I love this time of year. Usually. At present I am not quite feeling the love. What I am feeling is exhaustion. On Wednesday I was rostered to work a few hours, and as soon as I was finished I hurried (keeping within speed limit, of course) to the local high school where my oldest will be starting next year, and where he was attending for his final orientation. It was my intention we attend the uniform shop and get him fitted up for his shorts, slacks, and a jumper. Luckily, I already have his everyday and sports polos. This was a very good idea. Maybe not as good as using mouldy bread to treat infection like the ancient Egyptians used to do (which of course later became penicillin), but a good one nonetheless. Unfortunately, everyone else had the same idea, and there was only one shop assistant on duty. I shit you not, reader, that my son and I waited almost two hours to get served. I could have walked away, son in tow, but the uniform shop is not open very often, and this was my opportunity. To compound matters, my son had a dental appointment (a Government freebie payable on Medicare). Finally got him kitted out, and into the car, and off to the dentist. Husband rang as I entered the surgery, and I said, 'I'm here.' He said, 'With Dr Suchandsuch?' Um, say wha? Yes. I had merrily driven my son to the Wrong. Fucking. Dentist's. Surgery. On the bright side, after a check up and clean, no further treatment was deemed necessary.
'As I walked out the door toward my freedom, I knew that if I did not leave all the anger, hatred and bitterness behind, that I would still be in prison.' This is a quote from Nelson Mandela, probably the greatest man I have ever known of in my lifetime. I sat on the lounge this morning, watching a live telecast of South African President Jacob Zuma giving a press conference in which what we had all guessed was confirmed: Nelson Mandela is now definitely free at last.
You know something I remember about Mandela, something that I think is absurd? That he was photographed with the Spice Girls. Who can tell me what's wrong with this picture? A man of his calibre, being posed with five pop 'singers' of negligible talent at best. One with a face like the north end of a south bound cat who would marry a soccer player. One pulling a face and sticking out her tongue ('Hey, look at me, everyone! I've got a tongue piercing!'). One who went on to do a shite cover of 'It's Raining Men' in the moving 'Bridget Jones' Diary'. Others whom I cannot be bothered writing about at the moment because I am going to watch a DVD. 'Behind the Candelabra', which is the biopic of Liberace. I do like biopics. If there is ever a biopic of the Spice Girls made, I will probably not bother myself too much.
Vale, Nelson Mandela.
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