Please proceed…

CHRIS BENNETT faces life in New York.

PROCEDURE? Sticking knives into my living flesh? It might have been procedural to the surgeon and his delightful assistant, but to me it was an operation. A major operation; on my face, to boot. Very cheeky.

But I did appreciate the eminent gentleman's matter-of-fact, calm approach. He had done it before; doubtless hundreds of times. Less bother than a car service, I shouldn't wonder.

But for me? Well, I prostrated myself, fully clothed, on the table. He must have done this before, I thought, because he didn't tell me to relax.

I tried to hide my hands underneath me, knuckles as whited as the proverbial sepulchre.

I caught the steely glint of a hair-fine needle out of the corner of my eye. I could sense that he was caressing syringes. He didn't say, "This won't hurt"; he said, "I believe you write for the South Coast Fever".

At that point he struck; gently, it must be said. It hurt, of course. It was a local anaesthetic; much better than the imported one, I am told.

"No," I replied, through the remaining half of my face, "I write for the South Coast Herald. The one for grown ups".

I was in the hands, so to speak, of the good Doctor Singh, Dermatologist. My GP had recommended that a persistent small patch of the skin on my face might be a problem. I thought I had better get rid of it (the small patch, not the face; mind you…) before flying to the fleshpots of New York.

After what seemed like a small eternity of pulling, pushing and digging in this mute and reluctant flesh, the good man announced that he had finished. Almost.

At this point Celia entered theatre left. She was holding what appeared to be a tangled small bundle of fishing line. The by-now-weary corner of my eye caught yet more glinting. Eyes wide shut, I tried to imagine what Tolstoy would have made of all this; about ten pages I shouldn’t wonder.

The relaxed sensibility of these two skilled people went a long way to making the whole, dare I say procedure, quite endurable.

I rose from the awkward, narrow table on which I had lain like a specimen. Of what, don’t ask.

The doctor then declared he was not satisfied with the bandaging. A while later I had been swathed in a pressure bandage, what appeared to be several metres of sticky crepe wound around my head like a nun’s wimple. I left the medical centre bearing no little resemblance to the picture of Marley’s ghost in A Christmas Carol.

As a parting shot, the by now admirable Dr Singh said, “Try not to smile”. Not a lot of effort required there then.

Packing for my forthcoming adventure in the former colonies loomed rather large this week. For the rest of this month I shall be living in Brooklyn, close by Prospect Park.

I have been practising American. Interestingly, I find the word fall quite a lot more attractive that the rather pedantic autumn. It is a gentler, more descriptive word. I am told the fall is one of the most beautiful seasons in New York State.

By this time next week I shall know, all being well.

CB

14/10/11

552wds

Bank holiday…

CHRIS BENNETT laments the passing of banking.

WHAT with the bank on one hand and the dump on the other...

Banks have become odd institutions. I have been with the same bank for more than thirty five years, during which time a lot of what I might call the solid core of living, a good home, a practical car and the wherewithal to put food on the table and words on paper have, to a not insignificant degree, been helped by the interest and understanding of that bank.

Some years ago, when I was working in Johannesburg, I had a bank manager by the name of Ernie Arrow. He was not only a good manager, but a fine human being to whose guidance and advice I warmed. He encouraged me to buy my first house, in Jan Smuts Avenue, then a quiet, leafy drive linking Rosebank and Dunkeld; now a nightmare traffic jam.

Some years later, when I was transferred to Cape Town, he gave me a letter of introduction to a colleague, the manager of the bank’s branch in Sea Point. We got on well.

The relationships were underpinned by advice my father had given me: always get on well with your bank manager and your doctor. They are in the same business – helping people.

Well not any more they ain’t.

But, thanks to the delightful help of a long time pal at the bank, I soon found out why I was being treated rather shabbily. I am too old; so much for respecting the constitution.

Talking of dumps, (by which remark I am, of course, referring to my being dumped) I recently sold my house. I have moved to a smaller one. In the course of preparing the old house for the new owner I ended up with two huge piles of garden refuse; small tree trunks, branches, leaves, twigs and all that. It took two bakkie loads to cart the stuff to the municipal dump at Glenmore, wherein lies the following tale of woe.

Accompanied by two pairs of willing hands (and willing tongues for translation) I arrived at the gate to be told “No”.

Another good citizen with a bigger load of rubbish than mine, came over and asked if I had a phone. We called the number of the office of rubbish, or whatever name it is known by, and eventually were given leave to unload our gardens’ winter detritus.

We had at first been told the dump was full. A closer inspection confirmed this and I asked the good man who gave the appearance of being in charge how frequently the truck arrived to take the stuff away. “Every day”’ he said. I sighed inward relief that he had not used “On a daily basis”.

Looking at the number if tree trunks, branches and so on, I deduced it must be one helluva truck. It took about twenty minutes to unload the bakkie into an already groaning skip. What, I wonder, is the problem?

Turning to a less frustrating matter than banks and bossies, I noticed what appears to be the beginnings of a bridge appearing near the excellent Margate Pick ’n Pay.

If this is so the people behind the edifice are to be warmly congratulated.

It has always struck me as rather shameful that in a country, a democracy nog al, where the bulk of the population relies on what we laughingly call taxis and are most of the time pedestrians, that little thought is given to the plight of these good people. Given that most drivers exceed the speed limit, crossing a main road is not a walk in the park.

This new bridge, if such it be, will be warmly welcomed and it will make life a lot easier for a lot of people.

CB

7/10/11

620wds