Look at the piggy, piggy in the mirror...
It's a bit busy here today. Isn't it always like that when you've just returned from Paradise? And the trip home always seems twice as long as well...
Except in this case it was. You know how guinea fowl act when there is oncoming traffic? Their sentries conscientiously scout the horizon for approaching death, and then when the timing is just right, they make a manic run for it and that's all she wrote. Lethal but effective way of ensuring the flock never gets too big to handle. Interesting fact: the local human population living around the N2 in a sprawling metropolis of informal dwellings have the same approach to road crossing. The numerous pedestrian bridges were apparently a massive waste of tax payer's money, since it is clearly preferable to taunt the gods and get your weekend kicks by dodging intermittent streams of certain metallic death coming at you at an average of 140km/h.
Don't get me wrong, I believe in the sanctity of life above all else. I am simply baffled how simple laziness is higher on the agenda than, say, NOT getting mangled by 2tons of high speed fatality. And I have on numerous occasions very nearly parted company with my own mortality on that stretch of road as a last minute swerve to avoid hitting these bastards can make for quite the adrenaline surge and Tourettes attack.
One such "tarentaal" was unfortunately not as lucky as the close shave incidents I've managed to avoid. I am sure that he or she left behind loved ones and I am not attempting to dehumanised the situation or place any lesser value on his or her life. It's what happened afterwards that had me befuck.
The million kilometre traffic back up from the R300 to Sir Lowry's Pass, however, is. As Jeremy Clarkson once lamented, why do they have to close a lane for hours on end? Instead of moving the car/person/accident out of the way as soon as possible? After what seemed like hours sitting in first (luckily I had The Hot Girlfriend and Anathema for company) we eventually crawled past the scene. 4 traffic cones are an incredibly powerful force. One vacant looking traffic official staring at the crawling procession and another taking notes a bit further on as 2 cars' worth of people remonstrated. And one body bag. Surely there can't be so much forensic evidence that a body that is already covered or bagged cannot be moved, as the cars already had been, OFF the fucking road. No, all we got in the way of an explanation was a belligerent, dimly lit expression of "I don't give a fuck".
Anyway, all of that notwithstanding, I had one of the most marvellous weekends of my life. But for a full report on the fun and frivolity, you'll have to tune in tomorrow, sports fans. Too much to remember and write about - you wouldn't want to get only half the story, now would you? Suffice it to say, I have neither the energy nor the fully functional cognitive function to remember all the delightful details. Watch this space.
NGDG: Tomorrow is my last Monday at the office, aka. Salt Mine, Snake Pit, AIDS Ward. I'm happier than an Asian kid in a Samsung advert.
Spread The Love. Luis Suarez... Hiccies. You're Doing 'Em Wrong.