Christopher Hitchens

A few weeks ago I came across a guy called Christopher Hitchens.  Its uncanny... because he just died.  While I only knew of him for a few weeks, it seems he was well known in academic and philosophical circles.

He's a pretty controversial figure, a lifestyle polemicist (I googled it: someone who argues in opposition) - having taken on the likes of God, Muslims, Mother Teresa... he campaigned for and against war, wrote many essays and apparently once got a Brazilian wax.

One of his books was 'God is not great'.  A controversial title if there ever was one.  So when I heard he had died I didn't have the usual sympathetic response, after all, this guy fought against things I stand for.

Thing is, God doesn't need to be defended.  That's so far removed from our role, even putting it in writing seems unnecessary.  It occurred to me that God might actually appreciate people like Hitchens; a guy who thought, and questioned.  It's unfortunate he didn't acknowledge God, but at least he must have considered it at some point...  I don't know, maybe not.

Moving house

Tis the seasons to be jolly, tis also the season to move house.  Having been a youth leader for a few years, I've acclimatized to getting couches and fridges (and anything else the Edge leaders leave lying around) through doorways.

Our move happened a few months ago, this time it was a friend... who specifically said I wasn't allowed to write a blog about this... Not sure why.  But to honour the friendship I will leave only vague clues.

An unexpected member of our amateur (only in remuneration) moving crew was friend X's new landlord.  What a legend, apparently an ex-Headmaster.  He quickly slipped into the mould of delegating tasks to teenagers, and while initially irritating, you can't fault a dude who spent his productive years in that position.  He also arrived with a handy trolley and enough rope to tie up an over-weight Mammoth.

As a guy, moving house comes with its own anxieties; a time when your knot-tying skills are put on show.  It can be an ego-boosting affair, or a bit of a downer, depending on the number of helpers with an agricultural background.  I enjoyed success at first, but had my ass handed to me on a plate after my granny knot was dismissed in favour of something more appropriate.

Breakdown

Sunday morning, en route a colonial morning of cricket at the Country Club... a lady broke down infront of me at Eric's Delicatessen.  She was at the front of the queue, and so we missed a whole green light as her car sputtered and jerked into the middle of the intersection and then stopped.

I've never owned an Uno, but my sister had two, and it was two too many when ranked in terms of reliability.  I pulled over to see what was up.  Having me pull over is definitely second prize; you basically get a hug and some company until someone with mechanical tendancies arrives.

The closest I got to practical assistance this time was a walk up the road to get some water for her bone-dry water... tank... tank.  Once her sister had arrived, I slipped away.

Service

I got my car serviced yesterday.  Picking your mechanic is more an art than a science.  Unfortunately you can't rate local mechanics on feedback from friends, because it's almost always bad.  My choice is somewhat limited, its either the dealership, or a guy called Graham in Gonubie.

My theory is that a dealership is more likely to replace than fix, and its unlikely that you would be able to chat to the offending mechanic who deprives your fridge of food and your kids of clothing for that month.  So I took the car to Graham.

The difference between Graham and the dealership; is that I got my car back soon after lunch... with a giant sandy boot print in the passenger footwell.  A footwell I spent Saturday morning cleaning with a small broom and a some wild sweeping. When Cath sends her car to the dealership it comes back glowing, but its on a service plan, so its a safe bet.

But I like Graham, and my car is feeling tight.  Now to go and make some two minute noodles...

Braai night

Monday is officially the unofficial braai night in Sandringham Road.  It's close on my favourite night of the work week, a peaceful time to sip a whiskey and kill mosquitoes on the deck.

Ryan joined us last week, I set about the food.  Turns out buying a whole chicken costs half as much as Checkers' Championship boerewors.  Their not-Championship boerie looks like it got left on the bench during the finals, so I left it in the fridge too.

One youtube video later; I'd turned my ex-Chicken into a flat-pack Weber ready bird.  I'm still not sure about the vent on the lid and its purpose.  So far I've narrowed it down to 'less smoke comes out the sides when its open'.  The open grid was filled with bread dough balls and an hour-20 later we were in heaven.  And all this magic for only R11.50 each.