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Sunday, June 16, 2013

it's not about work

I promised myself not to mention work in this post. I know I've been going on about it recently; just see its position in the tag cloud. Hence the title of this post.


We were up at 9:00 this morning because Anna just couldn't let such a beautiful morning waste away while lying in bed. She hopped on us until we just had to get up. I, for one, would have really enjoyed a lie-in. I'd had a bad night with constant, severe heartburn accompanied by an exhausting dream. If you don't know what the word "vurp" means, look it up.

In the dream I found myself in an enormous, unfamiliar post-apocalyptic city. There were other survivors or refugees but I knew none of them. The authorities were looking for someone who held the key to the reconstruction of the city. During a routine inspection I was identified as that important person.

An indomitable officer slowly walked down the hastily formed line of filthy, haggard refugees and closely looked at every face. He stared me in the eyes for a moment and swiftly went on to the shivering woman to my left. I started relaxing but he was suddenly back in my face and spoke a name that I haven't been called in years. Charl, he said. He saw that I knew the name and I was captured.

They put me in some sort of prison but the dogs were getting restless on the bed and I lost track of the dream for a bit. 

When I returned, I had just managed to escape the prison; by then my captor had seized power and wanted to use me to rebuild the city in his own evil way. I smartly commandeered an abandoned Mercedes-Benz SLS AMG and roared off into safety.

After Anna forced us to get up we sleepily had a couple of coffees and fags. Some twat had parked right in front of the gate; the way his buddy kept pointing at the innards of the orange Corsa suggested that it was going to be a while. We bravely decided to walk to the shops.

Walking back with our heavy parcels, the idiot with the Corsa sped past us. I think he waved but I just ignored the prat. He could have given us a bloody lift.

Still, the short walk did us both good. I felt so energised when we returned that I grabbed the rake and combed two weeks worth of dog poop out of the parched lawns. Together with the dead leaves it filled an entire refuse bag.

Interesting, isn't it: the nutritional cycle of the domesticated dog. Begin by dragging a heavy sack of dog food home, feed it to the dog and finally drag a heavy sack of processed dog food to the outside bin.

Mustn't forget to drag the bin outside tomorrow at sparrows' fart, either. Ours gets emptied whether it's a public holiday or not.

The bin rests beyond the white stinkwood in the grisly remains of the veggie garden. Leaves long gone, you can see a wayward pumpkin in the dry branches of the tree close to the centre of the photo. I wonder how that bugger reckons we'll get hold of him?

Yesterday the neighbours weren't home and The One had time to snap the building works through the flimsy wire fence. We've called our house a glorified dog cage before, but it has never been more apt. The dogs live inside and go out for water and pooping only. When left unsupervised outside they bark and bark, Worlds Without End, Amen.

The poor cats are only allowed the occasional foray into the garden. We're afraid they'll get spooked by the next door dogs and hit the road in their panic. When they are outside, they graze the overgrown lawns just like dazed cows.

There's nothing wrong with the last photo. It's simply the way my natural cat magnet looks when captured in action.

As I have said before, we wear trousers and shoes to the shops because Anna ate the flip-flops. We also wear socks at home to keep our feet frost-free because Anna devoured the slippers at the end of the last winter.

This morning when we got home I carelessly took off my shoes in the living room and left them unguarded.  Halfway through the second paragraph of this post, Anna proudly trotted into the room with half the insole of my only work shoes dangling from her mouth.

Now I'm going to have to wear my bloody expensive and totally out of fashion Wehrmacht boots to work, the shops and to bloody bed.

Still love her, though. Who wouldn't, with a face like that?

Written by I