Little adventures that spice up your day

Had myself a mini adventure yesterday. Had a good ol’ chuckle at myself last night.

My boss asked whether I’d take a drive with her to the department of education here in Jhb city centre yesterday - with parking always being an issue, the plan of action is to park illegally, I will wait in the car whilst she dashes in to do her bit of business. So far so good, we found an illigal parking spot right on a corner of the building and I remained in the car with the Sunday times as company. Some twenty minutes later, with the sweat running down my face, I abandoned the vehicle for the little clothing shop on the corner. I started up a conversation with a Chelsea soccer fan in the shop (also cheer for them), and browsed (amazing how nice some of the items were - and cheap to boot).

The friendly Chelsea fan called me a couple minutes later, quite distressed at the fact that there were two traffic officials at the car, pad and pen at the ready. I rushed out of the shop, hands in the air, blond hair flailing, exclaiming how SORRY I am, and I would immediately remove the car (I must admit, the girl in me came out in full force). The ladies had these bemused expressions on their faces, and one started lecturing me about the dangers of parking where I was, and I’m apologising a mile a minute.

I leapted into the car, and realised that the keyholder in my hand, contained no key… only the electronic button to lock/unlock the car, so here a teensy tiny bit of panic sets in, did I lose the key, dear gods… but no, on frantic inspection, I found a “ignition start” button on the dash, so I start pounding the poor button, but alas, nothing transpires from my ape-like motions, I note a little message on the dash - press in brake to start vehicle - so I shove my head under the dash to see the invisible brake pedal because my feets could only detect one pedal down there.

At this point the officials have become a bit more restless with this blonde chick poking at things in the car (with the numberplate “Rhando” which apparantly means “Love”) and they tapped on the window. After some more floundering I found the button to lower the windown and apologised some more. At this point, the incident is attracting some attention, and now there were 6 officials surrounding the car… and I’m becoming a tad more nervous.

I explain to the lady closest to me that I’m unable to start the car, and that the car actually belongs to my boss - and dear gods, she’s gonna SHOUT me! At which she demands to see my drivers licence - which I duly produce, with lengthy explanations that I have never driven this particular car before. I eventually, by some fluke, managed to start the car, and then set it into reverse in order to maneuver it out of the way, so I roll back a metre or so, move the shift into “D” (for drive?), and here the blasted car told me “hoezit - I aint moving for the likes of you”. So there I am, ass-end of the car sticking out into the right hand lane of Commissioner street and the stubborn refusal of a man-made object to go anywhere.

At this point I’ve got my boss on the phone, hysterically explaining to her that these people are going to lock me up. I have in the last twenty minutes transgressed something like 20 offenses (least of all I’m feeling like a car thief).

So there I sit, now with around 9 officials (I lost count, but there were many yellow jackets), as well as a 20 strong crowd of curious onlookers trying to figure out why there is so much interest in a blond, white, middle-aged woman in Jhb city centre.

I must have been their comic relief for the day though, because they took pity on me… the lady sighed (with a smile), and told me to get in the car and wait for my boss, however, that she will be coming around this corner in exactly 20 minutes, and if I’m still there, she will write me…

My boss arrived some 5 minutes later, put the car in drive, and off we went. I just lifted an eyebrow, there is obviously a reason I cannot afford one of these complicated vehicles, its beyond my blonde head to drive.


Funny story, Faerie. :smiley:

quite a few ‘blonde’ moments there, ek se!

Not a few, it was just one looooooong moment from beginning to end!

Panic does funny things to us. Good story, thanks Faerie. :slight_smile:

Akshuelly I can relate to this…I drive a Defender (1998) and a Thunderbird 1980…these new fangled cars are confusing. My son gave me his X5 the other day to deliver some stuff and jisses everytime you change gears the car shits on you! “Depress the handbrake…you clot” and then I couldn’t switch the engine off until I read the Start/Stop button…FFS! :-[

Thats the other thing about this car, it didnt have a handbrake, apparently its got an “automatic” handbrake. Bloody confusing.

Gotta hate it when man-made things (like cars, computers etc) think they are smarter than you are.
Nah - sometimes i really prefer old-fashioned pen and paper, and walking. At least my legs go when and where I tell them to.
Funny story Faerie, thanks - I can definitely relate to what you experienced.

I had an incident years ago where I was pulled over, and I started instinctively making ready to get out of the car (for some unknown reason)… and going through the motions when the cop moseys up to my window, I abort the “getting out” motion halfway… he looks at me and then tunes:

“You’re not wearing a seatbelt…”

I’d unclipped the thing just moments before… “DOH!”

Thanks for sharing your adventure ;D. Why not take the boss on your bike next time. Park on the sidewalk! >:D


Bwhahahhahaaaa, damn, thats a mental picture that will remain… :smiley:

We’re renovating.

A rather ominous word if you’re the one doing it. The breaking down part is easy, and rather fun too, and the whole family is keen to join in. My 14 year old after asking whether he can lay into the wall between the lounge and dining room, managed to hammer the thing down in two hours - on his own - and he could get up the next morning - ah - youth… Anyhows, this was two weeks ago.

So now we’ve managed to move the rubble out of the living area, the carpets are yanked up (lovely parquet flooring underneath), the old fashioned pelmets ripped from the wall and the house suitably buried under a cm deep layer of dust (did you know dust can freeze - got dust in the freezer).

So S/O wants to do this project ON HIS OWN, note the caps, its important. We go off to the local hardware and purchase two bags of instant plaster, as well as very bright tinted tins of paint (purple, grey, silver) and a myriad assortment of “stuff”.

Back home, he faffs around the corner of the wall that needs to be plastered. Red bricks portruding this way and that, and I stand well back with the usual eyebrow askew, some interesting times ahead I think by myself. He starts chisseling here and there, and managed to get the whole thing rather level imo, and then the test of all skilled builders in the multiverse… he drags in the wheelbarrow, dumps in the premixed plaster and chucks in water - er, a tad too much water, he bounces around the wheelbarrow with a spade in his arms and mixes the poo-looking sloppy mess around in that wheelbarrow that the splatters reaches the heavens (or rather ceiling), and I park off in the furthest corner I can find and eat my chocolates (good for blood pressure).

He eventually gets the mixture to the right consistency, and with his newly bought paddle and skroffel (my words, no idea what the stuff is called), he starts bowling the plaster onto the wall… of which maybe a 10th sticks and the rest drops to the floor with an audible “plop,plop,ploppety,plop”, which is rather infuriating to the S/O. I make the usual girly noises, of, oh-dear, they must have sold us subquality stuff, it cannot POSSIBLY be his fault, nope, its the hardwarde… I get a foul look, and I slink away - its now well past 10pm and he’s still going at that wall, shoving chunks of plaster onto the bricks with his bare hands, and since I know the man, I decide to shut the f up and go to bed…

I wake up around 1am to loud scraping noises and I stumble to the lounge, where my dearest S/O is busy scraping up the remnants of rubble and chucking it into the (now empty) wheelbarrow. The wall is beautifully plastered - as smooth as a newborn baby’s bum, and boy, I am IMPRESSED. Granted, it took him a good 12 hours to plaster maybe 2sq/m (and got the corner perfectly straight), and he couldnt get out of bed the next morning and as I’m writing here, he is at the physio being pounded in an attempt to get the knots out of his muscles.

There are reasons for me loving this man, and then there are REASONS…


home DIY is a tricky mission at best. my other half and his dad obliterated the shower wall, to make it a walk-through shower. fok alone knows why. and gets a tiler in to re-tile (thank god). but decides to re-tile the shower floor with these sheets of black pebbles.
i convince him to put something around the drain hole, and then we proceeded to put down the tile glue/plaster/stuff. then stick on the sheets of pebbles, problem was, the sheets were a smidgen too large for the surface area. (didnt check before, you see. too excited to get going). so after a whole load of moving and squishing and digging broken bits of plaster covered pebbles, out of the sticky mess that is the plaster/grouting, then the excess stuff has to get delicately removed from the pebbles’ surface. long story short. messy floor all the way to the door, plenty ruined sponges. and weeks and weeks of cleaning rock-hard plaster from the dull and cock-eyed pebble floor. ek sê niks.
and by the way, as good an idea it might seem to level out the tiles and grouting with your feet, the chemicals in that plaster eats the skin right off your feet.

so now, the grouting around the drain hole has hardened into a nice circle the size of a coffee cup, about 1cm bigger than the drain hole, all round. the roof is still hacked from where the wall used to be. there is still a 3meter vacant spot where a mirror used to be. and an array of bags of cement, broken tiles, brackets, and stuff and stuff, all over the show.

ek sê niks. ::slight_smile:

and now, where there used to be two seperate bathrooms, one with a bath/basin/loo combo, and the other with a loo/basin/shower combo, there is now a shower connecting both rooms.
which means that you can only use one loo at a time. it allso means, that if someone is having a bath or shower, you cant use the loo. if someone is having a shower, nobody can use anything. if you want to use any loo, you must close the door leading to both rooms.

in my mind, not a whole lot of sense to be made.

maar, ek seg niks…

So I get myself a promotion - nice - and I am told to move today to my new offices - also nice - my stuff is packed (for me “nogal”), and I walked in here about an hour or so ago.

Wellllll… I am certainly moving up in the world it would seem (it rather goes against my grain really - this corporate hierachy thing), nice fair sized office with VIEWS (I’m on the top floor and can see Jo’burg in all its trashy glory). The furniture is bona-fide solid wood and the chair, hey, the CHAIR, is leather and shiny and when seated upon, my feet dont touch the ground (really, I’m short). Feel a bit like Alice really.

I’m met at the lift, and escorted here, and as I step over the holy threshhold, I’m offered coffee… its all awkward really, where I come from, I get my own coffee and have long conversations in the kitchen about the state of my lounge and the health of my cats. I’m going to miss that… :confused:

I’m sharing the floor with the hoi-polloi and their assistants (who obviously gets paid more than I, judging from their dress). I’m now to “support” (what a sh*tty word) this lot. I’ve been here an hour, and I KNOW I’m going to miss the common folk down on the second floor on the opposite side of the campus with their issues and emotional immaturity, at least THOSE people are REAL, my first feel of this place is of status and people with bricks on their shoulders.

Its one of those funny moments in life where you stop for a moment and in confusion ask:



just be snooty right back at them. those that dress superlfy, are often more insecure than you, who are comfortable in your Mr Price. you worked your way up, you didnt blow the boss to get there.
have a fuck you attitude. if they want to be posh and stuck-up, be posh and stuck-up right back. at least your re-mails will get less. you deserve every bit of credit you get. if they treat you like shit, go to HR.
and allso, considering that you are good enough to get into this position in the first place, it means that you can move to a different companye easily if this scenario doesnt work for you.

enjoy the ride Faerie, but don’t lose your mythical ‘soul’

Heh, I AM HR… :o

Thanks GCG, the experience will look good, which is why I jumped at the offer.

I’m too full of sh*t Brian, the lot here probably wont like me, but I’m ok with that, I’m just doing a job.

and to think, last year April I was being persecuted and worked out of my job because of my outspoken atheism, now I’m on the same level as my ex-boss… funny how life rolls. ;D

dont you just wish you ex boss would make some kind of comment about it, then you can say ‘pray about it’ and laugh like a maniac.

My s/o is involved in a project taking him to various mines across the country at the moment. So last night he’s on his way back home from Orkney when he is accosted with what he initially thought to be a cow, he swung out but hit the obstacle on the left side of the car which simply disintegrates on impact.

Upon getting out and trying to ascertain what on earth appeared in front of him on the godforsaken road near Fochville, he finds himself next to a Boerboel the size of a horse. A massive animal, poor thing survived the initial impact but was bleeding internally and mangled beyond any survival. Being a softy, with a special place in his heart for animals of all kinds, he tries to lift the dog into the car, but couldnt even heave it halfway up, it fortunately (under the circumstances) didnt suffer long and expired.

However, the car is’nt looking too good and the front tyre is on the rim, upon looking about, he notices a little farm house about a km away, and he decides to take a trod there to see if he can find himself some assistance.

At the house he is met with a myriad of dogs, about six or seven of dubious breeds and sizes, the front door opened and a “tannie” with the most impossible shade of red hair comes lumbering towards the gate, wading through dogs going moggy and making a helluva noise.

He explains to her above the noise of the barking dogs that he has had an altercation with a dog and whether it might be one of hers, she stood back and inspected the pack of mongrels and claimed that it is unlikely. (It was likely IMO, she was concerned about costs methinks). The dogs at this point though, has worked themselves into such a frenzy that they started attacking each other and the tannie encouraged the madness by screaming at the animals. Next moment, the front door banged open, and a young red headed boy (ah, the blessings of genetics) of around 8 years old comes storming out with a pellet gun, and whilst alternating between shouting at his mother and hollering at the dogs, started shooting at his OWN dogs…

Now, we’re delicate people, us city dwellers, and this scenario was way too reminiscent of some horror movie to my poor traumatised S/O, and he attempted to retreat gracefully, but as his luck would have it, the tannie wasnt going to allow potential company to leave in a hurry, and she grabbed him by the arm and firmly guided him into her house for a “washup”.

Being dragged passed the redheaded horror with the gun in his hands, leaving behind the dogs tearing out pieces of flesh from one another, he was ushered into a plaashuis living room.

The first thing he noticed was the smell… a deep laying smell of meat that has been boiled to the point of inedibility, the second was that he could barely see any walls, it was covered with shelves packed with trinkets and STUFF. My S/O is a bit of a metroman, things needs to be just “so” and should also look just “so”. This was not “so”…

He kept his cool and politely washed his hands in the offered bathroom and then very firmly insisted to leave. He fled. He got the car going and found a more civilised place to stop and do a spoeg-en-plak to get himself back home and civilisation.

He admitted that he’s not certain what traumatised him more, the actual accident or the revelation that there are people out there that lives in a version of a Stephen King novel.