AKA James Franco

The morning started like any other. A yawn, a roll over, a deep sigh and a butt-scratch. He reached for his smartphone, checked the time and scrolled through his newsfeeds. After the 17th update about Miley Cyrus he put it back down on the bedside table. He was late, he should hurry up

Grapefruit. He would have grapefruit for breakfast. It made him feel healthy and reminded him of better days, days before the dreadful Cape Town winter took away his summer body. He had been invited to Ultimate Frisbee a few months ago, those guys and girls get pretty fit, perhaps he should have gone

He gathered his wares for the day: suede wallet, smartphone, backpack, water bottle and K-Way jacket. Anyone would think he was going hiking, but alas, it was a Tuesday. He needed a pee, quite badly, but it would have to wait. He hustled out the front door, shut it with purpose and spun around to open the gate. Then he realised his error. Keys. For the love of God, they are inside. There he was, almost like James Franco in 127 Hours: Stuck between the security gate and a hard place.


A Pear Shaped Lunch Hour

It all started yesterday. Well actually way before yesterday, as the car has had an interesting smell for a while. I needed a thingy to make it smell good.  Ah, an air-freshener, that’s what they call it. Never fear, Engen would provide. Alas, they had none. Moaned at the manager. He retrieved some from his desk and held a deck of them out as if he was about to do a card trick. Well the joke was on him because the flavours were printed on both sides. I proceed to annoyingly smell each one. Bingo. Lavender.  Got in the car and ripped open my Geeky Gecko smelly. ‘Stick Anywhere!’ it boasted. It did not stick.

Hungry. Have to buy veggies for tonight. Checkers will do. Arrive and dodge a plethora of school kids on the way into the abyss of groceries. Find packet veggies. Hungry.  A sandwich will do. Ham and cheese or chicken and mayo. Options are limited. I take both. Upon further investigation, the ham and cheese has little mould spots on it. Eww. Throw it to the back, choose another one.

Brainwave. Flashback to student life. Sta-Soft 1 litre concentrate sachets make the best car air-fresheners. I calculate where they are. They are far. Hungry. Begin the march anyway. Ow. Sore butt from gym. Go slower.  Closing in on the detergent section. There are so many choices. Too lazy to read the flavours. Randomly grab odd ones from the pile and sniff them until I find the right one. Bingo.

Return march. Hungry. Take short cut through toy section. It was a cul-de-sac. Fail. I am surrounded cheap junk. Kids are too spoilt these days. Surely they only need books and a tennis ball. Finally bust out the maze. Arrive at till and throw items on the conveyor belt. I notice I have bought ‘baby flavour’ Sta-Soft. Holy crap. I wonder if it’s made from actual squashed babies. Then I wonder about why I even liked the smell.

Race up to parking ticket machine. A woman is starring at it like it is giving her life advice. Hungry. Eventually hop in the car. Wait for man pushing several thousand trollies. Uneventful drive. Get to gate at work. Fumble tag. Drops by my feet. Attempt to retrieve tag. Cannot see anything with bladdy sunnies on. Remove sunnies, find tag, open gate. Parked.

Hungry. Thought about using the stairs. Waited for lift due to sore ass. I really must stretch after gym. Lift stops at ground floor. Fat lady waddles in and complains about her sore ass. It’s a dammed pandemic.

At last, my desk. Pop open ham and cheese and smash it in my mouth. Over-powering baby smell on hands. Mayonnaise explosion. Thoughts of mould. Bread stale on edges. Slight gag reflex. Close up container. Eat other sarmie in 0.6 seconds. Hungry.