If you want to feel like Chernobyl mixed with Koeberg, phone MTN, drive directly into a taxi rank, or just go to the post office.
Old ducks with Zimmer frames have been doing it for years, why not add this glamorous outing to your social repertoire?
Only go when you’re in a serious hurry and while you wear excruciatingly high stilettos. In fact, grow a bunion then put on the heels.
It’s the best.
You’ll also see new developments in human retardation over the years, which for the scientists amongst us, is always deeply fascinating.
The post office is the place to hang out if you love that 1) No one appears to be present, and if they are they don’t really care that you’re there
2) They attempt to hand you your parcel at unmentionably slow speeds
3) That’s if they have a parcel to hand you. Right now your CD gift voucher from your Nan is actually making it’s way to Windhoek.
4) They do gross things.
Points 1-3 is a usual smattering of the gourmet bucreaucratic buffet that is handed to you at such institutions. And you’ll get the same awesome experience at Home Affairs or the Licensing Department, if you want variety. Either way the post office is the king of breathtaking downfalls, because this is what might happen.
Hand over my tracking number.
‘When did this peck-edge arrive?’
Peas: Crisis. Three weeks ago?
[hours, days pass. I survive without water, hanging limply on the counter, drooling]
‘I em teck-ing out the file.’
[More days pass. But then, just in time, Point 4 made it’s way into this electric scenario.]
A granny loses her rag and demands to see the ‘Branch Manager’, flailing through the ever-winding queue with what appears to be a riding crop. Branch Manager is MIA, and no one really knows if he’s back from his holiday at Sun Coast Casino yet.
The PO is a treat for those who get bi-polar over incompetence. Or for those folk who like to watch other people having temper tantrums in public places.
Then I see a rather round lady waddle up towards the counter, where my file-finding friend is casually thumbing through the documents, stopping to bitch and moan.
I can handle the bitching and moaning - call me a cunt I don’t care – but for God’s sake woman – do it at the same time you try to find my frigging parcel already. Multi-task, for heavens sake, you’re a woman. Bitch and look at the same time, it’s your female-given duty!
Her friend has since made her way to the counter, where she opens her mouth and lets her saliva-addled Super C drop directly onto the file.
It clings to the page.
I arch an eyebrow at her.
Looks at me as if to say, ‘So how about that? You like that?’
Then scoops it up with her tongue and carries on.
The file now has a Super C stain right over the parcel numbers. Isn’t that shweet.
So, all I’m saying – all I’m really saying here is this: if this is a turn on for you, spend more time at your local post office. It smells like ass, and if you’re lucky you’ll get a free freak show.