have a full bottles of both varieties of imitation raspberry drink—disgusting. Why didn’t people drink the stuff? It was a 3-year-old’s party. At least the Creme Soda was polished off.

Even 3-year-old children cannot survive on crisps and sweets alone, so we also provided a vodka-soaked fruit punch. To this day the remains of it lurk in the fridge, although about two-thirds of it was consumed on the day.

Hamburgers were prepared as lunch. Since 3-year-olds should not be allowed near fires, the grown-ups cooked the burgers on the braai. By grown-ups I mean, my dad Tony and Angie’s dad Bill. None of my friends complained about the burgers, so good work Dads!

The jumping castle provided plenty of laughs, but kids these days have such short attention spans that they were quickly looking for something else to do. Fortunately the party organisers had prepared for this eventuality by arranging for incredible party games—with incredible prizes! Of course, along with the short attention span, these kids have become so cynical and they disputed the magnificence of the Made-in-China Bought-at-Crazy-Store plastic toy prizes. I guess they all want cell phones or something.

Game playing did take place, and the worthy games master, my mum Annie, made sure that no cheating took place. We had Pass the Parcel (won by Jenny) and Pin the Tail on the Donkey (won by Rachelle). The parcel was thoroughly wrapped as only Mum could do—layers within layers within boxes within other boxes within more layers. Every seemed to expect the prize to actually be in the parcel, and so it wasn’t long before they were complaining that the “incredible prize” was most likely to be a small piece of fruit, or possibly a nut of some sort.

Ungrateful bunch.

Pin the Tail was no less tricksy with my mother at the helm. The donkey was twisted and turned and cunningly rearranged so as to fool the participant. Expecting such trickery, I pinned the tail on the donkey’s neck. The trick for me was that there is no trick. Very Zen. Thanks Mum.

On the cutting of the birthday cake, I was compelled by those gathered around to make a speech of some sort. Boy did they regret that. I think I make good speeches, but I’ve never been too fond of impromptu speeches. They need to be prepared. Plus I was fairly tipsy by this point in time.

So basically I complained that everyone liked me too much because they had all accepted my invitation (almost no-one declined it), thus destroying my budgeting for the party and rendering me insolvent… but it was worth it I quickly added, realising how piss-poor the preceding sentiments sounded. But if you cut through my issues with spending money, you’ll see how I was actually really pleased with the turn-out. Hopefully everyone who was there had a lot of fun. I know I did, and the fun would’ve been diminished if it was me alone with a jumping castle (fashioned after a clown, so in fact the fun would have been creepified).

Although I ended up not hiring a clown, Dave provided a clown service absolutely free, and provided a beautiful demonstration of how to use the jumping castle in a most exciting manner. Thank you Dave!

There was also the incident of the destruction of my son’s favourite soccer ball, and I have the ruffians Quinn, Gareth, and  Chris to thank for this. They devised a number of peculiar jumping castle sports, and one of them seemed to involve the ball. The ball rebounded off one of their heads, struck a rosebush, and deflated. Their excuse-making is best illustrated in pictures. The rest of the party pictures reside on Flickr. Click here to see them