So I met his folks. And honestly, I had a delightful evening.
(As I type, there's always a possibility that they hated me on first sight of course...but I had a great time, and I was polite...so I figure if they don't like me, I tried my best anyway.)
Can't say I've ever had as much fun on a First Meeting Of The Parentals Evening as I did on this one. We all stuffed into Mr 747's dad's car, his sister included, and headed off to the deep south. Rosettenville, to be exact. Where we klapped a couple of prawns, klapped a bit of wine, checked out a couple of locals...
Didn't end there either - not before stopping off at the Jolly Roger for a night cap.
Mr 747 and his dad are a carbon copy. They talk the same, they look the same, it's uncanny. His mum was also very nice, as is his sister.
On the talking thing, I'm always enthralled by a good Eastern Cape accent – a gewone one. The use of the words “oke” and“hell”, the accentuation of the first syllable to make a point, and “hey” on the end of every sentence:
“Hell! I was BUGgered hey.” Or “YES-tah-day! It was BUCKeting down this morning hey, okes were bringing out their BROLLies hey.”
My absolute favourite: “Okes HATE cracking open a few drinks, hey. HATE it [hey.]”
I am absolutely fascinated by how these people talk. And Mr 747 and his father certainly give each other a run for each other's money.
It's fabulous. I reckon a good Eastern Cape war cry for the Cathcart pub or the likes, would be the soundtrack of It's Raining Men, but changed to: “It's BUCKeting okes, HELLelujah, it's BUCKeting okes.”
His family reminded me so much of my own. Put mine and his father in a room together, and there'd be a mound of free entertainment right there, I imagine. The room would probably start shaking. His family is refreshingly eccentric, down to Earth people who are easy to talk to too.
Also, and this is very exciting – Mr 747 and I are going on holiday together this week. Just the two of us. We're both tired and overworked, so the timing is apt. I'll be flying down to join him tomorrow, (he has more leave) we'll be chilling on the Natal South Coast. By the time I get there, I imagine he'll be quite cabin fevered out of his own company:
(“Hi how are you, I'm fine, hell it's nice to talk to a real person again, should we do something, let's do something, yirrrrrrr I'm so chirpy, are you chirpy, talk to me, please listen to me, because I've spent two days on my own here and I'm a little bored and okes here think I'm nuts, so how are you, fine, I'm also fine.”)
We're staying in a bungalow on the sea/lagoon. And then on the drive back home, in these kiff treehouse lodges in the Midlands. Treehouses, how flipping exciting is that? And we're taking Bump 2 on the journey with us. Bring it on.
PS: Went to a braai at his digs on Saturday, where one of their neighbours - of about 45 years old and clearly fucked in the head – just ambled into the garden, somma pulled up a chair and made himself at home. It was classic. He was obviously mental and/or on drugs. He kept on having these random outsbursts, and just lurked in the corner mumbling incoherent sentences to himself, cracking open a beer, and kind of freaking everyone out. He assumed, I suppose, that it's normal to just gatecrash a party of complete strangers. It was priceless. (“Whose the random dude in the corner?”)