Category: South African in London

Heard the one about the comedian who thought he was a copper?

When I think of London bobbies (policemen), I usually think of seriously neat, black uniforms, large helmets (I’ve learnt never to call them hats), clippety-clop shiny black shoes and deep voices. What I don’t think of is comedy, but that’s exactly what we experienced a while back: a genuine, London, stand-up bobby.

We’d not long been in London, and we went with a friend of ours to see an ABBA Tribute Concert at Hyde Park. It was, as you gather, an outdoor concert, in the heart of central London. Magical. However, I don’t know why, but I always feel compelled to justify why we went to see an ABBA Tribute Concert. It’s maybe because I think I’ll drop down the hip-meter (to the artificial hip-meter perhaps?), or because deep down, secretly, I do actually quite like ABBA. Being a teenager in the 1970s, ABBA was part of the soundtrack of our lives and, although I have never owned an ABBA album, I know pretty much every one of their songs. Word for word.

So back to Hyde Park … the line-up of artists to perform ABBA songs was quite mind-blowing really. Lulu, Elaine Page, Kylie Minogue, Jamie Cullum, Marty Pellow, Chaka Khan, Beth Nielsen Chapman, Jason Donovan … the list goes on. The two Bs – Bjorn and Benny – from ABBA joined in too, and said they couldn’t believe that 35 years on, they would witness 36,000 people in Hyde Park singing along to all their songs. It was pretty awesome. We stood and locked arms with our neighbours and swayed and sang our hearts out – Dancing Queen has never sounded so good.

When the concert was over, and we were walking towards the gates to leave Hyde Park, there were some crowd control measures in place, with stern-looking coppers barricading us in, to stop us all crossing the road en masse. A copper was standing in a little raised booth at the gate, microphone in hand, dishing out instructions to the crowds. He was our “stand-up bobby”. He was absolutely hilarious, and embodied so much of the English humour that I know and love. It was like being treated to another show.

He said, “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your patience. You are being held here for your safety. And, quite frankly, for my amusement. And because I can. Once you get to the tubes, and the Transport Police take over, no-one’s looking after you – you’re anyone’s game.”

He asked the crowds if he was better than the ABBA show, and someone shouted “NO!” so he said, “That’s why I’ve put tickets on all your cars. Now who’s laughin’?”

He also said, “‘eard the one about the brain who went into the pub, went up to the barman, asked for a pint. He said I can’t serve you, you’re outta your ‘ead!”

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your patience. You are being held here for your safety. Hey, I should put that on a loop, add a bit of backbeat and some scratch … then, Mr Simon Cowell, who’d be number one at Christmas, eh?”

Someone asked him for his number, so he said, “999!”

It was the most refreshing surprise, in what could have been a truly exasperating prolonged exit from the concert. We didn’t even notice we were standing there for about 20 minutes, and, to be honest, we didn’t really want to leave!

So a stand-up bobby and a librarian who made me laugh. What can London produce next? A charismatic politician? You must be bleedin’ joking!

Sunshine signing off for today!

Do not operate this book while drowsy

Laughter is my therapy of choice. And as you know, I’ve needed plenty of that while we’ve been in London. After the disappointment of Sunday’s so-called “comedy” (and I am making those quotation marks with my fingers), I found a good laugh in an unlikely place yesterday: the library.

Having read Vikram Seth’s beautiful Two Lives not so long ago, I decided to try another of his literary masterpieces. It was not available in our library, so they ordered it from another library. I got a letter last week, telling me my order was ready for collection.

I went off yesterday to collect my book. I walked up to the counter in the library and said, “I’ve reserved A Suitable Boy, and I received a letter last week to say it was ready for collection.”

The delightful young librarian behind the counter looked at me, cocked his head slightly and said, “We don’t deal in suitable boys,” and then added, sotto voce and conspiratorially, “we’re a library.”

He offered me my choice of unsuitable boy but I wasn’t too interested!

So, with the help of a forklift, he brought the hefty tome over to me. I had no idea I could read and build muscle at the same time, but I have now begun a new, hard cover relationship with 1,474 pages of Indian fiction. I think it’s going to be a very long relationship.

A laugh in a London library while lugging literature. Therapy doesn’t come better – or cheaper – than that!

A less-wordy-than-usual-and-definitely-always-less-wordy-than-Vikram-Seth Sunshine signing off for today!

Living with London

If I reflect on the last few days, they represent what London has to offer a couple of Saffas like us. It’s been good, bad and, to be honest, downright hideous!

I walked, stiff-muscled into the weekend, thanks to completely overdoing it at body conditioning, Pilates and latin aerobics at the end of last week. My dance class always ends the week for me on a high note – even though it usually means I can’t sit down without groaning for about 72 hours. Or walk up or down steps without going ow-ow-ow-ow-ow. Friday’s class was no exception; the four of us in the class followed our delightful instructor step for step, well, kind of, and I realized I would probably look more Latin if I didn’t try and dance like I was in a Broadway musical. Perhaps this week I’ll try and tone it down a notch.

Saturday night we were invited to some friends for supper and to watch our guilty pleasure: X Factor. The auditions continue, and one thing you can be sure of is that every episode offers its fair share of great singers, of junk singers, as we say in SA, as well as a few sob stories and a whole bunch of tension and drama. Every ounce of pathos is teased out to its limit and wrapped and tightened around our we-should-really-get-a-life curiosity till it hurts. Oh dear, maybe I should really get a life …

On Sunday we started our day with church – which was amazing – and then went out to a riverside (Thames-side) pub for lunch with some friends. When the chilly wind moved us indoors, we discovered there was live jazz playing upstairs … aaah, my favourite! It made for a wonderful afternoon, although we sat next to the carvery so had hungry punters eyeing our food while we ate and they queued for their plates full. We ordered a dessert platter – three heavenly sweet dishes and four spoons – yum! It was slightly spoiled, though, by a group of queue-ers watching us in disbelief, nudging each other and making muted comments to each other about the decadence of our desserts. One of them eventually looked at me and, rather subtly, said, “Piggies.” I don’t think English was his first language, but perhaps it would have been helpful to point out to him that that wasn’t such a polite thing to say to us.

And our day ended with an outing to a playhouse in London Bridge – south east London and not far from where we live – to see a production that had been put on as a celebration of …. (I will leave out the words here, to protect the innocent). We had no idea what to expect, which is just as well, as we certainly wouldn’t have gone had we known what was in store: an evening of amateur, stand-up comedy and poetry, if you could call it that. First up was a man dressed as a woman, with an improbable name and an even more improbable repertoire of poetry, short stories and “comedic” props. It was all so contrived it was embarrassing, and honestly I would have rather watched my toenails grow than listen to a poem about “pixies that fly, uninvited, through my letterbox, so I put them up on the elf-shelf” as well as a story of a lion cub who had cheese graters for legs and ended up on a desert island. Next up was a sit-down comedienne (she sat and played a keyboard and a ukulele) whose songs and comedy comprised of random one-liners. The compere, who had been caught in traffic and arrived just before the interval, invited us to get a drink at the bar and join them for the second act … we looked at each other, reminiscent of our SpiroGyra moment, and ran out the door and for the bus home!

I do love that we are getting to experience all aspects of London life. It’s a bit like a marriage, really – when you realise that it’s not all romance and fresh breath. And that’s ok too!

Sunshine signing off for today.

Is that your new wife? Shame

I mentioned in a previous blog, that I am fascinated with language. And accents. Living in London is not only accent heaven, but I’m learning so much more about a language that I thought was my own: English.

I had such fun last week blogging about talking forrin, that I thought I would continue in that vein today, and bring you another helping of words that I use that no-one else here does, and vice versa. I got so much positive feedback last time, and contributions of words from elsewhere, so I’d love to hear more of what words are unique to your end of the stick – that’d be fun!

  1. Shame. This is an interesting word. And quite difficult to explain. It is obviously not unique to South Africa, but its use there is unusual. If a Saffa looks at a newborn baby, the comment will often be, “Shame.” Which doesn’t necessarily mean they feel sorry for them or anything, it usually means “Isn’t he/she just so darling?” or “How cute is your baby?” or “You must be so proud, she’s just beautiful.” It could possibly mean, “Shame, she looks just like her father” but let’s stick with the positive interpretation for now.
  2. Shu. I come from Cape Town, which, in South African terms, is considered the ultra laid-back city, never in a hurry, not materialistic and coolly understated. I know this is a hugely, sweeping, simple characterisation, but bear with me! Shu could be translated as “WOW THAT IS THE MOST AMAZING THING I’VE EVER HEARD IN MY WHOLE LIFE, I’M SO EXCITED YAY YAY YAY YAY YAY!”, or it could mean, “That’s really scary/wonderful/awful/amazing/tragic.” It can also be used in conjunction with another word in common SA use: “Shu, that’s hectic, hey?” (we also say hey a lot), which has the same meaning as either of the above.
  3. I have an illustration of the word shu. A few years back, on the last day of the school holidays, I went with my two sons to a beach in Cape Town. I lay on the sand and read my book while my sons played soccer (which is what is known in the UK as football) in the shallow waters. After a while I heard a really loud siren, which my sons ran to tell me was a shark warning. Shark-spotters up on the mountainside had seen sharks in that bay, and monitors ran down the beach to call everyone out of the water. We had never experienced anything like this before – scary and exciting all at the same time, not knowing if Jaws would make a personal appearance, and where would it all end? We were eventually given the all-clear and allowed back into the water, although it wasn’t so much fun when you know who’s just been swimming there. When we got home, I sent my husband an sms explaining – in my usual wordy style – the turn of events at Fishhoek that morning. My words spilled over into three messages, and I sent them off. A few minutes later, I got this sms response from him: “Shu.”
  4. An alternative to shu is: Is it? It can be used in exactly the same contexts as above. And sometimes, depending on the accent, it may sound like eeeezit?
  5. In South Africa, we call a van a bakkie, and traffic lights robots.
  6. I have noticed in the UK that a number of our friends like to drink redbush tea. It is a South African product, which we know as rooibos. So if I’m making tea or coffee back home, and someone has asked for tea, I will always ask, “rooibos or normal?” I’ve said that a few times here, only to be met with confused stares!
  7. Something that I’ve picked up here, is the use of the expression “as you do”. It adds an interesting spin to something slightly unusual that you might be talking about. So for example, you might say “When I was chatting to the Prime Minister the other day – as you do – he mentioned that he was glad he hadn’t called his new baby daughter Beyonce.”
  8. I have my own version of that kind of spin – if someone says something slightly obscure, and perhaps out of context, I’ll say, “…said the actress to the bishop.” Try it, it’s fun! Breaks the ice at parties.

So, English or Inglish, I love that our language is common but we all have our own words and meanings that we use. It’s so interesting, can cause much hilarity and confusion, and, if we allow it, draws us all towards each other. Please share your thoughts and words and meanings; it’ll be so, like, hectic, hey?

Sunshine signing off for today.

Three chairs for Sunshine

Last year, my husband and I celebrated our 25th wedding anniversary by going to see my favourite artist of all time – Van Morrison – in concert at the Royal Albert Hall. We had to book three seats for the two of us; I was beside myself.

It all came about in quite a romantic way. We were still living in Cape Town, and my husband had applied to several universities in London to do his doctorate. He was invited for a number of interviews, and the dates happened to coincide with our silver wedding anniversary. I understood the importance of the interviews, and thought he would go to London on his own and we’d celebrate our anniversary on his return. I was okay with that, I really was.

One evening my husband came home from work and said he had an early anniversary present for me: tickets to see Van Morrison at the Royal Albert Hall in London, two days before our actual anniversary. To say I leapt around the house like a crazed springbok, would be putting my enthusiasm mildly. This was really a dream come true for me. Yay yay yay yay yay!

So that was the beginning of our London adventure. We travelled here for a two week holiday, my husband got offered a place at each of the universities that interviewed him, we stayed with some special friends, spent time with our younger son who had recently arrived in London on his gap year, and SAW VAN MORRISON.

I can’t remember when I fell head over heels in love with Van Morrison’s music, but I’ve been pretty much a lifelong fan. Not of his personality, nor his stage “presence” but his music. In my opinion, it is quite sensational. Sublime.

The concert was awesome. We arrived at the beautiful and gracious Royal Albert Hall in good time, and took our seats. I discovered that our seats could swivel, to give you the best view of the stage, so I swivelled up a storm before the lights went down and a voice announced, “Ladies and gentleman, Mr Van Morrison!” I screamed, did the loud and ugly whistle my sister taught me, squeezed my husband’s arm till it bruised, said I couldn’t believe I was seeing Van live, and I almost cried. All in one second.

The all-too-familiar silhouette of small man in large wide-brimmed hat walked on to the stage, went to the piano and began the two-and-a-half-hour Astral Weeks Live concert. Backed by a full orchestra, he bumbled , swagged and groaned his way through familiar old favourites, Madame George my personal best. Exchanging piano for guitar, and guitar for guitar, he thrilled the hall filled with avid fans, who whistled, whooped and danced the evening away. And I was up there with the best of them – quite in awe of the talent at work in front of my eyes.

I mentioned that my love is of Van’s music, not his personality. He didn’t greet the audience, nor did he interact once. I expected a “HELLOOOOOO LOOOOONDON!” Nothing. About an hour into the concert, Van walked off the stage, microphone in hand. The lights went up and interval was announced. Likewise, an hour and a half into the second half, after a fleeting, arm-flinging “giveitupfortheband”, Van walked off the stage, singing. Despite the audience’s lengthy and vocal protests to the contrary, Van Morrison had left the building. The music didn’t disappoint.

Down on Cyprus Avenue
With a childlike vision leaping into view
Clicking, clacking of the high heeled shoe
Ford and Fitzroy, Madame George.
Marching with the soldier boy behind
He’s much older with hat on drinking wine
And that smell of sweet perfume comes drifting through
The cool night air like Shalimar
And outside they’re making all the stops
The kids out in the street collecting bottle-tops
Gone for cigarettes and matches in the shops
Happy taken Madame George.

Sunshine – with Sunshine beside herself – signing off for today!

Capturing the moment – George Clooney style

So, would you say George Clooney is better looking in real life, or on the big screen? I reckon he’s pretty knock-out in real life. How do I know? Well, blush, now that you ask …

It was something quite philosophical that made me think of George today. And something quite relevant to where I am at in my own journey right now. But for now, just bear with me.

Being a Saffa in London, and one who is quite easily star-struck (yes, true confessions, and I know it’s not that cool!) one evening soon after we arrived last year, we ventured into central London – Leicester Square to be exact – to watch the celebs arriving for the world, red carpet premiere of Fantastic Mr Fox. We got there just before the planned 5.30 start, and when we got there, we were kind of wandering around all gormless-like, and a security guy told us we had to stand in the “pen”! How funny. The “pen” is an area defined by metal railings that separates the fans from the stars.

Anyway, there we were – stood right next to the red carpet, waiting with cameras poised, to take photos of the big name celebs as they walked along the red carpet! George Clooney – who is the voice of Mr Fox in the movie – was the first one to arrive, and he was so amazing! I must say he was shorter and slighter than the screen persona, but pretty darn gorgeous in real life! He walked down the stairs to screeches and whistles, and my heart sank as he walked across to the other side of the red carpet. Ahhh no! We should have stood there.

All was not lost. After greeting fans all along the far side of the red carpet, he walked across to our side, greeting everyone and signing autographs. When he came close to me, he asked me how I was! I was about to tell him I was fine, loving the London experience after moving here from SA, and how cool it was to see him. Unfortunately, he’d already moved along. And it’s difficult to think straight when you have Alison Moyet’s, “I go weak in the presence of beauty” blasting forth in your head.

I got some great photos of him, but when he was RIGHT in front of me, I couldn’t do anything. My husband said he was wondering why I wasn’t taking a photo, and then saw my face – gaga. That’s how he said I looked. Mouth open, eyes glazed over. And totally gaga. I laughed so much when he told me that, but I have my own version of that moment!

Bill Murray was the next celeb to hit the red carpet – and he came over and shook hands with me. Other celebs, who sailed up the red carpet and occasionally waved from a distance, included Cindy Crawford, Jason Schwartzman, and Wes Anderson. Oops, I completely forgot to take photos of Cindy Crawford. I’m usually much more observant than my husband is, but I didn’t even notice her dress was split all the way up to her waist. Sorry!

We also saw Sir Ben Kingsley, who came over to sign autographs when the guy next to me called him. When Sir Ben walked across, nattily dressed and elegantly eloquent, the yobbo next to me said, “Sir Ben! Love your work! You sexy beast!”

So here’s the thing. And here’s my version of events. When George Clooney was walking along the red carpet in my general direction, I took a number of photographs of him. I took one when he was about this close to me. But when he stood in front of me, I thought I was going to lose the opportunity actually to see him because I was so busy taking photographs. I didn’t want to lose sight of the now. So I stopped, left my camera and took in the moment.

For today, I’m putting down my camera, focusing my eyes and myself on being truly present, and soaking in all that today has to offer. I don’t want to be so busy capturing the moment, that I forget how it looked. Or felt. Or too busy focusing on the future and how we’re going to stay in London, that I forget how it feels to live here. Now. Today.

Sunshine – and her best friend, George – signing off for today!

Change is good, but I need a holiday too

I’m thinking of changing careers. According to my job alerts, now is the time for me to consider a career in criminal justice. I just need to sign up to do this five year course, and then I can start looking for a job in criminal justice. You must be freaking joking!

I’m back at the drawing board today. I’ve had one no from my interviews last week, and am less hopeful about the second.

I have never experienced this before in my life! I feel a bit like the pimply teenager who runs the gauntlet across the dance floor to ask the girl he’s been eyeing all evening if she’d like to dance. She says no, so he moves to the next and then the next and the next. He gets a barrage of no-no-no-no-no-no-no-no as he continues down the line.

I think I could paper my walls with reject letters, and write an improbable book about the reasons I’ve been given (if I’ve been given any!) for not being successful. The majority of applications meet with silence, and recruiters excuse themselves by saying, “If you haven’t heard from us within two weeks of the closing date, consider your application unsuccessful. “

And here’s a taste of some of the reasons that I get: “Other candidates matched the criteria more closely.”; “The client thought you’d be bored in the job.”; “You were a strong candidate but others had experience in that specific sector.” And my personal favourite: “We thought you were too nice for this job.”

I think it is the worst time in the world to be looking for work in London. Or anywhere in the UK. I am not alone in my struggle to find work, and I’m learning not to take it personally. I know recruiters are inundated, and, with the new government spending cuts, there are more people applying for fewer jobs.

However, this is my morning routine: I start off by checking my email. My inbox is always full of new mail – no, not that I’m popular, I’ve just signed up for loads of job alerts. These are something of a mystery to me … I sign up for them, with strict, clear criteria of the kind of job I am looking for, and where.  These are the kind of emails I get, and they now fill my trash:

We have found the following jobs which match your search criteria:

  • Financial Controller
  • Senior Enterprise Systems Analyst
  • Interim Deputy Director of Maintenance
  • Gas Supervisor
  • Russian speaking PR associate
  • Primary Teacher
  • Media Intern, Sudan

Do any of these sound like communication jobs in the charity sector in London? They’re ‘avin’ a laff!

Another thing that frightens me is that a number of job sites generate tons of spam: emails from HR managers (with hotmail or yahoo email addresses) who have a job opportunity for me. They love me long time. I don’t think so.

So, mostly I keep my chin up and keep at it. At times it gets me down, and I do take it personally, and I’ve been dealing with that for the past few days. But generally I am able to be positive and optimistic and find sunshine in my search! We have lots of loving, caring and praying family and friends around us both here and back home in SA. And rescue remedy works a charm!

For those who might not understand my predicament: we came here from SA for my husband to do his doctorate in counselling psychology. And to have fun and an adventure in London at the same time. My desire and wish has been to work and support us. I had a brief – five month – temp job earlier this year, but nothing since.

In my first post, I mentioned that my sister said if I couldn’t get a job in London, I should consider a career in stand-up comedy. Equally, I don’t think so. But I have been giving this some thought, and I’d love to know what you think. I don’t have the business to be a sit-down comic, criminal justice is not really my bag but, as I command the stage in this, my tiny corner of cyberspace, I’m considering a career as a stand-up blogger? Pay’s not great, in fact there is no pay, but hell it’s fun!

Sunshine signing off for today!

Stressing and shimmying

I am feeling a little out of step today. Not as out of step as the person next to me in my latin aerobics class last night, but pretty close. I need a job, I’m tired of this feeling of insecurity and, most importantly, my favourite gym instructor is leaving London.

I’m not sure how well the dreaded job hunt went yesterday. I felt like either I was a few arrows short of a quiver , or the prey was running too fast … but I’m not sure I bagged any game. I’ll know within the next week or so, and in the meantime will continue to prowl and circle my prey. The thrill of the chase? Pfffffft.

Anyway, it’s not in my nature to dwell on the negative, so let me tell you about my adventures as I sallied forth through this big city yesterday. First up, I travelled by bus to our local tube station, and, sitting upstairs on the iconic red double-decker, I encountered true London gentility. A chap from the across the aisle let forth the loudest, most disgusting and growling burp I have ever heard. My instinct was to turn my nose up at his indiscretion, and you would have laughed had you seen my face. And then I imagined what just happened, as it would be in cartoon land: the wind rolled up from his toes, his mouth fell open like a moat bridge, and his burp rolled out like a rock from a cave. Just gross.

Then I took two tubes to get to my destination in central London: Angel. It’s north west of the river from where we live. As I walked the long walk through Angel tube station, I heard, in the distance, a busker playing a piano accordion. Buskers in the tube stations are generally pretty talented, and I often wonder if they are stars-in-the-making. Judging by how he was playing, yesterday’s busker was late for the tube. Talent? I’m sure he has neat handwriting.

And then on my afternoon outing to Lewisham (south London, and the same side of the river as we live), I encountered some true sunshine on the bus: the smiliest, cutest little baby girl who couldn’t take her eyes off me! She cheered my soul, and made me realise that life is much more about people, family and relationship: sod the need for a job! Well, not enough to put me off going for my next interview, but the sentiment helped.

And after all of the stress and tension of two interviews in one day, I headed off – by foot – to our local gym for my weekly dose of latin aerobics. It was just exactly what I needed – despite hearing that our delightful, infectiously bouncy Argentinian instructor, is leabing. Ahhh, how disappointing. She’s heading for Washington; our loss is totally their gain. Anyway, despite her reprimanding me for snoring in class (I yawned, but she gets the words confused!), and a woman next to me whose enthusiasm was diametrically opposed to her sense of rhythm (she was hugely enthusiastic), we had such a fun, hair-letting-down, shimmying, bouncing and mambo’ing hour of dance, movement and fabulous Argentinian music. While I can follow the dance moves relatively easily, I do think I look like an ironing board with flailing limbs. Who cares, though? It was totally wicked.

So despite the stresses and the significance of yesterday, I let go of my anxieties – and some of my dignity – for an hour and, for a while, I felt like I was in step with the world.

Sunshine signing off for today!

In search of sunshine

I have a huge and hectic day today. One that requires all of you to  hold whichever part you do to bring me luck! I’m heading off to two corners of the Big Smoke, on the dreaded hunt, and I’m anxious and looking forward to this evening!

I was quite overwhelmed yesterday with the huge amount of interest in my blog! Thank you all for your enthusiasm and your comments – I’ll definitely make that topic a regular one – talking forrin!

I’ve also had a few of you put me on your blogroll – as soon as I learn how to drive this blog machine, I’ll return the favour. Thank you. And some requests for photos of London: the photo in my header is one I took one evening a few months ago.

My husband and I went to see an outdoor production of The Crucible at Regent’s Park in the north western part of central London, which was absolutely fabulous – on every level. An evening at the Regent’s Park Outdoor Theatre is a huge recommendation, should you ever visit London in the spring/summer. They run a series of wonderful productions.

It had been a grey and miserable day and had rained non-stop, pretty much until we got off the bus in Regent’s Park. The sun came out as we sat down to picnic in the park, and the rain stayed away for the whole evening. I took the photo as we picnicked. What a wonderful evening!

The photo captures Sunshine in London for me – finding a bright and beautiful moment in an otherwise grey day! I am hoping for a repeat performance today.

Sunshine signing off for now!

Which part do you hold for luck?

If you were heading off to a job interview and I said, “I’m holding thumbs for you!” how would you respond? If you were a Saffa, like me, you’d say, “Thanks. I need it.” If you were from anywhere else you’d look at me and frown. And if you were British, it’s likely you’d frown and you might say, “WTF?” (Why The Fums?)

Well, where I come from, holding thumbs means the same as the British “fingers crossed”. It means good luck, I’m wishing you well and every success. I used the expression when I was communicating with a work associate earlier this year, and she asked me what I was on about! I was quite surprised, as I thought it was a universal expression, but thinking about it, it must just be a literal translation from the Afrikaans expression. I’d be interested to know who else is familiar with holding thumbs?

So with all my job hunting, I’ve had Saffa friends holding thumbs for me, British friends crossing their fingers for me, and even a dear friend who said he’d cross everything he had in pairs for me!

There are a number of expressions and words that I use that make no sense here, and vice versa. I thought I’d run through a bunch of them:

  • In SA, we wear pants, and underneath them, we wear underpants. In Britain, people wear pants under their trousers.
  • I wear takkies, which are known around here as trainers or sneakers.
  • A fabulous sunny SA leisure pastime is a braai, known here as a barbecue, or BBQ. Our Ozzie friends talk about barbies, but that’s the subject of another blog!
  • What I call a geyser, is known locally as a boiler or a hot water system. If I asked someone here to come in and check out the geyser, they’d send over a doctor to look at my husband!
  • Our flat overlooks a small dock, filled with yachts and boats. Most of the boats have people living in them. They have a communal ablution block, which I understand is known locally as a shower unit.
  • I communicate via sms on my cellphone. Here, you send texts or you message from your mobiles.
  • We have to be careful inviting people for tea here. It could mean afternoon tea or it could mean supper.
  • Don’t get me started on flapjacks, pancakes, scones, crumpets – who knows what any of them mean! I don’t have a clue!
  • If I do someone a favour, they could respond by saying any of the following: ta, cheers, brilliant, wicked.
  • Are you stopping means are you staying.
  • Where I might harp on about something – like job hunting! – others here might bang on about it.
  • When I started my temp job earlier this year, a colleague asked me if I wanted a drink. I thought gosh, I know it’s important to fit in, but drinking at 11 o’clock in the morning? And at work? As I felt all my possible responses flash before my eyes, he said, “What’d you like, tea or coffee?” Where I come from, if I offered someone a drink it would usually refer to an alcoholic one, otherwise I’d offer to make you a cup of tea or coffee!
  • There are a number of words here that mean very:
    • dead:  I was part of a small market research group a few weeks ago, and the wonderful market researcher, shy as a button, introduced the process to us by saying, “Right, it’s going to be dead informal.”
    • well: you could describe a good-looking person as well fit, or a bright person as well clever. My favourite explanation of this comes from one of my nephews. He believes that Jesus was definitely from London, given that God said of Him, “This is my Son, in whom I am well pleased.”
    • bear: I don’t know this one too well, but my lovely sons tell me that it’s used a lot by their young adult contemporaries. It’s bear cold out there, bruv.  I could write a whole blog about language of that generation – watch this space!

There is a delightful commercial on television in SA for a fast-food chain. It features a young, Afrikaans couple sitting on a bench together on the porch of their home in a small, rural town. To impress her, he’s memorized the menu of the coffee offering of the chain, and he recites them one by one: “Macchiato. Cappuccino. Mocha. Americano.” With each word, his girlfriend gets more excited and amorous. Eventually she lumbers her heavy arms around him, snuggles into his neck and says, “Ooh, I love it when you talk forrin.”

I had a telephone call this morning from a telecommunications service provider. We had a brief and disastrous encounter with them when we arrived in London, and would never go with them again. The caller said, “I believe you were a former customer of ….?” To which I said, “Yes.” He said, “Oh, you were for years?” And I said, “No. Not for years. I said yes.” So he said, “Oh. Are you still a customer then?” It reminded me of the paper plane conversation I blogged about a few weeks ago, but made me realize once again, that in these parts, I sure talk forrin!

Sunshine signing off for today!