I can like to moer you, tjiek.

First up – everyone’s said it, but I have to say it too: Robbie, I want your babies! That man is just the most appealing male creature alive, isn’t he? In fact, the whole experience bordered very much on the spiritual for me. And he even said that his favourite song is Come Undone, which is mine, too. Destined as mates? I hope so! The only thing that could have improved the show (apart form me flying off in his helicopter with him), is him having bared some of the flesh hiding under that long coat! Sigh!!!!! (And why didn’t he pick me to flash him? I was specially wearing my tight black t-shirt with scratch-and-sniff banana hands over the boobies.)

In other news, I had my first real road rage experience on Sunday, en route to an Easter brunch. I was trying to turn right at a robot, and had to wait for an oncoming car to pass through the intersection first. Except, in typical Joburg style, the damn idiot didn’t indicate to show that he was turning left. So, I waved a general flippant gesture in the air, and turned after him, muttering angrily about the usual behaviour of (surprise, surprise) beemer drivers.

He starts gesticulating angrily and wildly at me in his rearview mirror, to which I respond with a couple of unfriendly signs myself. And then he stops his car. In the middle of bloody Bryanston Dr. So I overtake him, turn right into the next street – or at least try to. The fucknut cuts me off by zooming ahead of me. And so my brave little Corsa (Max) engages its own zoom mode, overtakes his un-number plated beemer and hurtles down the road. Mercilessly he follows, at which point I get really fed up, slam on the brakes, and watch him slam to a halt too.

Out of the car steps a walking condom stuffed with creatine, screaming at me to get out the car as he approaches. I open the door, stick out a stilettoed heel, and he freezes, unsure of what to do (he obviously thought from my short hair that I was a guy). Then he starts screaming at me – in extremely broken English – a “fokken bitch” to “fokken stop pulling signs” at him. I (mostly calmly) reply that “it is customary for the person who committed the driving error to apologise humbly for their mistake”. This doesn’t go down so well with him, and he screams back that I must “get [my] brother to come to the scene so [he] can klap him, because [he] can’t klap a tjiek.” Niiiiiiice. I tell him to stop wasting my time, to get back in his car and leave me the hell alone. What I really wanted to say, but was too scared to, was: “Asseblief praat in Afrikaans. Moenie my taal so verkrag nie.” And, “for the good of all humanity, stop eating so much red meat.” But I didn’t. I drove off, all shaky.

Perhaps all he needed was a hug, my minor exaperative gesture was a trigger that released the tension that had been building up because his girlfriend was cheating on him, he’d just been mugged, his excessive creatine intake was giving him kidney stones, and the raise he was hoping for hadn’t come through. So maybe some fault lies my way, for lack of compassion. Then again, he was driving a beemer. It’s just in their nature.

(note: the generalization in the last two sentences does not apply to drivers of the 1 and 6 series – those cars are shit cool).