Ag Show

I went to the Ag Show at the BEC.  That's short for Agricultural Show.  On one hand its supporting local business, I walked away with a tasty jar of pickles (Debbie 076 654 9155), and there's probably a committee of people lying on couches around town, breathing a sign of relief that the 2011 show is finally over, after months of planning.

On the other hand, I can't help but wonder if this is just another white, cultural thing.  Another thing whites do.  If you interrogate anyone who enjoyed their visit, you'll likely discover they what they really enjoyed was the crowd, the walk in the sun and their koeksister.  Is a full-scale fair the best possible vehicle for getting people into the sun, eating koeksisters and chatting?

Would a 'koeksister, en jou sister' day in the park not have the same effect.  Or, 'pancakes, and handshakes' at the beach.  Or a 'give me 20 bucks and i'll talk to you outside, here eat this' day.

Ultimate death match suggestion: Second hand book seller vs. sunglasses salesman.

No dumping

While cutting through suburbia on the way to the hairdresser yesterday I discovered a sign.  No Dumping.  A testament to community optimism.

The sign was on a light pole, on a pavement, in a completely developed corner of Vincent.  I'm staggered that enough people dumped their trash on that man's lawn that he felt it neccessary to put up a sign.

Dream with me for a second.  A builder has 2 tonnes of building waste to get rid of.  The tip is far away, deep within the 'hood (aka Amalinda), it's late and he wants to get home to his wife.  He decides to ditch his rubble en route HQ.  But just as he begins shovelling... he sees the sign.  Realising his error he re-clamps the tailgate and commits to making a more suitable arrangement, or at very least, to finding another lawn.  Really?

I don't think I'd be able to sneak that one past if I took a tramacet.  And you can sneak a lot past me when I've had a tramacet.

Mouse (Continued)

The next episode of the mouse tale unfolded this morning.  What I never mentioned was that a second mouse had taken lodging in our kitchen and could be seen dashing across the floor whenever you walked into the room.

It was cute for a while and I assumed we be able to scoot it out the door at some point, but last night CP and I decided enough was enough and got down to some serious trap building.  The idea was we'd try a new design every day until we nabbed the critter, taking the opportunity to entertain ourselves with creative custom-rodent-nabbing-machinery.

I had a number of designs running through my head; involving a small 'room of mirrors', large pictures of cats to make the rat back peddle into a toothpick and CP was ready to mix an evocative female-mouse call to lure the refugee.

We deployed our firsy trap at about 10pm, a simple one-way-flap-trap.  More than that, we researched the prefered mouse diet and laid out an enticing spread.

And so it was with a degree of dissappointment when I discovered a mouse tail, a subtle electric buzzing noise and a mild smell of burning mouse coming out of the toaster at 6:12 this morning.

Mouse community 0 : Toaster 2

Mouse

Out of sight, out of mind is an apt description of our digs' garden.  Specifically the path running behind the house, used exclusively by tenant Greg.  The only time I ventured through what had become a wild and terrifying secret-garden'esque tunnel was to locate miscellaneous items that Celine, the domestic vigilante, had hung out to dry.

A man was hired.  He was given time, a machete and apparently loose guidelines on what a socially acceptable time to start chopping on a Sunday morning is.  Note to reader, its not 07:30.

In a seemingly unrelated venture I got down to making a snack after Church, only to find my slice of bread obstructed on entering the toaster.  Obstructed by a par-cooked field mouse.

Theory goes; our indigenous (unconfirmed) eco bonanza in the pathway had become a favourable habitat for mice.  Subsequent remodelling resulted in our house, ne toaster, becoming a safe-zone.  The mouse is just lucky rodent society doesn't sport a version of the Darwin Awards.

Complacency

It's easy to become complacent, and every now and then something you've taken for granted disappears and you find yourself clasping the coffee bottle between your knees trying to get the top off with one hand.

this isn't me.

I went in for a glorious try at Frisbee on Thursday evening, putting in an akward dive in the in-zone to catch a pass.  Alas, I hit the deck, without the prize in hand and snapped my collar bone.  Had I caught it, it would have been totally worth it.

Observations since Thursday:

• Shoe laces are a total cost.
• It gets light at about 5:45.
• I'm not as mentally stable as I like to think I am.
• Predictive text has a way to go.

Life is balanced though, in tough times the medical community grants you special license to partake in things ordinarily reserved for addicts and the homeless.  My Tramacet may have negatively affected social interactions but its been fun spending time with my new friend Charlie the unicorn.

Mutton

We didn't cater for our weekend away in Port Alfred.  Instead, we arrived. Then we went shopping.

In keeping with the theme of our holiday, when we'd stocked up on bread, we went hunting for meat.  There was a vague menu plan;  that we'd eat at least 3 times a day, and we'd braai when it was dark.

Nic and Jay returned with a herd of old sheep neatly packed into a jumbo mutton bonanza pack.  I voiced my approval and we went looking for less-essentials.

Alas, our meat megaload turned out to be a wolf in sheeps clothing.  The not so nice parts of an old and sinewy wolf... to be sure.  But these are just life lessons, filed alongside the invaluable chicken-pie know how I've gleaned in the past three years.

All the ladies in our lives will be pleased to know, that the over-riding sentiment, following Sunday night's supper was that girls definitely up the ante when it comes to meal times.  That said, all that time saved by forfeiting salad, a decorated table and a table... meant we made the build up to round one of 2011's MotoGP in Qatar.

Fishing

My shiny new fishing rod has been gathering dust, lying in two pieces under my bed since I got it in Feb.  But a man-weekend of braaing, fishing and farting in Port Alfred promised an opportunity to get it wet.

Jay organised a barge for Saturday and we set out, for what looked like a week judging by our supplies, down the Kowie River.

Like other skillful hobbies, people in the know make it look easy, and noobs make it look impossible.  I, fulfilling the role of the latter, quickly pulled a lead in the 'Kraaines' award race.  Defn: When your neatly rolled fishing line erupts into a ball of unimagineably intertwined mess.

But fishing is everything I dreamt it would be.  Which isn't much... infact, its largely standing on a boat, or a shore.  Second only to floating on your back in the river.  Verified.

I was pleasantly surprised that I'm not that squeamish.  Everything else about fishing is quite pleasant, but baiting your hook with a variety of dismembered sea creatures pretty much makes up for it.