Living for Disco

I am connected again. Finally, I can find out what’s going on in the world. I can give myself a bit of time to read about the fact that US casualties in the Iraq war have topped 2000 (still no headlines about Iraqi casualties), and that Israel have been bombing the Gaza strip again.

Even though the news is dispiriting, it feels soooo good to be in touch. I’ve felt as if there’s been a giant hole in my brain, and I’ve had to fill it with rubbish (crap chick lit – don’t bother to read Playing Away. Possibly the worst book I have ever read, but when you’re desperate….). As a consequence, I’ve been feeling remarkably stupid and ill-informed, although the Namibian has some really interesting articles in it on a Friday (one about researchers baiting giant squid with mashed up squid gonads which was particularly good), and thoughtfully gives you a run down of the week’s suicides and murders. Most people who commit suicide here seem to hang themselves, usually from trees.

My favourite article, though, is the news from Tessa Jowell that London Council Tax payers, who already pay out ridiculously hefty sums for the privilege of living in our illustrious capital, are going to have to fork out for the Olympics IF it runs over budget. If? Ha ha ha ha. I had a hunch that projects such as these habitually come in at staggeringly more than the original project cost – the Millenium Dome being a particular favourite - and so I looked some of them up.

Wonder what the chances are for the Olympics?

While the rest of the world is coping with a mass outbreak of bird flu, in Namibia we remain blissfully carefree. A large article in the Namibian newspaper caught my eye last week, and I breathed a sigh of relief at the news that the government is not worried that the disease will ravage the country’s poultry population and then move on to decimate the humans. I’m convinced that this is partly because in Namibia chicken is regarded as a vegetable, and so would be likely to remain unaffected.

Instead, we have to deal with an outbreak of rabies in the capital. An unprecedented number of foaming and staggering dogs have been brought in to various veterinary establishments over the last few days. Not surprisingly, the city went into panic mode. A widespread rabies epidemic would be completely disastrous - there are more dogs in Windhoek than there are people, (and I’m sure that they are all trained to bark wildly at people on bicycles). That’s without considering the baboons, and all the wee animals like cats, mongooses (mongeese?) and squirrels.

In any case, a mass free vaccination programme has been launched, and unidentified stray dogs are being picked up and destroyed. I think I’ll be ok. I’m sure that my landlords have vaccinated both of their dogs, and as yet I haven’t been attacked by a squirrel. I did have a moment of worry when on my return home one of the dogs insisted on trying to lick me to death, rather than acting like the vicious attack jack russell that it clearly is meant to be (apparently a symptom of rabies in wild animals is over-friendliness). Then I considered that it is probably not what you’d call a wild animal, and in any case it is completely normal for me to spend my evenings trying to stop the damn thing licking between my toes. I think that dogs must like the taste of stale sweat.

The same seems to be true of the inevitable dog at my new home. I’m moving in just over a week, and yesterday was introduced to Boris. I don’t like dogs much, and Boris is urrrgly. I think he’s some kind of bulldog. He’s stunted and wrinkled. He waddles, probably due to his unfeasibly large testicles (a feature I noticed in surprise after my predecessor in the apartment said “This is Boris. She’s very friendly.”)

He is indeed very friendly, and he looks like he would thoroughly enjoy getting smelly dog hair all over my sofa. Also, I don’t want balls that size anywhere near anything I have to sit on on a regular basis because, frankly, they look as if they need to explode, so he’s going to have to learn to stay outside.

Anyway, hopefully I will escape a horrible, salivating death, bird flu won’t affect the chicken population, Boris’s bollocks will manage to contain themselves, and I’ll be able to burble on about nothing in particular for the foreseeable future keep you posted on his training.

I just hope I’m better at controlling him than I am unruly teenagers.