Is Bad News My Inspiration?

My mother-in-law loves tea! She more often than not makes an entrance into a room with the words, “Anyone fancy a nice cup of tea?”

Having just returned from snowy, old England I can understand it. The temperature hit -5 while we were there and in Scotland the snow made it impossible to get anywhere.

It warmed my heart when, back in Cape Town, someone said they’d had nothing interesting to read since I’d been away and had missed my rantings.

“I haven’t read much SA news on holiday,” I told him, “so not much to complain about.”

It was kind of odd to watch the English news and have the majority of “Top Stories” feature the weather, but I must admit it made a nice change to Zuma’s infidelity, Malema’s racist rantings, and post-Fifa depression.

I think about ninety-five percent of conversation in England centres around the weather. Not even the student riots featured, and they’ve been smashing up buildings and throwing fire extinguishers around.

Pink Floyd guitarist Dave Gilmour’s son was arrested for his antics – always nice to see a rich kid looking out for his hard-earned Trust Fund. Apparently he was photographed trying to set a fire outside the Supreme Court, and “causing damage to the Union flag on the Cenotaph in Whitehall”.

If only attention-seeking was a crime…

Despite all the violence, Home Secretary Theresa May ruled out the use of water cannons.

I could only imagine our cops strapping on the riot gear and pumping them full of rubber bullets. It probably wasn’t physical injury she was so concerned about, but sympathy for the poor soaked students getting the sniffles from the cold.

I didn’t get the sniffles! My healthy, sun-drenched South African genes kept my immune system from throwing in the towel.

I did, however, get fat… or should I say fatter.

Not my fault. My mother-in-law is what is commonly called a “feeder”.

One day, after a gigantic slice of bacon and egg pie followed by enough cottage pie to house a family of six with a garage and braai area, I got a serious case of stomach cramps and dodgy tummy syndrome.

“He’s from Africa,” Lucy lambasted her, “that’s more food than they see in a year!”

The food in England is cheap, not as expensive as we poor South Africans think. In fact the only things that seemed more expensive were houses and cigarettes. All of the pubs we had lunch in charged 5.50 for a meal and a pint.

But I suspect it’s maybe just Cape Town that’s expensive. Over here in the tourist capital of SA it’s all priced for pommies and yanks, leaving us insignificant mountain-dwellers to hunt our own food – not so easy considering city wildlife pretty much only includes rats, pigeons and Long Street locals.

I have to admit in a strange way it’s nice to be back in SA and pick up the papers and see all the violence and corruption. It follows that Chinese curse we all know from the movies: “May you live in interesting times.”

If anything, we live in an ‘interesting’ country. I’m sure I’ll have something to complain about soon enough.