Chicken run

When hunger strikes and I suddenly feel a craving for a succulent chicken fillet accompanied by some perinnaise and a warm, soft bun, I can concentrate on very little else until I satisfy my hunger. This particular yearning struck like a wet hand across the face while watching Desperate Housewives (practically the love of my life), so you may well understand how devastated I was when I had to peel myself off the couch and away from the TV in order to scratch the itch that was Nando’s.

Arriving at Nando’s several minutes later, I was pleasantly surprised to find the shop empty. I approached one of the women behind the till and greeted her with a: “Hello, how are you?”, which was met with a somewhat chilly: “Fine”. Giving the Ice Queen the benefit of the doubt, I smiled back at her with my toothiest smile and said, “Can I have a chicken burger? Just the burger thanks”. Ice Queen looked blankly at me while punching in my order. I was impressed by her well-trained peripheral vision but slightly disturbed by her perpetual gaze.

After a few seconds of awkward silence (like that experienced after greeting someone and accidently planting a kiss on their left ear instead of on their check because they were simply going in for a hug), Ice Queen asked me if I would like to make my order into a meal. I replied with a, “Uh…no thanks. Just the burger”. Ice Queen was enjoying this. She turned to her equally icy accomplice behind the second till and said something to her friend under her breath which I couldn’t hear but probably wouldn’t have appreciated if I had. The two of them sniggered before the Ice Queen returned her icy stare to me. [Another long, awkward pause]

I blinked once…then twice before she clicked her tongue and said, “Lemon and herb or perrrri-perrrri?”

“Lemon and herb”, I replied.

“Pineapple or cheese?”

“Sorry?” I responded.

“Do you want extra pineapple or cheese?” Ice Queen said, getting annoyed.

“No thanks”, I answered.

[More punching of buttons with more staring. I begin to feel slightly hot and shaky]

I handed the Ice Queen my debit card saying, “It’s a savings”. Ice Queen swiped my card with such violence that I felt my heart quicken and suddenly felt the urge to swallow the lump developing in my throat.

“Cheque or savings?” Ice queen asked. [Is she kidding?]

“S-a-v-i-n-g-s”, I answered.

Ice Queen handed me the key pad. I pressed in my 4 digit code as quickly as possible and handed it back to her. Looking evermore unimpressed, she took the key pad from me and handed me my slip. I signed my slip and pushed it back towards the Ice Queen who was by this stage, leaning on her right elbow with the copy of my slip in her hand. Pissed off at her obvious attempts to be as rude as was humanly possible, I snatched my slip from her hand and without another word, turned on my heel and stormed towards the waiting area, hearing agitated clicking and muttering from the direction of the tills.

A few minutes later, my order number was called out and I jumped up, eager to avoid being turned into stone by the Ice Queen and excited to return to my beloved TV show. I walked to my car in disbelief, unable to fathom what I had done wrong while scratching around in my industrial-sized handbag for my car keys.

[Scratch, scratch]

[Scratch, scratch, scratch]

Nothing.

[Arrive at car and begin emptying contents of bag onto floor]

Nothing.

#@%*!!!!!

[Put everything back into bag, throw bag over shoulder in a huffy and storm back into shop]

As I reentered the shop, the Ice Queen looked up at me, a sly smirk plastered on her round face. I asked: “Did I perhaps leave my car keys on your counter?” – my voice dripping with syrupy sweetness. She slid her hand out from behind the till to reveal my keys. I thanked her and walked straight out again. 

I could think of nothing but four letter words for the remainder of Desperate Housewives...but the burger was worth it.

Mr Spondy

Recently I took a leap of faith, resigned from my position at the consulting firm I was working at and returned to physiotherapy. I had completely forgotten how entertaining it is to work with clients so closely. Currently I am not based anywhere permanently. I decided instead to make a slow transition back into the field by working part-time at several different private practices around Joburg. So much of fun…

I had a particularly entertaining treatment session with a 75 year old man last week. The decrepit little old hunchback walked into the practice complaining of back pain. I initially put on my sweetest and most compassionate voice, assessing his movements and posture with gentle explanations and nudges while he chatted on and on about the degeneration of his spine (known as spondylosis) which he has sweetly nicknamed his ‘spondy’. After almost 10 minutes of polite conversation, I finally managed to coax him onto the plinth to begin his treatment.

I began working on Mr Spondy’s neck and upper back while he garbled on about how ‘in his day’ he was a fantastic tennis player, how he has been married and divorced twice (both blondes) and  how he is currently dating a beautiful brunette ten years his junior. As my hands moved progressively lower down his back, the conversation seemed to move in a similar direction. 

The first impression I had of Mr Spondy (that he was a polite and sweet old dear) were diminishing faster than Julius Malema can retaliate to a news reporter. Before I knew it, Mr Spondy began telling me of a time he visited a Chinese massage parlour. He told me that he does not frequent ‘those types of organisations’ but rather that he had gone because he felt he really needed it. He also added that he does have friends who still enjoy the occasional outing to Teasers. By this stage I was planning my excuse to cut the treatment time short and make a swift dash for the door.

Mr Spondy continued with his dodgy story, saying that after he had been ushered to a private room by his Chinese masseuse, he had been instructed to remove his clothing. He dutifully obliged, removing his pants and shirt and lay face down on the plinth. The masseuse returned and told him to remove his underwear too. Feeling somewhat uncomfortable, he did what he was told. The masseuse began her massage. After several minutes, the masseuse said: “You hot? You feely hot?” Feeling embarrassed and a little confused, Mr Spondy said, “No I am fine thank-you”. The masseuse continued with the massage. Two minutes later, the masseuse popped her head under the plinth so Mr Spondy could see her face and said: “You hot, you want fun?” Mr Spondy was by this stage more than a little uncomfortable and reacted with a very abrupt “No, no. Thank-you but I don’t want fun”. The masseuse then said: “No, you need fun” and left the room (during which time Mr Spondy had begun to clamber off the plinth). The masseuse breezed back into the room only to find Mr Spondy clambering off the plinth as fast as his little legs could carry him but he stopped in his tracks when his gaze fell upon the masseuses hands…she had returned with a fan.

I can’t wait for Mr Spondy’s follow-up visit!

Mr Tighty Whities saved my night

It’s been a week of overindulgence. It all started with a shopping basket laden with Woolies marshmallow eggs, speckled eggs, hollow eggs and white bantam eggs on Monday, which I bought with the very good intention of playing Easter bunny to ‘The Hot Fisherman’, the parentals and my siblings on Easter Sunday. Unfortunately when the overwhelming craving for crunchy, candy-covered hollow eggs hit at approximately 8pm on Monday evening, not even hiding the eggs in the hardest-to-reach places of my cupboard could save me. I attacked those eggs with all the feverish excitement and enthusiasm of a three year old and not even throwing the empty box away after the annihilation could hide the evidence since the corners of my mouth bore the residue of sticky white candy. Tuesday and Wednesday were no better. Let’s just say that the stash of eggs I had purchased had diminished to a few dismal dregs. Pizza and jam jars at Primi on Thursday, a boozy rib braai at my folks on Friday evening and several draughts at the St Johns rugby festival on Saturday was a great way to warm up my jaw and digestive system for Sunday. I played a game of hot or cold with ‘The Hot Fisherman’ in order to locate my hidden Lindt Bunny Easter egg and spent the rest of the morning nibbling off one body part at a time (ears, then head, followed by neck and feet). All that’s left of my decapitated bunny are the back paws and a bit of the bum. Later on, lunch was a meal of McDonalds chicken nuggets, chips and a coke. I had a faint urge to do some sort of energy expending exercise after lunch, and hence the blog post. I am going to continue spewing my weekend experiences on this page in the hope that I may burn a few more calories.

So as I said, yesterday ‘The Hot Fisherman’ and I went to the St John’s rugby festival. I don’t want people to think that I have a ‘thing’ for porta-loo’s, but once again, I had an unfortunate experience at the porta-loo’s that I have to share with you. It was approximately 6pm and light was fading fast. I had had several ciders in the beer tent and felt the inopportune urge to pee. I made my way through the rowdy crowds of teenagers with mullet haircuts, tribal tattoo’s and shirt dresses towards the porta-loo’s. The walk there was nearly as unpleasant as the porta-loo’s themselves. Squelching through mud puddles, dodging masses of youths high on hormones and walking through clouds of cannabis smoke, I finally made it to my destination. I expected worse. The queue wasn’t too bad and someone in the line ahead of me even handed me a roll of loo paper. I stepped inside the dark plastic container and did what I had to. I emerged from the loo, well impressed at the survival instincts I had obviously developed for withstanding the extreme conditions within the confines of the porta-loo and made my way to the hand washing facilities. After dispensing a small amount of hand soap into my palm, I rubbed my hands vigorously and then began pumping the foot pedal furiously wash off the soap with water. To my utter disgrace, I found that the water canister was empty and I was by this stage, up to my elbows in foam. While attempting to remain calm, I began shaking my hands violently to get rid of as much of the soap as I could. Seeing my obvious predicament, one of the young guys in the queue came to my rescue and offered to rinse off my hands with his beer. Bless his little cotton undies (which I could see since his pants were hanging half-way down his bum). I obliged politely and rinsed my hands off under the steady stream of his beer. So this post is dedicated to Mr tighty whities. Thanks dude.