Read Online 100 Days of April-May by Edyth Bulbring - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Edyth Bulbring
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pots? Who will cook suppers of which the main ingredient is not two-minute noodles? And the deal breaker â how will I watch
Idols
and
Big Brother
and
Survivor
without Mrs Hoâs television and PVR?
I know I am not a victim. I have the power to turn things around. I can take charge of my own destiny. I close my eyes, hold my thumbs in my fists as hard as I can and start bargaining with the gods.
The trick to bargaining with the gods is not to give too much away in the first round â to always have something in your back pocket to break any potential stalemate and clinch the deal. Five minutes into the first round of bargaining with the gods I am down to being cordial to Sam Ho and Sarel The Leech. In return, the gods will ensure that Fluffy and Mrs Ho patch things up and she will stay at Chez Matchbox to wash Fluffyâs rancid socks and clean the pots and allow me to nourish my addiction to reality shows.
I wait for a sign from the gods that my offer has been accepted. One of the tramps under the trees howls in his sleep. It is an angry howl. I interpret this as a thumbs-down from the gods. They want more.
I throw in Mom. It will be tough on me, but I can convert from cold antagonism to hot civility. It is time to change tactics in my conflict with Mom in any case. But I donât let the gods know this.
Nameless Dog gives a growl and a whimper from his spot by the swings.
âWhat more do you want, gods?â I whisper, opening my eyes and gazing up at the sky. A sharp breeze is playing with the clouds. I see a whale. It grows a trunk and is transformed into an elephant. And then its trunk is squashed into its face and becomes a snout. A curly tail attaches itself to its hind quarters. It takes on the guise of a farmyard animal with an insatiable appetite for lamb-stew sandwiches.
The animal hovers above me in the sky and I close my eyes. I donât need Dr Benoit Mandelbrot or Ben-squared to interpret the pattern that is emerging from these random cloud shapes. The gods want their pound of flesh. They want me to cease my cold war with Fatty.
I resist for a good five minutes. But in the interest of Fluffyâs happiness and in pursuit of my own domestic comforts I finally make my pact with the gods. I will suspend hostilities with Fatty and Sam Ho and Sarel â and limit my aggression towards Mom to covert sabotage. It is done.
Music fills my ears. The gods are serenading me. Yes, they are.
I sit up and look around. Nameless Dog is straining at his leash, trying his best to reach a discarded Kentucky Fried Chicken packet. And in the far corner of the park, under the one plane tree that has not been colonised by sleepy tramps, are two figures. Singing.
Call me a gullible fool, an idiot or just simply crazy (the crazy word is gaining currency), but in the dimming light of this Jozi autumn afternoon, I see the gods.
I drag Nameless Dog away from his early evening snack and together we make our way towards the two gods sitting under the plane tree. They have their backs to me but it appears that one is playing the guitar. Both are singing.
The gods sense my approach and stop singing. The guitar-player turns around. The dappled sunlight casts a golden glow on his features (which are indeed godlike), features which I recognise and for which I have a certain psychotic fondness. Like I have a fondness for heights and rough waves and huge thunderstorms and sour sweets that make my cheeks collapse and my ears hurt. Things that are bad for me.
âHey, Bella,â the god says.
âHey, Bas,â I say and try and shift the golf ball which has lodged itself in my windpipe.
Sebastian gets up and reaches out his palm. I wipe my palm with his. Almost. We donât touch, but I feel the heat.
âLong time, Bella,â Sebastian says. Understatement.
Sebastian calls me Bella. Itâs the name I would have called myself if Iâd had the choice and not been held hostage to the whims of
Idols
and
Big Brother
and
Survivor
without Mrs Hoâs television and PVR?
I know I am not a victim. I have the power to turn things around. I can take charge of my own destiny. I close my eyes, hold my thumbs in my fists as hard as I can and start bargaining with the gods.
The trick to bargaining with the gods is not to give too much away in the first round â to always have something in your back pocket to break any potential stalemate and clinch the deal. Five minutes into the first round of bargaining with the gods I am down to being cordial to Sam Ho and Sarel The Leech. In return, the gods will ensure that Fluffy and Mrs Ho patch things up and she will stay at Chez Matchbox to wash Fluffyâs rancid socks and clean the pots and allow me to nourish my addiction to reality shows.
I wait for a sign from the gods that my offer has been accepted. One of the tramps under the trees howls in his sleep. It is an angry howl. I interpret this as a thumbs-down from the gods. They want more.
I throw in Mom. It will be tough on me, but I can convert from cold antagonism to hot civility. It is time to change tactics in my conflict with Mom in any case. But I donât let the gods know this.
Nameless Dog gives a growl and a whimper from his spot by the swings.
âWhat more do you want, gods?â I whisper, opening my eyes and gazing up at the sky. A sharp breeze is playing with the clouds. I see a whale. It grows a trunk and is transformed into an elephant. And then its trunk is squashed into its face and becomes a snout. A curly tail attaches itself to its hind quarters. It takes on the guise of a farmyard animal with an insatiable appetite for lamb-stew sandwiches.
The animal hovers above me in the sky and I close my eyes. I donât need Dr Benoit Mandelbrot or Ben-squared to interpret the pattern that is emerging from these random cloud shapes. The gods want their pound of flesh. They want me to cease my cold war with Fatty.
I resist for a good five minutes. But in the interest of Fluffyâs happiness and in pursuit of my own domestic comforts I finally make my pact with the gods. I will suspend hostilities with Fatty and Sam Ho and Sarel â and limit my aggression towards Mom to covert sabotage. It is done.
Music fills my ears. The gods are serenading me. Yes, they are.
I sit up and look around. Nameless Dog is straining at his leash, trying his best to reach a discarded Kentucky Fried Chicken packet. And in the far corner of the park, under the one plane tree that has not been colonised by sleepy tramps, are two figures. Singing.
Call me a gullible fool, an idiot or just simply crazy (the crazy word is gaining currency), but in the dimming light of this Jozi autumn afternoon, I see the gods.
I drag Nameless Dog away from his early evening snack and together we make our way towards the two gods sitting under the plane tree. They have their backs to me but it appears that one is playing the guitar. Both are singing.
The gods sense my approach and stop singing. The guitar-player turns around. The dappled sunlight casts a golden glow on his features (which are indeed godlike), features which I recognise and for which I have a certain psychotic fondness. Like I have a fondness for heights and rough waves and huge thunderstorms and sour sweets that make my cheeks collapse and my ears hurt. Things that are bad for me.
âHey, Bella,â the god says.
âHey, Bas,â I say and try and shift the golf ball which has lodged itself in my windpipe.
Sebastian gets up and reaches out his palm. I wipe my palm with his. Almost. We donât touch, but I feel the heat.
âLong time, Bella,â Sebastian says. Understatement.
Sebastian calls me Bella. Itâs the name I would have called myself if Iâd had the choice and not been held hostage to the whims of
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