This is all about yesterday.
I have not been feeling all that
well over the last few weeks with a stupid little cold that would neither go
away, nor develop into a proper cold.
Just that little bit of a scratch in the throat, clear runny nose, and
headache that varies in degrees of severity.
Martin has been feeling more or
less the same for the past week, maybe a little bit worse. Irma also woke up with a headache so the
three of us decided to have a chill day.
We had a slow start to the morning with me giving them secondhand feedback
after I received some professional feedback on some photos we took. With every photo my head was getting closer
to exploding. Then it was bath,
breakfast and booties on, off to “town”.
Martin drives. There is this big,
red “L” on the rear window of the car, which means Martin is allowed to drive. It is amazing what one “L” can do to your
life. Irma decides it is safer to stay at
home with our two vicious dogs and the cat the two dogs are scared of. Chubb can't beat that.
First we shoot off to the tailor
to pick up some stuff that was repaired.
Then to the pharmacy to get some medicines. Now, I’m very, very much in touch with my
feminine side. When the government
assigns your sex to you when you are born, they use the seventh to tenth digits
of your ID to decide if you will be male or female. They check those numbers and if it is below
5000 you become female, and if it is above 5000 you become male. Mine is 5001 which means I just made it as a male. I’m still very much in touch with my feminine
side. I’m allowed to bitch.
So we walk into the pharmacy and
I’m ready to bitch. Like a real bitch
would bitch. It is bitching day. I want to bitch. A few things contributing to that: The 5001 (the most valid excuse), the “L”,
the memories of previous bad service I received at the same pharmacy, the
headache, the queues at the tills. We
find our way to the “self medication” counter at the back. As we fall into the queue the person at the
counter leaves. Next person. This dude is obviously far from dead because
he says his two sentences to the pharmacist, she walks with him to the shelves
behind us, gives him something and he leaves.
“Good morning, sir. What can I help with?” I’m still shocked that it went so quick and I
struggle to find words. I haven’t even
had time yet to translate “hoofpyn” from Afrikaans to English. Martin has to help out. He is the calm and collective one, after
all. “Have you bought here before,
sir? What is your surname? Is this your telephone number?” Things can’t go better, all our info on their
system and no need to explain anything.
She turns around and gets the medicines, exactly what we wanted. Now to the tills. I’m clever.
I give Martin some money and tell him to go buy bread at the shop
upstairs. It will save us some
time. He will find me here when he is done. The queues are still there but it
is moving. Fast enough for me not to be
able to read the covers of the magazines, or to get tempted by the nuts and biltong on display. I pay. I’m done and out, no need to bitch.
Then I see Martin returning from
upstairs without the bread. He is
bitching: “There is no way I’m standing
in those queues”.
I need to check digits seven to
ten on Martin’s ID number…
Greetings,
Besembek
