Words can’t quite express how little I want to do a blog post today. Just too hot and I want to go and lie in the shade. So here’s a very quick translation from a local Afrikaans facebook post.
Facebook translation never disappoints. If anyone can guess what the original question was (I do know), there are (no) prizes on offer.
Greetings from a very warm Witzenberg Local Municipality where we are staying by a river.
We’re not the only ones here. Plenty of small wildlife, although nothing too exciting yet. Also plenty of stars: some beautiful dark skies – sadly somewhat ruined by unnecessary floodlights.
Bizarre.
Still, I might wander away from the pollution this evening and see what the camera can see once the sun goes down.
Beer allowing.
We’re out of town for a few days (beaglesitter services have been engaged), and while I love the urban environment, I’m very much looking forward to being surrounded by nature, and there’s one thing I really, really won’t miss.
Leaf Blowers.
And – in case you needed to be told – they’re actually absolutely terrible in every way shape and form:
There are many reasons to hate leaf blowers. They are loud and their sole purpose is to over-manicure nature. They disperse debris rather than gathering it, and they kick dust and small particles up into the air.
The world is not worse off if the leaves are left unblown.
The article goes on to lament the additional inefficiencies and detrimental effects of the two-stroke petrol engine. To be fair, our local daily blower is electric, but every morning it’s still right there in your ears for an hour, being annoying and useless, forcing people into poetry:
Leaf Blower
Leaf Blower
Scourge of the suburbs
Nosily moving the street detritus from your bit.
To my bit.
Briefly. For Nature will put it all back again.Just now.
No leaf blowing where we’re going. Well, just natural stuff.
I have been assured that there is wifi, so I’m sure I’ll be in touch again tomorrow.
Until then…
So goes the song by The Streets, in which our protagonist (it’s Mike Skinner from The Streets) has a simple few tasks to get through one day, but then, much to his dismay, each one goes awry.
And yes, I had a whole list of jobs ahead of taking my daughter horse-riding, ahead of the end of year football dinner this evening, but there was time.
Until things went a little bit wrong. Sudden unexpected washing and ironing. Some packing and shopping (we’re going away tomorrow, but more on that then) and a driving lesson and a trip to the pharmacy and and and…
Probably most worrying of all, the beer supplies for tomorrow’s trip, supposedly being delivered by Pick n Pay’s ASAP service appears to have been taken away by their AWOL service. I have been assured that it will arrive before 3pm. Earlier, they seemed pretty certain that it would arrive by 12pm.
I’d cancel the order, but they’ve very much removed the money from my account already.
It’s fine, I need the extra anxiety.
I’ve done all that I can do now. Camera gear and clothing is packed. The horse-riding is approaching rapidly, and from there it’s a rush back here, a dive through the shower, and an Uber to town for the footy festivities.
And a release from a rather stressful day.
It’s all going off on the Isle of Man. Or at least it was just 70 years ago, back in 1953:
For the record, MM started her attempt on the same day that the Korean War ended. But that’s nowhere near as impressive as playing the piano for 158 hours.
The amazing thing is – supported by spiritualists, brandy, seven hundred cigarettes, sixteen thousand visitors (at a shilling a head, nogal!) and seven gallons of tea – she succeeded!
Musical Marie continued to play marathon piano recitals in England, the Isle of Man, Wales and Ireland until 1960.
The ‘trainer’ seems there only to rub her wrists, slap her face and collect the cold, hard cash that just keeps rolling in. Tough job.
As for the ubiquitous mentions of her weight in every article, well, clearly 17 stone – it’s just under 108kg – was a thing back then. Sadly, these days I don’t think 108kg is that unusual for a Manchester housewife. Nor the 100 fags a day.
