Meatloaf

Putting food on the table isn't as easy as studying for a degree, finding a job in a competitive market and then putting in 9hrs a day behind your desk... you also need to decide what to put on the table.

I find myself in this vexing position twice a week, and while housemate Nic is an entirely accomodating person-who-eats-what-i-cook, I need to eat what i cook too.

I've seen them before, I've even done that thing where you pick something up and judge its quality by shaking it up and down to see how much it weighs.  Caught in the tumult of last minute menu planning, I grabbed the Spar meatloaf and headed off to find an accompanying carb.

Kudos to the marketing department, their openness and synchronised deception is noteworthy.  Had they called it beef loaf, or pork bread... the butchery's hands would be tied... had they not covered the meatloaf in cheese, an astute shopper might have noticed the unusual combination of dead animals contained within.

To make matters worse, while I was manouvering our meat-bonanza out of the oven it slipped... bounced (unusual for a meat) and then lay wobbling on the vinyl floor.

Nic summed it up well - "That was... ok... I wouldnt serve it to... anyone else"

Licensing

The licensing department. Where hopes and dreams are crushed, hourly.

I may soon have to pay rent for my square meter at the bottom of Oxford Street. Fortunately I'm going to make a killing on licensing & registration consulting. There can't be many registrations tasks I haven't tried my hand at these last two weeks.

I've tried renewing and selling trailers and cars... held in an estate; registering and road worthying a motorbike... with an expired license... without a valid drivers license... which isn't yet in my name. Bam. I'm becoming one with NatIS.

When tackling a system, all you need is the right inputs. Which would be palateable if most of the inputs weren't wads of cash. I will persevere.

I'm getting addicted to seeing people run into the brick wall of documentation. At least 1 in 3 victims (applicants) queue for 30 minutes, only to discover that they need 2 ID photos, not 1 (today), or that they need a road worthy certificate to license their new car (also today) or that they shouldn't have filled in section B (last week). It's like watching an accident happen in slow mo.

Most unsettling is that no one gets angry. People come expecting to fail. Not entirely dissimilar to watching idols. I may try singing for the clerk when I head back on Wednesday.

Tomorrow I'm breaking the monotony with a trip to the traffic department for a roadworthy, with a side of learner's license application.

Hyundai Accent BGZ 311 EC

The end of an era.

The Hyundai just left my drive way. It signals much needed progress in my fight against motor vehicle admin. But its not without some sentimental mourning.

It was the first car I picked myself. In hindsight, I made the decision without much knowledge. Infact, it highlights the relative ignorance that someone can operate in, and enjoy a fair degree of success. It makes me wonder what I'll look back on in 5 years and shake my head at.

The Hyundai has taken many roles. It became the mascot for Team Hyundai. An aptly named squad. United by its Navy'ness. Megs, Wingwoman, Cat and Se'... we'll need to re-evaluate our unity.

It took me to Port Alfred for a weekend with good friends; Stu, Mole, Kietsphat & Jamo and got us home safe - despite one massive pothole on the way back. I remember driving the whole way with all the windows down, making those Rebecca Black wind dolphins for an hour an half because I couldn't hear Dean.

Its been ghost ridden. True story. We danced while it rolled.

Mandy left her mark, the front door still opens funny. Your legacy lives on Kemp :)

Its been hand braked turned. Quiet about that one.

It's more recently been to Hogsbck for an awesome weekend of coldness, sherry, more coldness, and to discovering a great friend Pete.

It took us to Matola for the last holiday we had with Mom. And I remember clocking in at 140 with revs to spare on the way there.

It ferried Cath and I on our first date, fortunately it was dark and didn't advertise its cancerous skin condition.

That reminds me, I top speeded it at 170km/ph.... on a private road... not a public one. Heehee.

I took it past the 200 000km (not ph) mark. My planned celebration failed because I lost track of the mileage and probably passed the iconic mark en-route the Spar to buy a chicken burger.

And now its getting its body redone by the new owner and will come out looking better than ever, a well deserved 3rd wind.

Car wash

Having screwed up vast tracts of admin and car maintenance with my trusty Hyundai, I'm hell bent on keeping my new wheels in good condition. I've resigned myself to upkeep costs, and I'll get the paperwork done correctly if it kills me. Or a government official. Depends.

I feel particularly satisfied when it's clean. It's not just the car either, I feel like I've made progress when something which was dirty... becomes clean. Seriously cheap thrills. But you got to take the easy wins sometimes... keeps you in the game.

I'm perfecting the system too. Following a presumably heavy night, tenant Greg took out the only tap within hose-reach of the driveway. All washing has thus reverted to the bucket system. Fortunately not that bucket system; clean water is on tap. If I follow the right route around the car; roof-bonnet-side-boot-side-wheels... I can get by in 3 buckets and a splash to wash my feet.

Then I get to drive around and make people believe my car is a true reflection of my tight ship.

Fest: Navigation

More on our trip to the Arts Fesival.

Grahamstown is a small place, its the sort of small that makes you believe you'll always know where you are, and that maps are for sissies.

In the same way that Grahamstown's dimensions are comforting, Pete's choice of car turned out to be a bit misleading too. Once I realised that I was infact disorientated, I decided to follow-that-Polo to the next venue. We were pleased to see that Pete et al had waited for us a short way down the road, en route the next show.

This appreciation vanished like the puff of a leather goods salesman's pipe in a strong wind, when the Polo pulled over and an old man climbed out. It seems this old man and his equally advanced travel-mates had lead us astray. Literally.

We then confidently set off in a general direction, in search of the Victoria Theatre.

Finding your way around a foreign town involves an element of voodoo, and in our case feelings and hunches were the only tools we had at our disposal. I think someone even said "im sure its down here, it makes sense". Hows that for precision navigation.

Fest '11

The Grahamstown National Arts Festival. Its that time again.

I'd never class myself as cultured. The only stuff I read regularly is nytimes.com and Aljazeera. I really enjoy music... but I'm only interested in the melody, and while I play the guitar, I still don't know which string is which. True story.

After our trip to the Fest though, Im beginning to think none of that matters. What really struck me this weekend was the fun aspect. Two of the three shows we watched had as much to do with 'appreciation of the arts' as my high school's 'Cultural Week' (a week which only succeeded in highlighting how little culture existed.).

I was inspired by ordinary people, comfortable infront of a crowd, having fun and getting paid to do it, not to mention the standing ovations they won.