There’s something up with the internet.
I just logged on to the admin page of my blog and to my HORROR discovered that the 68 posts I’d submitted since April 4th (genuinely my finest work) have all inexplicably disappeared, and to compound the tragedy my backup files are all corrupt. Still, I hope you all enjoyed the many highs and lows I wrote about in such fine fashion.
Oh the misery.
As you know though I’m not one to complain and so I shall push the last seven months aside and move on to a light hearted discussion about the sleeping patterns of a small child.
Without swearing.
Out loud.
Today is my 4th wedding anniversary and I can gladly report to my long suffering wife that I am just as happy as I was four years ago. The only down side to that my love is that I’ve always been a grumpy miserable bastard and so essentially nothing has changed.
I can’t exactly say that today got off to a flier. In fact that the only thing that was flying this morning was my son’s head at about 4am when he twatted me full in the face in true Glaswegian kiss style.
Eventually two sleepless hours later I leapt (literally) out of bed with the words “I can’t deal with this any more” and started stomping around the room in much more childish fashion than my son ever manages. To his credit he only wailed slightly before also jumping out of bed (where he has “slept” pretty much the last three nights) and following me into the spare bedroom, to where I sat on the floor puffy-eyed, head in hands and generally broken spirited.
I looked at him and he looked at me…and then in a display of tenderness and compassion belying his tender age of eighteen months he walked across to me put his arms around my neck and laid his head on my shoulder.
Where he proceeded to rub his snot over my upper arm before taking my hand and dragging me to the kitchen to give him his bottle.
Did I mention I’ve started a new blog on the joys of parenthood? Will give you the heads up when I have something to post.
Just kidding m’boy – I quite like you all things considered.
Turn out like your mum and you’ll do fine.
Friday, November 18, 2011
Monday, April 4, 2011
Am I just being stupid…
For those of you who have read several of my posts it will come as no great surprise that I have a somewhat cynical view of anything to do with customer service. You can also probably figure out that the fact that I’ve had to deal with two lots of customer servants in one day has not led to a particularly vintage Monday.
Exhibit A: Home Affairs
Ahh…good old government departments, you’ve got to love them. In a desperate bid to up their level of service Home Affairs have now introduced a telephone tracking system that allows persons such as yours truly to track their application and to get SMS updates sent to their phone on a regular basis with a view to shortening the whole process.
On instruction from my immigration company (who are now apparently unable to track my application directly because of this new system which makes me question why I’m paying them a fee) I called the Immigration Hotline this morning. Initial signs were good – relatively inoffensive hold Muzak and barely a twenty minute wait to speak to a human. Sadly that was the high point. According to the hotline they have no record at all of my application on their new system. This means that in the five months that have elapsed since I spent my wedding anniversary hanging around in a god awful government building no one has as yet managed to log it on a system somewhere. I can’t think why they estimate the visa process taking eighteen months when we’re off to such a flyer.
The good news is I can report this back to my immigration company. Who can no longer track my application in case of corruption and fraud. Corruption, fraud and government in one sentence…what are the odds.
Exhibit B: Standard Bank
I barely had time to get to the shops and back during the ludicrously short twelve minute wait to speak to a human and so my query got off to a rather breathless start. Due to the technical nature of my request (can I change my contact details please) I first had to go through a series of challenges in order to prove my identity.
“Can I have your ID number please Sir?”
“I don’t have one I’m sorry but I can give you my wife’s one as she is also on the same account”
Failed.
“Can I have your home telephone number then please Sir?”
“We didn’t have a landline where we were living so it must be the same as my cell number”
Failed.
I subsequently failed the email account check (amazing seeing as no more than a week ago I got an email from the very same company to that very address) and was beginning to give up hope when a late rally (“How does the account get paid?” and “What property is the bond registered to?”) enabled me to proceed to the updating of addresses (and all the other things I’d failed on).
Even by my miserable standards there would appear to be nothing here to get grumpy about.
Except perhaps for the fact that after I wasted twelve minutes on hold, ten minutes answering security questions and then ten minutes spelling, respelling and re-respelling address details I was informed that unless I fax or email them proof of my new address within 45 days my account will be frozen.
Let me see…what kind of document could prove my address…maybe a statement from my home loan company…no…wait…maybe a letter from my bank...no wait they won’t change my address either…no…wait maybe a bill from my cell phone provider…if the phone was in my name which it can’t be due to me not having an ID number…WHICH I CAN ONLY GET IF THE TWATS AT HOME AFFAIRS PROCESS MY APPLICATION FOR PERMANENT RESIDENCY SOME TIME IN THE NEXT DECADE.
Why do I bother?
Exhibit A: Home Affairs
Ahh…good old government departments, you’ve got to love them. In a desperate bid to up their level of service Home Affairs have now introduced a telephone tracking system that allows persons such as yours truly to track their application and to get SMS updates sent to their phone on a regular basis with a view to shortening the whole process.
On instruction from my immigration company (who are now apparently unable to track my application directly because of this new system which makes me question why I’m paying them a fee) I called the Immigration Hotline this morning. Initial signs were good – relatively inoffensive hold Muzak and barely a twenty minute wait to speak to a human. Sadly that was the high point. According to the hotline they have no record at all of my application on their new system. This means that in the five months that have elapsed since I spent my wedding anniversary hanging around in a god awful government building no one has as yet managed to log it on a system somewhere. I can’t think why they estimate the visa process taking eighteen months when we’re off to such a flyer.
The good news is I can report this back to my immigration company. Who can no longer track my application in case of corruption and fraud. Corruption, fraud and government in one sentence…what are the odds.
Exhibit B: Standard Bank
I barely had time to get to the shops and back during the ludicrously short twelve minute wait to speak to a human and so my query got off to a rather breathless start. Due to the technical nature of my request (can I change my contact details please) I first had to go through a series of challenges in order to prove my identity.
“Can I have your ID number please Sir?”
“I don’t have one I’m sorry but I can give you my wife’s one as she is also on the same account”
Failed.
“Can I have your home telephone number then please Sir?”
“We didn’t have a landline where we were living so it must be the same as my cell number”
Failed.
I subsequently failed the email account check (amazing seeing as no more than a week ago I got an email from the very same company to that very address) and was beginning to give up hope when a late rally (“How does the account get paid?” and “What property is the bond registered to?”) enabled me to proceed to the updating of addresses (and all the other things I’d failed on).
Even by my miserable standards there would appear to be nothing here to get grumpy about.
Except perhaps for the fact that after I wasted twelve minutes on hold, ten minutes answering security questions and then ten minutes spelling, respelling and re-respelling address details I was informed that unless I fax or email them proof of my new address within 45 days my account will be frozen.
Let me see…what kind of document could prove my address…maybe a statement from my home loan company…no…wait…maybe a letter from my bank...no wait they won’t change my address either…no…wait maybe a bill from my cell phone provider…if the phone was in my name which it can’t be due to me not having an ID number…WHICH I CAN ONLY GET IF THE TWATS AT HOME AFFAIRS PROCESS MY APPLICATION FOR PERMANENT RESIDENCY SOME TIME IN THE NEXT DECADE.
Why do I bother?
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Rad(ish)
What is it with many Capetonians of a surfing bent that requires them to use the word “Radical” to describe pretty much anything in the world?
Something “radical” could be defined as far reaching or pervasive so I’m not entirely sure how surf can be described as “radical”.
Here are some examples of “Radical” conversations I’ve had over the last few days.
“On the drive up to Elandsbaai we hit 40 degrees at one point”
“Radical!”
“I can’t believe our little guy went to sleep with so many mozzie bites and in such heat”
“Radical!”
“It got so much cooler when the wind changed direction earlier”
“Radical!”
My knuckles are actually whitening as I’m typing this and reliving such conversational gems with people purporting to be intelligent.
What makes my blood boil further is when the initial “Radical” is followed up with a drawn out “Raaaaaaaaaaaaaaadical hey”.
Is this supposed to impress me in some way?
Was the initial inappropriate adjective not enough for you and now we have to go through it all again maybe with a slight shake of the head for effect and if we’re REALLY lucky an equally drawn out “Amaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaazing” to put the maggot-riddled cherry on top of the bile-iced shitcake?
For the people who this is directed at (who will never read this blog anyway as they’re all far too cool and are no doubt surfing right now while real people with real jobs sit in the real world doing a full day’s work...radical) I propose the following questionnaire for self analysis:-
1. Are you a twelve year old American?
2. Are you flitting between a parallel universe at light speed that enables you to both be in the world I inhabit and simultaneously at Woodstock?
3. Are you the victim of parental abuse where your family ripped out every page of the dictionary and burned them one by one in front of your soot and tear streaked face and just when you thought you could stand no more a scrap of ash was carried on the breeze (radical offshore no doubt) close enough to reach out and touch and on it was the word “Radical” set in smoky relief against the boiling sky?
If the answer to these is no I would suggest you need like lank change in your life bru.
Something “radical” could be defined as far reaching or pervasive so I’m not entirely sure how surf can be described as “radical”.
Here are some examples of “Radical” conversations I’ve had over the last few days.
“On the drive up to Elandsbaai we hit 40 degrees at one point”
“Radical!”
“I can’t believe our little guy went to sleep with so many mozzie bites and in such heat”
“Radical!”
“It got so much cooler when the wind changed direction earlier”
“Radical!”
My knuckles are actually whitening as I’m typing this and reliving such conversational gems with people purporting to be intelligent.
What makes my blood boil further is when the initial “Radical” is followed up with a drawn out “Raaaaaaaaaaaaaaadical hey”.
Is this supposed to impress me in some way?
Was the initial inappropriate adjective not enough for you and now we have to go through it all again maybe with a slight shake of the head for effect and if we’re REALLY lucky an equally drawn out “Amaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaazing” to put the maggot-riddled cherry on top of the bile-iced shitcake?
For the people who this is directed at (who will never read this blog anyway as they’re all far too cool and are no doubt surfing right now while real people with real jobs sit in the real world doing a full day’s work...radical) I propose the following questionnaire for self analysis:-
1. Are you a twelve year old American?
2. Are you flitting between a parallel universe at light speed that enables you to both be in the world I inhabit and simultaneously at Woodstock?
3. Are you the victim of parental abuse where your family ripped out every page of the dictionary and burned them one by one in front of your soot and tear streaked face and just when you thought you could stand no more a scrap of ash was carried on the breeze (radical offshore no doubt) close enough to reach out and touch and on it was the word “Radical” set in smoky relief against the boiling sky?
If the answer to these is no I would suggest you need like lank change in your life bru.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Back with a whimper
So there I was quietly minding my own business and getting on with life. The folk singing footwear dreams had stopped (mostly), my blood pressure was down and I had even managed a three hour stretch without moaning about something pointless or being sarcastic (bear in mind that I don’t usually manage that while sleeping so this is real progress).
So there I was quietly minding my own business and getting on with life until suddenly out of left field I thought it would be a good idea to reminisce on my past life and see if my blog was still active.
Why didn’t I just stop there?
Because I’m an idiot, that’s why.
And so in a fit of madness I decided to pen the immortal words “Is there anybody out there?”
And three of you just couldn’t let it lie.
So now here I sit remembering that for a while the rage had gone and I was a normal person – a normal person who’d chucked his lot in with the hippies, moved to Cape Town and was managing to have a reasonable stab at being a new father.
Well that’s all gone now, so on your head be it.
Anyway as you’d expect Cape Town is average at best. The mountain only comes out on Thursdays, it’s windier than a lentil munchers’ barn dance and it’s riddled with crime. I can testify to the crime aspect as only three weeks ago our house got robbed while we were out walking in the shadow of the bloody mountain.
This would never have happened in Joburg.
People often say that the invasion of privacy and your personal space is the worst aspect of a house robbery (clearly these people haven’t had the tied-up-and-held-at-gunpoint type of house robbery experience favoured in Gauteng). Some say that the worst aspect of a house robbery actually comes later when you become nervous about leaving the house empty and find excuses not to go out.
Bollocks.
The worst part about a house robbery is dealing with the bloody insurers. End of debate.
“But hold on your Afro-welshness, the insurers are just there to do a job and they have to have rules and regulations and stuff”.
Bollocks.
Where exactly in the insurance handbook is the section that requires victims of crime to go to shops and obtain quotes for replacement items?
I know you are thinking that getting a quote is a reasonable enough request and that as usual I’m getting annoyed about something trivial, but answer me this:-
If the insurance company is going to get you a replacement item from a central supplier and has no intention whatsoever of ordering said replacement from a store you’ve had to trek off to in order to get a quote...WHAT’S THE BLOODY POINT?
I swear there must be someone sitting in a call centre in an insurance firm at this very minute looking at a quote for a replacement BlackBerry from Vodacom laughing his or her minimum waged ass off.
“Oooohhhh....Vodacom want R6500 for a replacement handset, thank goodness we don’t order it from them otherwise it would cost us a lot of money”
Grrr.
“But wait your Afro-welshness, don’t you use a broker for your insurance which makes your life a lot easier?”
Bollocks.
Our brokers didn’t even bother to tell us we had to submit quotes. Instead they thought it would be much more fun to just get us to fill in some completely pointless forms and then just hang around until we eventually phone for an update on our claim. Good to see my monthly fee is going to good use you bunch of wastrels.
I needed that. Feel much better.
So there I was quietly minding my own business and getting on with life until suddenly out of left field I thought it would be a good idea to reminisce on my past life and see if my blog was still active.
Why didn’t I just stop there?
Because I’m an idiot, that’s why.
And so in a fit of madness I decided to pen the immortal words “Is there anybody out there?”
And three of you just couldn’t let it lie.
So now here I sit remembering that for a while the rage had gone and I was a normal person – a normal person who’d chucked his lot in with the hippies, moved to Cape Town and was managing to have a reasonable stab at being a new father.
Well that’s all gone now, so on your head be it.
Anyway as you’d expect Cape Town is average at best. The mountain only comes out on Thursdays, it’s windier than a lentil munchers’ barn dance and it’s riddled with crime. I can testify to the crime aspect as only three weeks ago our house got robbed while we were out walking in the shadow of the bloody mountain.
This would never have happened in Joburg.
People often say that the invasion of privacy and your personal space is the worst aspect of a house robbery (clearly these people haven’t had the tied-up-and-held-at-gunpoint type of house robbery experience favoured in Gauteng). Some say that the worst aspect of a house robbery actually comes later when you become nervous about leaving the house empty and find excuses not to go out.
Bollocks.
The worst part about a house robbery is dealing with the bloody insurers. End of debate.
“But hold on your Afro-welshness, the insurers are just there to do a job and they have to have rules and regulations and stuff”.
Bollocks.
Where exactly in the insurance handbook is the section that requires victims of crime to go to shops and obtain quotes for replacement items?
I know you are thinking that getting a quote is a reasonable enough request and that as usual I’m getting annoyed about something trivial, but answer me this:-
If the insurance company is going to get you a replacement item from a central supplier and has no intention whatsoever of ordering said replacement from a store you’ve had to trek off to in order to get a quote...WHAT’S THE BLOODY POINT?
I swear there must be someone sitting in a call centre in an insurance firm at this very minute looking at a quote for a replacement BlackBerry from Vodacom laughing his or her minimum waged ass off.
“Oooohhhh....Vodacom want R6500 for a replacement handset, thank goodness we don’t order it from them otherwise it would cost us a lot of money”
Grrr.
“But wait your Afro-welshness, don’t you use a broker for your insurance which makes your life a lot easier?”
Bollocks.
Our brokers didn’t even bother to tell us we had to submit quotes. Instead they thought it would be much more fun to just get us to fill in some completely pointless forms and then just hang around until we eventually phone for an update on our claim. Good to see my monthly fee is going to good use you bunch of wastrels.
I needed that. Feel much better.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Is there anybody....out there?
After generously giving you all peace and quiet for nearly twelve months I need to confirm you are all still alive and well. I get worried you know.
Who knows, if I get a response I might just start posting nonsense on a regular basis again.
Just one of you.
Anyone.
Hello?
Who knows, if I get a response I might just start posting nonsense on a regular basis again.
Just one of you.
Anyone.
Hello?
Friday, March 12, 2010
Like a bridge over troubled water
Last night I dreamed that I had a new shoe that looked like Art Garfunkel.
I can’t decide if this was due to slightly overdosing on sinus tablets or if it’s some sympathy pregnancy symptom kind of thing, but regardless, I dreamed about a shoe that looked like Art Garfunkel.
Most people would find that weird.
Most people would also wake up at that point or dream about something else, but instead I actually dreamed that not only did I have a shoe that looked like Art Garfunkel, but that I was on stage doing stand-up comedy with an entire routine based around a shoe that (you’ve guessed it) looked like Art Garfunkel.
I think it’s fair to say that had I stood there and taken a dump the reception would have been slightly less frosty.
Let’s hope the follow up show loosely based on a slipper that looks a bit like Dustin Hoffman is more of a success.
I can’t decide if this was due to slightly overdosing on sinus tablets or if it’s some sympathy pregnancy symptom kind of thing, but regardless, I dreamed about a shoe that looked like Art Garfunkel.
Most people would find that weird.
Most people would also wake up at that point or dream about something else, but instead I actually dreamed that not only did I have a shoe that looked like Art Garfunkel, but that I was on stage doing stand-up comedy with an entire routine based around a shoe that (you’ve guessed it) looked like Art Garfunkel.
I think it’s fair to say that had I stood there and taken a dump the reception would have been slightly less frosty.
Let’s hope the follow up show loosely based on a slipper that looks a bit like Dustin Hoffman is more of a success.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
You May Onion
This arrived in my post box the other day.
Names have been changed to protect the innocent or something
I’m not sure what it means but I really hope I get more of them so I can build some kind of vegetable calendar.
I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s obvious that June Turnip and July Leek come next but some of the later months are unclear to me at this time.
And don’t get me started on the “Tangy” Mayonnaise that was just slipped in as an afterthought.
IT’S NOT TANGY MAYONNAISE IT’S SALAD CREAM – WHEN WILL YOU PEOPLE LEARN
It’s like calling a lemon a tangy bloody apple.
Honestly. I despair.
Names have been changed to protect the innocent or something
I’m not sure what it means but I really hope I get more of them so I can build some kind of vegetable calendar.
I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s obvious that June Turnip and July Leek come next but some of the later months are unclear to me at this time.
And don’t get me started on the “Tangy” Mayonnaise that was just slipped in as an afterthought.
IT’S NOT TANGY MAYONNAISE IT’S SALAD CREAM – WHEN WILL YOU PEOPLE LEARN
It’s like calling a lemon a tangy bloody apple.
Honestly. I despair.
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