Damage Magnet

Lola, my much adored 9 year old chariot is at it again. First, her windscreen was a drawcard for sticks and stones on almost every road she traveled in her first 4 years. Her new windscreen tally is at 4, with chip repairs running into the high 30's. Only Lola could require a new windscreen after an APPROACHING bus flipped a flint forwards, catching Lola's sunglasses at such a speed and angle that the screen immediately cracked clean across. You may dispute the probability of a stone traveling in this direction but as the bus and Lola were the only vehicles on the road and the crack followed a sharp 'smack' sound as the bus and Lola converged, what other explanation is there? 

Happily, the past 4 years have been pretty quiet on the windscreen front, although she bears an impressive chip too large to repair, which stubbornly refuses to grow into an insurance claimable crack.  Lola's latest favourite habit is picking up assorted nails and screws in her pricey, barely one year old set of rubber shoes. Three punctures in the last 600kms have seen her and I spending many hours in various tyre retailers in Gauteng and Mpumalanga. They have happened in different towns, different provinces and on different road types yet two of the three were caused by these odd screws.  I've heard of 'chick magnet' but am rather glum to discover I'm the proud owner of a 'damage magnet'. Grrrr.

I guess I'm pretty lucky, though, as at least Lola has a spare tyre and all of her tyres are repairable. A dear friend bought a fancy Mercedes a few months ago and within the first 6 months has had to replace two wheels - the hidden cost of 'run flats' which should probably be banned on South African roads. The punishing rate of tyre damage caused by multudinous objects scattered on our roads is horrendous. We used to complain about pothole damage but now screws, nails and other sharp objects are laid out as if by plan to rip and shred tyres. It's a pricey business, and being stranded roadside is neither safe nor pleasant.

On the fun side, last Sunday I got to watch Him Outdoors change a tyre (a first for me, I had no idea he could!) and Lola's spare tyre, covered in those tiny rubber hairs unique to new tyres, got to emerge from it's cosy nest and finally earn it's keep.

Oh, yes, and I learned a new word. Nubbins are the tiny rubber hairs on new tyres. Fancy creating a word for such temporary items. Life is fascinating, and the English language continues to amuse. 

Trend Speak - How do phrases and idioms enter the public domain and stick?

It strikes me as rather peculiar that out of nowhere we all begin saying things like "are we singing from the same hymn sheet" or "I simply don't have the bandwidth to deal with this right now". Colouring up "do you understand what I mean?" and "My mind is too busy with other issues to focus on an extra one at the moment" is all very well, but who invents an idiomatic phrase to replace a mundane comment and who decides it's a hit?

Is there a committee closeted away in the coils of popular, trendy coffee shops, collecting and curating the modish speak they overhear while sipping vast quantities of macchiato? Maybe, armed with their arsenal of interesting phrases, they have a selection process similar to the annual Oxford Dictionary Word of the Year?

Slapped in the face a few times yesterday by the ridiculous use of 'reaching out', I began to wonder about this global crisis that hasn't hit the headlines yet. 

Seriously, of all the possible responses to an application for a project posted on a freelance writing site, which application included: submitting a CV, links to web sites I've written content for, attaching samples of published work and a quotation all covered by a cheery note explaining when I can commence and how long I estimate the job will take, a return message thanking me for 'reaching out' wasn't one I envisaged.

"Thank you for your application, we regret to decline..."
"Thanks, this looks great, can we discuss in more detail.."
"Perfect, where do we sign?"
Even blank silence would have been something I understood, but ' thanks for reaching out to us'? I didn't Reach Out, honey, I applied for work!

Then later, when I was deeply engrossed in 'Blacklist', the dratted words came out again. The glamorous FBI Profiler (yeah, I know!), her softly bewildered gaze intent on something off-screen behind the viewer, used the phrase twice in one sentence as she battled to explain why a global master criminal was offering her helpful information. 'Reach out' sounds somewhat soft and cuddly to me, the sort of phrase I associate with community and aid organisations, gently encouraging shy, battered people and animals to trust them, or a fluffy way to oil their approach into wallets. I think the scriptwriter fell in love with the 'trend speak' and sacrificed plausibility; for goodness sake, the master criminal responsible for killing thousands, dabbling in chemical weapons, stealing government secrets - he 'reaches out'?

I think not. A GMC worth his salt would demand, trade, negotiate. Trend speak works well in many instances but please can it be used judiciously?

I Do Not Like Thee, Dr Fell

The security guard in front of me at the check out queue popped his purchases onto the counter - a loaf of unsliced, brown bread and 2 litres of Coca-Cola. Driving past his guard hut a few minutes later I noticed him hungrily ripping the loaf into bite-sized chunks. Fuel for his lengthy night shift.

The lack of affordable nutrition in this country continues to irk me and, I daresay, is a significant driver behind our appalling school grades and overall lack of significant grassroots growth and progress. How can people give of their best when they are hungry, or feeding their bodies with non-nutritive calories? 

We live in a twilight world where a small tier of middle class and wealthy South Africans spend big money on Omega oils and a cornucopia of ‘nutriceuticals’ to cherish body and brain while rubbing shoulders with the vast layer of people struggling to afford enough calories to satisfy their hunger.

There is plenty of press coverage at the moment regarding the proposed ‘sugar tax’, reportedly driven by the Department of Health’s concern for the skyrocketing rates of diabetes and other, sugar fuelled, diseases. Well and good but I for one have little faith in the reasoning and integrity behind yet another tax on burdened South Africans. Does anyone remember the plastic bag levy introduced in 2003? Reams of newsprint were devoted to how this small tax (originally 3c per bag, now 8c) would fund recycling plants, provide jobs, eradicate our ‘national flower’ (referring to the number of plastic bags littering the land) and save the environment.

The proof of anything is always in the results and at the end of August 2016, R1,1 billion had been scooped up by Treasury and R5 billion pocketed by retailers on the sale of plastic shopping bags.  Buyisa e-Bag, the Section 21 company created by this initiative, whose core business was to develop entrepreneurs and create sustainable opportunities in the recycling and waste management sectors, all funded by the plastic bag tax, was closed in 2011 because it hadn’t achieved much at all. And as Treasury refuses to ‘ring fence’ tax money, the plastic bag tax wasn’t spent exclusively on Buyisa during its existence either; they received some R216 million between 2003 and 2011, a fraction of the income earned under the environmental opportunities banner. Yet consumers, their behaviour unchanged due to their lack of education by the powers that be about the environmental damage caused by these bags, continue to pay up to 75c per bag and the retailers, and fiscus, are laughing all the way to the bank.

How can we have any faith in the integrity and effectiveness of another ‘do-gooder’ tax, this time on sugar? Not for a minute do I dispute the evils of sugar and it’s addiction (hello, my name is Tracy and I’m a chocolate addict) but is a tax on sugar going to stop addicts consuming it?  After all, sin taxes on ciggies and alchohol don’t stop addicts getting their fix. While we are on the addict front, I think it’s rather mean to benefit the fiscus at the expense of an addiction in any case.

No, my concern is that one security guard and the millions of South Africans who consume sugar-laden products because they simply cannot afford healthier options.  A brief search of Shoprite’s (a local chain of low priced supermarkets) prices paints the reality of low cost food: R7.99 for 1,5L of a fizzy, sugar laden soft drink versus R22.99 for 2L of fresh milk. R4.99 for a loaf of instore baked brown bread, versus a prepacked sandwich (processed cheese and ham) R14.99.

Overarcing the entire discussion is also the lack of trust in our government to wisely shepherd and spend this money. A Treasury spokesman assures us that the new tax is not seen as a money spinner for government, as it is likely to ‘only’ raise between R1 billion and R2 billion.

From poor people who can’t afford fresh food, and addicts who can’t help themselves.  Nice one, guys. If the health of the nation was truly their intention, couldn't a better way be found than a tax?

Tom Brown’s 1680 rhyme rings ever true of our politicians.

I do not like thee, Doctor Fell,

The reason why - I cannot tell;

But this I know, and know full well,

I do not like thee, Doctor Fell.

Far Fetched Nonsense

If you've been keeping abreast of recent blogs, you'll be in the picture about my recent experience of living in a communal house with 3 men. (https://lightlygreen.blogspot.co.za/2017/09/urrgh-men-and-commune-housework.html)

A further reminder of our differing planets was their movie collection. With no TV service in the house, we were reliant on the collection for electronic R and R at home and boy, was I in for a rude awakening.

Spoilt as we are with the darling Casterbridge Cinema in White River, and my perchant for heading straight to Cinema Nouveau when in Johannesburg, it's been years since I've watched anything on the main cinema circuit. Being Head of Purchasing for music and dvd's in our household, our collection mirrors my taste for Art house, real-life historical drama and biographies and it's never occurred to me that there is much different out there.

Wrong.

Silly, toilet humour comedies and bish, bosh, bash extraordinarily violent and loud crime dramas ruled the roost at 143 Fenniscowles Street. On the plus side, I had plenty of time to scroll through Twitter and Facebook, make a cup of coffee or replenish the wine glasses while senseless car chases and physical violence overplayed on the screen far longer than necessary.

Who watches this stuff? How many car chases have you witnessed in your life, and if any, did it involve multiple pile-ups and smashed vehicles, exploding into flame, falling off cliffs and multideck freeways? Were the 'perps' (or the goodies, who can tell?) careening in and out of oncoming traffic on the wrong side of the road, or through a series of red traffic lights that results in all other traffic crashing helplessly while the main contenders carry on?  How far fetched can this nonsense get? And it goes on for ages, accounting for a considerable percentage of the movie running time. Enough already, we get the picture!

Even worse are the beat-up scenes. You know, when the baddies have the good guy tied up and are busy torturing and thumping him? The sound effects alone are nauseating and the manner in which the director has the camera lovingly clasp the close up of knife / fist / bullet / rope deeply inserted / impacting bloody flesh indicates some serious sociopathic tendancies. Predictably, our hero always manages to escape, fight back and get to help and safety after spending the better part of 10 minutes screen time being carved and beaten into a red-fleshed mess. 

Is it necessary to linger on these revolting parts of the story and drag them out as long as they do? Show, don't tell, is a writing maxim and most people have heard 'less is more.' Plant the seed into an audience's mind and let them imagine far worse than you can show, at a fraction of the movie budget.

As you can imagine, when inveigled into joining the overgrown boys at a movie showing, those are the scenes which had me zoning out and finding reasons to leave the room. Try as I might, I can't get the attraction of watching them. Tune into the evening news for your portion of senseless violence, at least that is real life and, unbelievable as it sometimes seems, is actually possible.

Come on, fess up. What movie scenes drive you out of the room?