My dearest left nostril, pray tell me what is your problem?

I am embarrassed to admit it but for some reason I cannot remember what the name is of my Biology teacher in matric was called. I think it was something along the line of Bourensa…Borensee? Something with a B that’s for certain. I’m somewhat shocked by my terrible memory as she was one of my favourite teachers.

I remember Miss Tucker who tore apart my Science Expo project, Miss Tanner Ellis who taught me for the first half of my first year in high school and always had perfect hair, and Miss Moreira …I’m sure the spelling is wrong on that one who used to let me cut my classmates hair in class, but for the life of me I cannot remember Mrs B’s actually name.

What I do remember about Mrs B is that she taught me about the human body, including a small section dedicated to studying the nose. I’ve been thinking about Mrs B a lot lately as I’m sure she would have the answer to my question:  why my one nostril continues to run while the other is dry as a nun’s gusset?

Left nostril I know you have always been slightly larger than my right ‘runt’ of a nostril but why do u insist on providing me with an endless supply of snot?

If this is a cry for help, I’m listening, I promise I’m listening. Are you trying to be different? So different in fact that you lead me to blow my nose incessantly leaving tender red spots on each side of my nose? Why do you have to torture right nostril like this? Surely she didn’t do anything and if she did I’m not sure this is the correct punishment.

You do realise the consequences of your actions do you not? The sides of my nose will be red and sore for at least a week after you are done playing this sill game you insist on.  Not only are you causing me pain but your incessant sniffing and my continuous spluttering are really starting to piss of the people in my office. Every time I approach anyone I see how they look at you, looking into your germ infested depths, they know the horrors you hold waiting for the perfect time to sneeze and coat them with your contagion.

To my dearest right nostril you are clearly being a real bitch, I suggest you apologise before this all goes any further than it already has.

To my dearest left nostril this is my plea to you to stop. So stop, all demands made will be met.

What Valentine’s Day and slave labour have in common


So let’s skip back a few thousand years to February 14 where a young Catholic Priest was martyred for goodness knows what…all I can be sure of is that there must have been lots of blood and guts, perhaps even some cheering from a few Roman soldiers. Skip forward to 2012 and what is about to happen this coming Tuesday is much worse: the annual celebration of Valentine’s Day.

I remember shaking in my scuffed Toughies in my first year of high school as the tacky plastic roses were handed out, some girls getting up to ten roses.

“TEN ROSES! You are thirteen and you got ten roses!” I thought the envy taking a hold of me.

“I bet you let ten different boys touch your boobs,” I thought trying to justify the unfairness of my situation while looking down at my flat chest, making a mental note to stuff my bra with some tissues the next time a went out.

“Plus I mean all that wasted plastic that you won’t recycle! You are the sole cause for global warming!”

I remember my ears pricked up as I heard my name being called across the classroom: “Anna-Belle…Anna-Belle!”

“A rose for me? One tacky plastic bright red rose for me? Surely one rose wouldn’t affect global warming that much?” I recall being so excited about my one stupid rose and parading it around all day by attaching it to my school bag so the petals poked out for everyone to see. I recently found out that the boy who sent me the rose came out to his parents a few years back…of course I got my first valentine from a gay man.

Anyways Valentine’s Day in school was just a popularity contest, who got the most roses was usually relative to the amount of hand jobs the particular girl had given…or was going to give at the St John’s Valentines social.

Valentine’s Day now days is just a flurry of vulgar white teddy bears followed by awkward sex later on that night between two people pretending to love each other just for the day, excluding of course those couples that actually do love each other.  But even you couples that do actually care for one another have a little originality, please.

No woman is going to be impressed by a shitty teddy bear …diamonds will however be accepted.

No man is going to be impressed by silky boxers with hearts on…and to be honest no grown man should be wearing silky boxers.

It’s all been done before; have a little originality and show the person you love all the time not just on the days you feel obliged to.

To be honest if you celebrate  Valentine’s Day you are celebrating slave labour…where do you think that card screeching a recording of ‘Can You Feel the Love Tonight’ came from.

I say lets go back to the original Valentine’s Day celebrations, I choose blood and guts over shitty clichés any day.

Are you a dreamer?


Things have been tough lately for dreamers. They say dreaming’s dead, that no one does it anymore. It’s not dead, it’s just been forgotten. Removed from our language. No one teaches it so no one knows it exists. The dreamer is banished to obscurity. Well I’m trying to change all that, and I hope you are too. By dreaming every day. Dreaming with our hands and dreaming with our minds. Our planet is facing the greatest problems it’s ever faced. Ever. So whatever you do, don’t be bored. This is absolutely the most exciting time we could have possibly hoped to be alive. And things are just starting.


What do they know that I don’t?

Tibetan Buddhists have described our lives as a kind of karmic drama, it is natural to question the value of understanding the symbols of our personal play, in other words, if the symbolic patterns arising in our lives are rooted in karmic seeds planted in the distant past, then isn’t the effort to understand them a bit like pouring over yesterdays newspapers, or watching reruns of old television shows which tell us nothing about our condition here and now?


What Bantu Education and the Daily Sun have in common

On a daily basis I am lambasted with the dim-witted bright red headlines of South Africa’s leading Newspaper: The Daily Sun.

Headlines have included the likes of: ‘Gogo dies after Zombie sex!’, ‘SMS from the Devil!!’ and ‘Brandy for his burning bum!’ the ridiculousness off the story usually gauged by the amount of exclamation marks behind it.

!- Yoh

!!- Yoh yoh

!!!- Yoh yoh yoh, I can’t believe!!!!

These outlandish headlines accompanied with their even more nonsensical articles are the most read pieces of literature in South Africa. The Daily Sun sells over 500 000 copies a day in Gauteng, Limpopo Province, Mpumalanga and Northwest Province, and targets working class citizens, who as far as I’m aware are the economic core of South Africa.

Forgive me for being a bit nostalgic but hasn’t this been done before? Let me take you back a few years to 1953…a little thing called the Bantu Education Act was passed. Bantu Education did not however involve very much education and was geared at controlling the masses. An uneducated majority was one the Apartheid government could control…something that was proven wrong as we all know.

So the Daily Sun the country’s most read ‘news’paper does not inform the masses but rather directs their attention to fairytales. A country must be easier to run when its people are more concerned about Zombies rising from the dead than the corrupt officials that are laughing all the way to the bank…or to the MacDonald’s drive through in your Maserati if you are Khulubuse Zuma.

The Daily Sun isn’t the only culprit of creating a nation of zombies (now THAT would be a headline!!!). The SABC makes a Great White near Clifton beach look like Flipper the friendly dolphin. With a continuous streaming of 7de Laan, Generations and Isidingo who has time to think about the actual problems facing South Africa.

Must run Grey’s Anatomy is starting…







Driving in Johannesburg

Much to my dismay I have accepted that for at least the time being I will be doing the daily commute every morning; until of course I win the lottery and spend my days on a tropical island sipping cocktails and checking out the pool boy.

The time spent in my car on the way to work however is my favourite part of any day; unless of course there is yet another accident on the M1 leaving me stuck on the highway for five hours with a full bladder, and delirious due to starvation leading me to fight the driver in front of me for the brittle orange peel on the side of the road…those that have been stuck on the highway before can relate I’m sure.

It’s the twilight zone between waking up and getting to work, it gives you those precious minutes to make sure you are really awake, with the added bonus of some animated hawkers or men selling the early edition of the Star to push you over the precipice into the waking hours of the day.

I can wail along to the new Bombay Bicycle Club album without having to worry about who hears me, and use words that will never be found in the Oxford Dictionary and would even cause the members of Die Antwoord to cringe a little.

Living in Johannesburg we are all forced to spend a fair amount of time in our cars, let’s not waste it.