Driving Range

2011 has brought with it a range of new hobbies.  Some of them, golf, have entirely shallow roots - in this case, career advancement.  Phase one of my foray into golf is a weekly trip to the driving range.

I can already tell that assimilating myself into golfing culture is going to take some serious humility, and not exclusively because I'm clueless.  Rather, the staff at the Mercedes Benz Driving Range in Nahoon (East London) have an unfortunate manner.

But the wheel turns.  One minute you're being cheeky, the next you're standing 100m away from me picking up balls... hovering in my kill zone.

Ironically, and not entirely surprisingly, it was the act of backing off on the power a bit - to avoid hitting the ball collector - which allowed me to hit a beauty thath ended in him dishing out a birdie of his own.

My pride, and skulls, in tact... I left feeling positive - a massive improvement on last weekend's visit to the range.

ICT services

On Thursday, following an attempt to log on at the Fort, to retrieve some lecture slides from the intranet, I had a run in with the ICT department.  ICT services the sign announces, ambiguously.

Turns out I didn't exist on the UFH admin system, or at least the part which allows you to log onto the intranet.

Today, after being referred, I ventured into the Registration Enquiries... room... queue.  I got another copy of my Proof of Reg and returned, with renewed energy to the ICT office.  This time she just added me onto the network.  So. Many. Questions.

So many things I wanted to say.  But there was no time, because I had a date with Accounts; in the basement.  Mission: account statement.

Three times I had to play the innocent white guy, caught in the admin crossfire.  A guy who couldn't stand in that ridiculous queue because he has to get back to work.  To bring home the bacon.

When I left the office I announced that I was going to kick some ass at the Fort.  Yet I returned with the taste of ass on my lips and with the paper I needed in my bag.  Seems like it was draw.

Surfers

Last weekend, about 4000 people... myself included... stood scantily clad, staring down a road... which would soon prove to be too narrow, at the start of East London's favourite running race, the Surfers Challenge (Marathon).

Don't believe the lie that you can run the whole way, or that its a pleasant run because of the scenery.  If you intend on bagging a t-shirt (which lets be hoenst, is the only reason people participate), then its a tough slog across a variety of surfaces, few of them pleasant.  That is until Gonubie of course.  The main reason they included the Gonubie river is to get people to stop and prepare for the adulation.  Crowds of deck-chaired citizens line the streets, armed with hoses, beers and miscelaneous sprinkler systems - eager to spot someone they know.

I actually love the race.  Run.  It's unlike any of the conservative local club runs, where you have to care about your time, or who you beat.

I spent the first few kilometres running behind a blow up doll, cellotaped to a dude, who it turns out I know quite well.  Small world.  I saw my Aunt, work mates, met an old school friend and managed to beat my bosses.  Alas my sisters boss beat me.  But, I got a shirt, and was able to avoid the unenviable 'XXXL' fire sale just before the cut-off.

Police

Just when you think you won't have much to write about, you find yourself at the local police station reporting a crime.

I was off to a good start, the queue was only 1 person long, which is seriously aenorexic for a government department.  Of course, if the queue doesn't move, you may as well be standing outside, in the parking lot.  Fortunately the incumbent got all of his papers certified and I was suddenly speaking to an officer.

The local station looks nothing like this...

I wondered if the customer service people are actually cops, or whether their peers make fun of them, and do they have guns?!  How far would you have to push them while making your statement before they used it?  If I as a citizen had a gun while I was there, I may have used it... Maybe they have guns because citizens have lost it while make statements.  Who knows?!

After a confession that the only reason I was there was insurance related, I left. The calm assurance of a case number by sms, my prize.

Down Town

Festivities over, Kyle and I headed down Oxford Street again on Friday, to investigate the infamous Eastern haunt, China Town (still unconfirmed).  It was open, and there were more cars around to back up the promise of the curious, cavernous, roller door.

Every now and then a nation reinforces every negative stereotype you may have of it; when Julius gets behind a microphone, or Steve Hofmeyer gets on stage.  China's tourist dept took another hit last week as we entered their only un/official local ambassador.

The blue print for a store within the China Town complex (read warehouse) is apparently standardized.  You need a stool, a cell phone and a Mandarin speaking assistant.  When it comes to merchandise, fear not, just rack up whatever you've got.

Highlight was the electronics... room... old school TV gmaes (with 3D graphics... allegedly) for 80 bucks, portable DVD players, radio/mp3 and other... things you can plug in... or stick flash disks into.

I picked up some mementos from our trip, a 'Security' cap and two fortune cookies, which I paid 3 Land for.

China Town

While a lunch break is an unfortunate partner for accomplishing chores, in a town like Slummies you can still accomplish a lot in your mid-day down time.  Yesterday I convinced Kyle to come adventuring with me to China Town.  The sign is in Chinese... it may or may not actually be called that.

A short trip across town, sandwich in hand, and we found ourselves in the expansive parking lot, in hindsight... it was an expansive but empty parking lot.

We made our way into the warehouse like shop, its really not a shop, and walked through isle after isle of bulk packed food.  Strangely, I had expected much 'Made in China' type knick knacky stuff... but all we found was 5 litre caterer grade mayonnaise and 12 packs of coffee.

Turns out, China Town is not the only store bordering that car park.  There's also a wholesaler.

Destination reset, we made our way toward the Mandarin homeland, only to be told that its Chinese New Year, and they'd be open again on Friday.  It was deserted, roller doors shut tighter than the North Korean border.

Directions; straight down Oxford Street, right into Park Avenue at St Georges Presbyterian.


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