Living for Disco

Just a quickie to tell you about another story from The Namibian that I thought you might enjoy.

Imagine that you are a taxi driver.  You have been working hard all day in the terrible heat, and are just about to knock off when some arsehole punter grabs your takings from the handy ashtray in which you keep them, and legs it out of the car.

Would you:

a) Chase after him

b) Inform the police

c) Shoot him in the leg, retrieve the money, and then drive him to the nearest hospital.

In Namibia, apparently, option C is the preferred course of action.  I can just imagine it:

“Look mate, sorry about the bullet wound in the thigh and all that, but you did try and pinch my cash.  Listen, no hard feelings, alright?  Just get yourself back in, and I’ll drop you at the hospital, no charge.  Done?”

That’s the last time I argue with a taxi driver about the fare, I can assure you.

I read the instructions before I start, as instructed, and then proceed.

Making the paste is easy, but straining it is less so – I get the mixture all over the cramped work surface, and reflect ruefully that I should really have cleaned up the detritus of my breakfast before attempting this.  The mugs and bowls and the cornflakes packet are getting in the way, although admittedly not as much as the sewing machine, which I haven’t put away.  I mop up the mess and continue.

“Bring to the boil, stirring continuously” it tells me.  This I do.  It takes some time, and I feel rather like I belong in the 1950s, in my cut-off jeans and flip-flops, cheeky cigarette in hand.  I poke nervously at the mixture with a chopstick.  It bubbles, blackly.

Checking the instructions once more, I can’t suppress a childish snigger.   “Reduce temperature and simmer for 15 minutes”.  I use the chopsticks to poke at the pair of oil-stained shorts bubbling away on top of my counter top stove; the witch’s brew of fabric dye spills over the edge and hisses on the hot plate.

I can hear Bart Simpson’s voice in my head, and I can’t help wishing someone else was here so that I could serve up the finished article on a plate, and tell them to eat my shorts.  Unfortunately I am alone, and so the only person who is amused by my total hilariousness is me.

Plus ça change…