Category: learning curve

Nogulhas

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We gave up on going down to Agulhas this weekend. The thought of having to do the detour through Hermanus on the first weekend of the school holidays, together with my not shaking this damn virus (it’s not that virus, by the way, I did check), was just too much. Add to that the upcoming final exams and the thought of sharing a car for a few hours with an upcoming final examinee: it just seemed silly.

There’s also the issue of whether the Struisbaai road is open yet. No, says the municipality. But everyone’s using it. Including one guy in a Chevrolet Spark. And if one of them gets through, then you know it’s ok.

We’ll make a plan when we can make a plan.

So instead, we’re stuck at home, watching another “good, but not good enough” performance from United and not going to horse riding (not me), because it rained again last night and there’s just nowhere left for that water to go. I can’t really say that I was looking forward to going out though, so maybe not such a bad thing.

Another early night then, and let’s see if I can get myself mended.

Why is there so little crime in Iceland

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Instagram has this tricky question covered.

Because it could be because of the amazing actions of this lot.

Or it could be for another reason:

Sadly, plenty of words rhyme with “Misdaad”, which perhaps goes some way to explaining the somewhat out of control crime situation, locally.
Other question: Can my blogging software handle the letter “Ash” in the middle of “glæpur”?

Apparently so. I’ll be checking on some other Icelandic alphabetical vagaries (including “the five lost letters of the English language“) in the near future.

There’s always Juan

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As the biggest floods in living memory hit the Agulhas Plain…

…and farmers try desperately to save their livestock and livelihoods by appealing to the community to come out with small boats and help rescue drowning sheep…

Group member (in the truest sense of the word) Juan Otto shared this:

Basically translated:

“You counted them. Poor planning if you ask me (no-one did), [they] knew what was coming.”

In a world that needs far fewer Juan Ottos, don’t be a Juan Otto.

He might be thinking that it was poor planning. You might think the same. And you were both free to voice that opinion, but he chose to and you didn’t. Well done, you.

The bar here is so low that it’s a tripping hazard in hell, but great news: you’re not a twat.

A quick skim of Juan’s timeline reveals – aside from his cell phone number: oops! – the inevitable plaasmoorde links, a love of Steve Hofmeyr, Toyotas, guns and sea fishing, a deep hatred of Jacob Zuma (fair enough), a 2017 post claiming that the Russian nuclear deal had gone through (it never did), and an unhealthy obsession with sharing news of arrests for abalone poaching.
All with a lovely underlying theme of thinly veiled you-know-what.

Amazing. All the usual boxes ticked. I was shocked.

The fact that the warning was upped from a Level 6 to a Level 9 merely hours before the storm hit can’t have helped the farmers. Not that we should blame the meteorologists. These sorts of low pressure areas are volatile and unpredictable and their effects can be extremely localised.

As for the community, they apparently turned out in their numbers to help the two farms worst affected. I haven’t seen a count yet (which will likely upset Juan), but it seems like at least hundreds of animals were saved.

Well done, Struisbaai.
(Not you, Juan.)

Bar

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12 hours sleep last night. Something I never needed before Covid.

Not that I’m sick. Just need some sleep. 12 hours of it, apparently.

Much work and good progress on the bar today. Curtains, furniture, the last of the skirting boards, even a picture. It’s getting there.

Tonight: some well-deserved European footy in front of the fire.

I read a thing

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I read a thing. I can’t bring myself to admit upon which website I read this thing, because it’s deeply, deeply embarrassing. Think Daily Mail (see 6000 miles… passim), but maybe – somehow – even worse.

I know, right?

Anyway, my reason for being on this site was genuine enough. Simply to marvel at the bizarre and desperate opinions of one of the columnists, having spotted an excerpt on a rather cryptic link on social media. And yes, the opinions were pretty awful, the piece was unnecessarily vindictive and unpleasant, and it made me feel that my time in hoping that I was probably going to read some hateful rubbish, wasn’t wasted. I probably got some endorphins from (rightfully) feeling that my opinions on that subject (and probably every other subject) were better than theirs, too.

Then I made an error and I clicked on a link. It took me to another opinion piece on the same site – equally obsequious and obnoxious – but at least this one had an amusing paragraph in the middle:

I like to think that I am a pleasant enough house-guest. Often when going to stay with friends I ask if there is anything I can bring that my hosts don’t have in their neck of the woods. When visiting friends in Scotland, for example, I might offer to take with me some fresh fruits or vegetables. When visiting friends in Norfolk, it might be someone not related to them. But if ever my hosts suggested I should bring my own poop bucket, I would find a way to escape the event: call in sick, cite a spot of ‘the old trouble’ or remind them that getting out of London is always so difficult.

Because whatever your idea of fun might be, it cannot possibly include a scenario in which you carry a bucket of your own stools. Even the most ardent readers’ letters will not persuade me otherwise. On this matter I am strict.

I’m not sure it needs context. It’s probably even funnier without.

But then I’ve been inwardly giggling at a very childish London Underground pun all morning after our Curry Club dinner last night, so I’m clearly in a very silly mood.

But silly or not, I won’t be visiting that website again.