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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The butcher

I haven't done a decent grocery shop for a while, and so didn't have much in the way of lunch resources when I was prepping for the day this morning.  So I made a visit to the Spar (the home of the 12.95 Chicken Burger).

The enemy at work...

It seems the butchery is a pervasive source of discontent.  It doesn't matter whether its a Spar or a stand alone meat-market.  They're chronically staffed by deaf or persistantly disagreeable people who are incapable of accurately servicing your order.

I've taken to ordering ham by weight, because I'd given up estimating how many slices of Enterprize's finest was in a kg,  now relying on 100g multiples... depending on who's eating.
But it doesn't matter.  Oh no.  Forbid it that you should get what you order, let alone getting ever so slightly less than you order.  My package was weighed, wrapped and stickered before I could point out that 140g is not 100g.  It is infact 40% more.

Yes, I'm nit picking, but the principle holds for bigger chunks of meat.

UFH Registration

Self improvement requires a special dedication.  A persistance.  Without it, you'll wimp out long before you achieve anything noteworthy.

Acting somewhat as a filter, academic registration at Fort Hare University sits, like a toad, in the path to success.  Guaranteed to filter anyone who is wavering.  If you aren't convinced that short of civil war, or a nuclear disaster, you will be studying, you haven't got a chance.

Neccessary attributes: patience, with a hint of street smarts and a high tolerance for beaurocracy.

On a positive, the registration process did facilitate a rather awkward reunion.  Apparently a 3 year gap is a standard for people who decide they need to study further, and I met up with a couple of old classmates having a second go.  Unfortunately 3 years is also long enough for people to put on weight, change their hairstyles and to make absolute identification tricky at times.  Much staring and awkward hellos ensued.

Ice cream

Its been a tough few days, but since dad was a hobbyist writer himself, and had a similar taste for dry humour, I figure he would be ok with me putting out a post.

Along with dad, a number of trees have become deceased in the last few days.  Some what in honour of him, many of them will go out with a photo-copied photo of him, from his ID book, or at least his name - from one of the many legal documents.  Our thoughts are with the saplings who are left behind.

I stopped to get an ice-cream on the way home from a photocopying expedition, and then proceed to drive one handed, left handed, back to home base.  It occurred to me that driving while eating an ice-cream should surely be prohibited, much like cellphone calls are.  I was definitely more interested in my melting soft-serve than have I have been in many conversations I've had on the phone, and thus I'm sure more distracted.