Day 37 – Good Money, Bad Taste

Amanzimtoti U7's. 15 May 2011.
Sometimes confused with the Organisation for Small People
with Missing Teeth. Look closely!

Watching parents watching kid’s football is as interesting as the game itself. Every parent, including myself and the missus think that they know everything about the game of football...and are not hesitant to shout instructions to all who will listen. We all think that our kid is better than the next, we all think that our kid should not be sitting on the bench, we all think that our kid should be playing up front.

This morning was no exception. Amanzimtoti F.C. put on a spectacular show at our home grounds, hosting teams from all over Durban. The weather played its part, fortunately (watching football in the rain is not half as much fun) and we, the missus and I, had the usual start of the argument about whether I was going to get parking at the front door. The argument always starts and ends promptly as soon as parking is found, usually at the front door, like this morning.

Tense game was had by the parents as the ebb and flow seemed to favour the opposition. Many a mile was walked on the sideline, many a word shouted, screamed even, egging the sprogs on, much encouragement given at halftime and parents held onto their heads when the close calls came. Down Toti’s L.C. went, tripped savagely. A shrill blast of the ref’s whistle bought play to a stop. A free kick from about twenty meters out. Up steps A.P., not a known kicker of the ball but unbelievably he slots the ball into the back of the net. The crowd erupts, A.P celebrates by doing a good impression of a swallow dive before tripping over his own feet and eating some grass. Play is resumed and it’s not long before our boys are under pressure. They come at us fast, the ball goes high, our keeper fumbles it and they score. 1-1. A few minutes left. The parents from both sides are sweating in the heat and from the stress. Comparisons are made with yesterday’s FA cup final, Messi’s name is mentioned. Chests swell with pride as the final blast of the whistle bring this scrum of a game to an end. At least we didn’t lose. U7 practice on Tuesday should be good…

We don’t often eat takeaway. Now and again like most families and from a range of dietary delicacies, the usual pizza, fish ‘n chips, occasionally a burger, hardly ever Chinese (and only because the local Chinese….lets just say I’ve seen inside their kitchen) and that’s about the range really.

Last night we had take away, I fetched it because these particular people don’t deliver. If we have food from there twice a year it would probably be a lot so it’s not like they know me. Now normally I wouldn’t hesitate to name names for good and bad, but because we have a tenuous link to this shop I won’t in this case because the daughter of the owner, who we know, doesn’t work there, is not involved but this will probably cause her embarrassment nevertheless. I was alone, it was about 6pm, the shop was quiet and I needed food of the same type, via a family pack type order, for 6 people. Not too complicated I think, but maybe I think differently because I have spent some considerable time in hospitality. And since I don’t go there too often I am not perhaps too familiar with the ordering process, but I wouldn’t expect this to be held against me, would you?

So I arrive, parking is easy and right outside the door. I wait a few seconds behind a bloke standing in front of me at the till. While he and the cashier lady finish their chat I’m looking at the menu boards. Tatty, old fashioned, prices scratched out and replaced with scribbled news. Their conversation finishes, its my turn. I start by explaining my order. Not a word, not even a grunt, comes out of its mouth only a pointy chubby finger points to the right board where my menu choice is scribbled. A look of impatience is interrupted by me placing my order. The price is paid and I sit, on shitty plastic chairs waiting for my treats. Not a thank you, not a please, for gods sake not even a grimace.

I have written before that I am a simple person. I will pay the price but please pretend that you value my custom. Please pretend that you want the money in my pocket. Please pretend to show an interest in the business in which you work. Please pretend that you’re happy to be employed. Please pretend that you have been taught the basics in life, like having some manners!

I have done what you do, I understand perhaps better than most that’s it’s a crappy existence. But you choose to do what you do so don’t take it out on me and all I ask is try and make me happy about spending good money on unhealthy food.

On a more positive note, friends in NZ got their work permits this week, another mate has arrived in ‘texas, on leave for a couple weeks, another has arranged for a celebrity to visit his night club in ‘texas on Tuesday night – should be a party of note! (Wednesday is holiday…voting day for those who are bothered to vote, a day off for others – why wouldn’t you vote?) Another has got rid of some rubbish from his business…and feels good about it!

And on Friday we go to Tembe game reserve for the weekend – I’m told it’s fabulous. Will be able to tell you next week!

Well, until tomorrow then. Have a fabulous Sunday.