K is for Kidding. You must be kidding? Right?

rear_view_mirror

Wrong.

After my bizarre parking lot accident a week or so back, you’d think I’d have met my quota. You can read about that crash with calamity if you feel like it later.

Today was one of those days when I should have stuck with routine. Just the same thing I do every day and not messed with the system.  Of course, I didn’t and so now here I sit bemoaning the fact. 20/20 hindsight and all that.

siameseThe first stupid choice I made was leaving work early, due to having left two small people in my mother’s small house with a hyperactive Golden Retriever, a skittish Siamese kitten and the cleaning service. I was concerned that the summation of the first three items of that list would result in chaos greater than the sum of its parts.

The second mistake was deciding on a whim to take a different route home. Why today of all days I chose to vary this, I have no idea. It was not a choice that ended well.

RobotHappily pulling up at the red robot (traffic light in every other country) I found myself behind a taxi and two other cars I paid no attention to.

I wouldn’t paid attention to the taxi either had it not been the catalyst for the disaster that followed.

Let me tell you about South African taxis.

They are not the yellow cabs of New York City.

They are not the black cabs of London.

If you ever need to catch a taxi here you will need these.
If you ever need to catch a taxi here you will need these.

They are minibuses in varying stages of disrepair and near to total unroadworthiness that form the spinal column of our public transport system.

The roads are their domain. This means they can and will stop at anytime, anywhere with no warning (because 90% of the time the brake lights don’t work anyway).

And that is exactly what this one did.

Why he did not disgorge his passengers at the red traffic light, I have no idea.

Instead he waited until the light turned green and we all happily accelerated to be on our merry ways.

And then he stopped. Dead.

The car behind him stopped.

The car behind him stopped.

I stopped.

Then I chanced a glance in my rear view mirror and saw the future looking backwards.

mercThe future was a shiny, black Mercedes that on any other day, in any other circumstance I would have paused to admire.

Instead I thought, “Oh shit.”

Because the shiny, black Mercedes in question was blithely unaware we had all come to a screaming halt.

There was nothing to do and nowhere to go.

“Brace yourselves chaps!” I called out to Miss Diva and the Young Padawan.

And that was that.

With a screech of brakes and that horrid silence that seems to stretch forever I watched the shiny, black Mercedes close in on my not-so-shiny grey Ford Fiesta. And then he made first contact.

Regardless of having been forewarned the crash still felt like a charging rhino just head butted the centre of my back.

In real time this whole scenario probably unfolded in milliseconds.

I was very calm and Mr. Merc can thank my doctor for that (he prescribed me Xanax for insomnia and anxiety the day before). We exchanged the requisite numbers and he was terribly nice and concerned about all of us.

star trekIn all honesty, there wasn’t a hell of a lot he could have done to avoid the accident anyway.

Needless to mention, the taxi driver disappeared faster than Captain Kirk in the Starship Enterprise’s transporter.

As we drove away I noticed his shiny, black Mercedes wasn’t so shiny anymore. Feeling petty, I took some comfort in this fact.

The right thing to do after a Motor Vehicle Accident or as I discovered what “they” call an MVA, is to go to the police and fill out a report.

So, off we went.

How hard could this possibly be?

You have no idea.

sapsPolice Station 1 in my area of residence told me I had to go to Police Station B where the accident occurred.

Police Station B had a queue stretching into the parking lot.

Thirty minutes later I was very relieved when the Constable allowed me to complete the form myself without the lengthy dictation that usually takes place and the writing down of that dictation during which entire continents shift.

Ten minutes later I was back in the queue. At this point my children were not so quietly going insane. I might have told them that if they were naughty the scary policeman in the corner would put in a jail cell to chill out. They shut up.

Twenty minutes after that I handed my completed form to a different police officer who informed me that I had to go back to Police Station A.

At this point I ignored what I had told my offspring and let my mild indignation heat up to full steam. He stamped my form and sent me down a darkened corridor to the first door on the right.

The smell emanating from this room was so strong it had actual shape and colour. A sort of putrid algae green cloud of cabbage, boiled chicken and chakalaka hit my nostrils like an H-Bomb blast.

I then had to yell over about 8000 decibels of badly tuned radio to make myself heard to a distinctly disinterested young lady who eventually handed me a scrap of paper with my case number.

The case number is vital for my insurance claim. Otherwise it serves no purpose whatsoever and chances are high that my meticulously filled in form will end up in a landfill somewhere within the next 48 hours. It is an awful lot of bother for very little outcome.

Someone should write an app.

Of course, the next step was calling my husband. I flaked out a bit here.

I sent an SMS.

“Had accident. Not my fault. All okay. At police station.”

He rang back in about 0.2 of a millisecond.

At least he wasn’t mad at me. He even offered to come past the police station and give me a hug. In retrospect that was probably why he called me the night of the flat tyre (see I is for I have a Flat Tyre).

The damage report is not heartening. The boot/trunk does not open. The bumper is hanging on by a thread. Great chips of paint have fallen off the body. All-in-all a bit of a mess, with the result that I will be carless for some time, unless my insurance springs for a rental. Please not a Kia Picanto.

On a more personal level, my two passengers have minor whiplash, thank you God for safety belts, and I have to go for x-rays on my back.

It turns out titanium doesn’t have a lot of give and my replacement lumbar disk (see: Farting for Food) might have been knocked out of kilter. Something I hope with all my heart an anti-inflammatory can cure because I am in no hurry to be cut open again anytime soon.

The moral of the story?

Sometimes routine can kill you with boredom.

Sometimes it can just save your life.

It’s a toss up really.

The Cyber Spy and the Marbles

In a bizarre case of art imitating life, it turns out that my gossip mongering about the Chinese telecommunications company that used British Telecom to send information back to the mother ship wasn’t all just heresay. It turns out they’re spying on just about everyone. According to one report there are only two groups a country or a company can fall into – those that already know about it and those who haven’t found out yet.

Alright, it isn’t as though they can come out and say they’re doing it. That would be like us South Africans admitting we were ever in Angola. It just isn’t done. Google didn’t outright accuse the Chinese government either; they simply said the hacking originated in a Chinese province.

Conspiracy theories are everywhere today.

While I sat in my little bubble on the fourth floor of a nondescript, let’s be honest, horrible ugly, office block yesterday, merely a block away some lunatic decided to walk into the local police station and gun down some officers. Such drama, so close by and I missed it. Shocking really – and here I thought I was the center of the world.

The story has some bizarre twists. The civilian who went postal was about to be fired from the police station for “misuse of firearms” or some other nebulous terms that is supposed to convey the fact that he gave gun licenses to people who shouldn’t have access to lethal weaponry. His response was to take a gun and kill everyone before killing himself. I have to say, it seems a bit of an OTT response.

There are always those people around that give off those vibes that they just might snap and go postal. I had a colleague once who if he was late for work our boss would come running up and ask if he’d gone off his rocker. He always seemed pretty calm to me, but then again those are the ones you have to watch for. Them and freakily happy ones. The ones that never have a bad day, those who are always perky, perky, perky! Everything they say has an exclamation mark at the end and one day that mask will just crack and then watch out. People will all shake their heads and say, “But she always so nice.”

That’s what the neighbours always say you know, “He was a nice quiet boy, never had parties or anything, never caused any trouble.” I’d rather have loud, noisy sane neighbours then quiet genocidal ones. I wonder what the Norwegians neighbours had to say about him? This is why I’d rather I inspired in people love or hate, then absolutely nothing. The last way I want to be described is, “Oh, her? She’s was nice… fine…um….” Fine? Nice? I’d rather be remembered as total bitch or a loud mouthed busybody than as someone who couldn’t even make an impression.

I suppose it’s a sign that I’m unlikely to kill off any office drones this week.

Someone tell Julius he doesn’t need to hide in his underground Hitler house just yet, I still have my marbles.