Living for Disco

I know I probably wittered on ad nauseam last year about the temperature and how unbearable it is at the moment; however that was last year, and it is just becoming apparent to me how forebearing I was in not simply installing a thermometer in my office and posting hourly updates as the mercury raced to the top and exploded out into space.

I’ve checked the internet, as I’m certain that it must be approximately 38 degrees outside, but all the interweb sites say its only 33. I know this to be a fallacy however, because I have experienced those kinds of temperatures, and it is much hotter than that here, today, even inside my office. Stepping outside is like stepping into the firing line of a giant hairdryer.

Whenever anyone gets in the company shit-mobile to go and run an errand in town it becomes instantly apparent that all the oxygen in the car has been replaced with an atmosphere similar to that which exists on the surface of the sun. To be honest, though, the car is a welcome change from the office, because there is no fan or airconditioning in here, and at least when I’m driving I can stick my head out of the window and let the breeze cool my damp follicles.

Getting on the saddle of my bike is physically painful, because even if I move it into the shade it takes about two minutes for the black plastic saddle to absorb all the heat around it. As soon as i sit on it, my arse instantly produces a gallon of sweat, all by itself. That, by the way, almost rivals the amount of sweat that my forehead and neck are sending off into the world, mostly via my ears, and cleavage (such as it is).

It hasn’t rained for days, and so just keeps getting hotter. The sky is so blue it could tip you into insanity, and everything seems impossibly, unrelentingly bright and colourful; I look at photos of home with a sense of unreality, and nervousness, not because it looks cold - that I would welcome - but because it looks so grey.

Anyway, I now remember why the entire population of Windhoek ups sticks and repairs to the coast for a month around now. As for myself, I can’t wait to get on that bus on Friday evening, and start whinging about the airconditioning, and my lack of warm socks. It will make a nice change.

You must excuse the number of times I will force you to read the words Honours Student Loans Company in this post - I am ignorant of how search engines work, but I would truly appreciate it if this post came up first on any search made for this bunch of incompetent, waste-of-space, goldfish-memory shysters who are wasting my time with their idiocy, and giving me an ulcer.

So, I don’t know how many of you remember this post, about the rudeness and ineptitude of the customer service department of The Honours Student Loans Company. This is a continuation of that saga of pig-thickery.

Fortunately, I thought that after a series of approximately 25 emails exchanged with the Honours Student Loans Company last month, which wasted a vast amount of time I could have better spent picking my nose, or cleaning the dirt from beneath my fingernails, I had the whole thing sorted out. They led me to believe this by sending me this email (which, conspicuously, did not have the words ’sorry’, ‘apology’, or ‘fantastic incompetence’ in it at all):

“A deferment form was requested for you yesterday and I can confirm that a hold has been placed on your account until it has been deferred. Once the deferment is accepted we can backdate the deferment start date by a period of 3 months but on this occasion I will note the account that we will extend this period due to the fact mail was not sent to the address that you had specified.”

Lovely.

So, this morning, I receive an email from my friend, with this attached. It is from the Honours Student Loans Company:

I don’t know if you can read it, but the Honours Student Loans Company are telling me that my account is now 340 pounds overdue, and that if they have to send me any more letters, they will be charging me for them. And, mind-bogglingly, they have clocked that I am overseas, because this letter comes from the overseas collection department.

They obviously have not taken in the information that I earn approximately 210 shiny British pounds every month, and that I occasionally have sleepless nights because when I get back home, this experience will have plunged me even deeper into debt than I was before.

I have written to them, with the message that I expect an apology very shortly. I absolutely cannot wait to receive their first email this morning. I am hoping beyond hope that they get on their knees and offer to clean the ground beneath my feet with their tongues for the foreseeable future. I doubt it though, and right now, I’m in the mood for a fight. I have all my words lined up, ready to march into battle.

They are fuckers (the Honours Student Loans Company, that is, in case you hadn’t picked up on that).

I cycled home from the gym on Saturday afternoon, the sun battering my skin and eliciting rivers of sweat from my pores.  David, the security guard next door, popped his head through the bougainvillea, and said “That house behind, it has been robbed again this morning!”

Apparently the security service (we don’t much bother with the police here) had turned up at 10am, when the burglar alarm went off, but - and this I just find hilarious - no-one answered the door-bell, so they went away.

“That lady next door, she’s so very upset,” said David.  “Her TV ran away with those robbers.”

I have to post this, even though I promised myself I’d wait til tomorrow, because three posts is extravagant, especially given the fact that I have a looming deadline.  However, I thought if I post it, then I can stop giggling about it (even though it is not actually funny, but quite disturbing and wrong), and move on.

So, my favourite headline so far* from the Namibian:

Horse rapist caught in tree

And a close runner up, also from today:

Pastor steals 29 goats* to add to flock
Right.  Going now.

*The sentence for livestock theft in Namibia is a minimum of 20 years.

**There was a great one on Wednesday about a chicken thief who got handcuffed to a tree for 48 hours because the village had no police cell to keep him in, but it lost out.

I was talking my friend Tricia (hello Tricia!) last night, over dinner, about the difficulty of trying to winkle money out of people here in the name of charity, and she told me a story so ridiculous that my voice got to a pitch where usually only helium takes it, as I shouted “What?  Are you kidding me?”

She had applied to Coca-cola here for some soft drinks for an event that she was running up in Ondangwa, where she works.   Not many drinks, mind – only enough for 120 people. Considering how much Coke spends on advertising alone in this country, you’d think they wouldn’t mind providing a few measly cans for thirsty people.

Anyway, she told me, she sent them a proposal, and phoned every week for several weeks, asking after it.  Every single time, she got the response “It looks good, it looks promising. Call back next week.”

Eventually, the day before the event, she rang in desperation, and said “Listen, do you think you could tell me whether you will be able to provide any beverages for my event tomorrow?”

“Ummm,” said the coke lady.  “Let me see – how many people are coming to your event again?  300?”

Trish reminded her that it was only 120 people in total.

“OK,” said the coke lady.  “How does two litres sound?”

Trish said she just couldn’t believe it - it would have been less insulting if they’d just told her to fuck off. Anyway, she said she’s not quite sure whether she’d fully replaced the receiver before she said the word “Bitch”, but I’m sure it doesn’t really matter.