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

Tales from the Vienna Wors …

CHRIS BENNETT encased in musings on the humble sausage.

SO, last Saturday was Heritage Day or National Braai Day; for some.

Here on this languid, lagoon festooned paradise of banana, sugar cane and nut growing enterprises, it rained. Not the superb display of a subtropical downpour, but a teasing segue of bright, if slate-grey, skies and wimpish little showers pointless enough to put out the fires and dirty the car.

In fairness I have to admit that in my small circle we had been practicing for some time.

At a previous braai I had served some of the most extraordinarily delicious bacon and chicken sausages from Mrs W’s little shop in the Shelly Centre. A friend brought along a packet of viennas.

Ja, well, no, fine.

The thing about viennas, or so I have always found on the rare occasion that I have been reduced to eating them, is that they need lots of eye-watering English mustard, otherwise they taste of nothing. But then there is no accounting for taste.

The Vienna sausage, which is German, was invented by a butcher from Frankfurt. In order to thoroughly confuse the consumer they are also called Frankfurters. This priceless gem of trivia I didn’t know until I investigated.

If you thought things could not get more trivial, I have to reveal that the sausage in this form has been around for some time.

My delving turned up the coronation of Maximillian II, Holy Roman Emperor, in 1564. His lofty nomenclature was something of a pretence; in reality he was king of Germany.

At this doubtless august event hot dogs were served. The portrait of His Imperial Majesty suggests he was very fond of them; his rotundity appears to be both imperial and majestic.

Curiously Wikipedia says that the hot dog dates from the 13^th century and cites this coronation as the first recorded use of the food. There is a discrepancy of 300 years here somewhere. However, if you cast your mind, as some can, back to about 1250, then it is feasible that the butchers of Frankfurt (the city in which Maximillian was chosen) used dog meat in their confections. And the sausages were served hot, so …

"The best thing a man can have, in my view, is health."

So wrote the ancient Greek philosopher and playwright Epicharmos of Kos about 500 BC. Kos is an island in the Aegean, not far from Rhodes, and is one of many beautiful Greek islands.

This worthy ancient wrote between thirty five and fifty comedies, one of which was called simply The Sausage. Sadly I have been unable to uncover any substantial stuffing for this spicy piece of information.

.

His saying, quoted above, was born out by his longevity. He lived, according to the scholars, until he was over 90.

I think Heritage Day is one of our most sensible celebrations. We look to our past, both in order to appreciate what we have now and in order, possibly, to learn something.

The obverse side of the Heritage Day coin, is celebrating our national (unofficial) sport: lighting a pyre and throwing pieces of dead sheep at it; or, for some of us, writhing and fainting coils of wors. In time honoured fashion we stand with a chop in one hand and a glass of somebody’s blanc de blanc in the other.

As only South Africans can, and especially those of us in this corner, we may gaze out to the shining sea and, contemplating the horizon, debate the future.

Such are the joys of the South Coast; long may Heritage Day last.

CB

30/9/11

600wds

A fly on the wall…

CHRIS BENNETT has been doing some planning.

IT’S been an interesting week, not least because the telephones are working again, thanks to Telkom’s serious efforts, encouraged I suspect by a little nudging from one or two lesser gods.

Not, unfortunately, sufficiently to let me avoid burning a not insignificant sum on arranging insurance, through my credit card, for a coming overseas trip. I had to do the whole thing by cellphone, that invaluable and iniquitously priced boon of the 21^st century.

The young man in the card’s call centre, who could not have been more polite and helpful, abided by the rules, and quite rightly. However (have you noticed, there is always a however) this meant that he had to read the entire document to me over the phone.

Of course, he couldn’t read; very few people can. By read I mean read out loud and interpret what is written in such a way that it is intelligible to the listener. He didn’t and it wasn’t. Which is hardly his fault.

Now why this poor chap should have to read to me, for what seemed like an hour, something that neither of us could understand, is a mystery. O magnum mysterium.

The thing was written in legalese, probably by a committee, which had more than likely argued for thirty months over the wording. I could have read it in black and white and still not have been very enlightened.

I felt sorry for the guy when he finally got to the end; either of the document or his tether. Which, I am not quite sure.

Reading is a highly specialised field of endeavour. I trained for three years before I could read my way out of a paper bag, let alone through a ten minute news bulleting. And yet this guy was required by the rules, or so he said, to do this onerous task.

Worse was to come. My call to the centre of the universe, or wherever it was, was made on the dubious share call system. My share of the call, which brought business to the credit card, was R81. That was about a quarter of the cost of the insurance.

But at least the coming family reunion is now organised.

I shall be flying via Doha in the Middle East, the city which is home to my favourite TV news service, Al Jazeera.

Several South Africans, including a South Coaster, work at Al Jazeera. They include Mike Hanna, whose father, Arthur, was my department head at the SABC a long time ago. The last time I saw Mike he was still at school.

Then there is the excellent Jane Dutton, one of the world’s great news anchors who first appeared in the early days of eTV, if I am not mistaken. And of course another of my heroes, Anand Naidoo, from Port Shepstone. Anand is a broadcaster of huge talent and experience. He is now based, for AJE, in New York.

Which is where the reunion of the remnants of the family will gather. My brother lives in Brooklyn, near Prospect Park. We have very similar tastes in literature, music and food, which should be alright in New York. He is a talented cook, which given that our parents were bakers and confectioners, is hardly surprising.

CB

23/9/11

580wds

The tangy airs of spring…

CHRIS BENNETT decides it is time to emerge from the duvet of winter.

SPRING has arrived with the punctuality of a

Swiss train, and with a similar, admirable lack of fuss.

I think it was on the morning of the first of this month that I sat in my reading chair looking through the french windows and marvelling at the delinquent cavorting of a pair of humpbacks, when I noticed that the huge fig that hangs languidly above my balcony was bursting with green shoots.

I suppose it is only natural to welcome the spring. I don’t know which of the many aspects of this lovely time of the year is my favourite; maybe it is the lengthening days, maybe the advent of the warm weather.

To me it carries a certain element of inspiration. I always find it easier to work on my column for this exalted newspaper when the weather is warm.

I have been following with some interest events surrounding the tarring of the road down to Gate Store from Palm Beach. This seemingly insurmountable task has now been in progress for the best part of ten years. It would have taken the Romans about a fortnight. But, to be fair, their labour practices were a tad questionable.

I remember asking a friend at some point in 2002 if the road would ever be surfaced. He said it had already been approved. The condescending nod of approval is one thing; the back breaking task of implementing the decision another. Rather familiar.

In the last week there has been a flurry of bustling activity.

I look forward to the finishing of the exercise, not least because I shall be able to follow the vagaries of the Gate United football team without having to subject the suspension of my little car to the corrugations and pit holes* of the present track.

One thing I do fear. Where the road enters a blind corner there is an all important store, Gate Store, which is a hub of village activity. It was here that the previous, delightful, councillor held court in her bakkie. She would listen to the pleas and woes of the people; a wonderful example of what is meant by democracy, literally taking the power to the people.

It is at this bend that I fear we shall see tragic events. I hope I am wrong, but given the driving style of most of the taxi drivers I encounter the corner presents little more than an adrenalin driven challenge. We shall see.

Talking of roads, I was happy to see the road marking teams hard at work over the past few weeks. Not so long ago this sort of undertaking was left until the start of the holidays.

Another glitch that caused a frisson last week was the alleged theft of copper cable from Telkom, which, on Radio 702 this week, Mr Malema told us is the electricity supplier, unless I heard wrongly.

Now urban legend is a wondrous thing. Within a few days of scores of us losing our landlines the drums were telling us that Telkom had no money for a new cable. What do they have money for, I wonder?

Some of my friends with business were understandably upset. There were prospects of a lot of men and women losing their jobs, thus depriving goodness knows how many dependants within the extended families of their food supply.

Fingers crossed, chaps.

* A pit hole is a pot hole about the size of a baby’s bath. It does offer one advantage; in a small car you can drive down one side, across the floor and up the other. Well, almost.

CB

16/9/11

Is nothing sacrosanct?

CHRIS BENNETT muses on a future without books.

I SUPPOSE it had to happen. I read this week about the latest development in the arcane world of the eBook.

The boffins have now added a soundtrack to the device, which monitors your reading speed and provides noises at the appropriate point. I kid you not.

A host of squiggly little reactions accosted what I am pleased to call my brain.

Noises off? Hasn’t someone, somewhere, missed the point?

There are good books and bad books. There are no pornographic books in my view and that of many others: only the eye of the beholder provide that.

And it is this very minds eye, this astonishing manufacturer of images, sounds, concepts; this interpreter of complex little symbols into vast stretches of its own imagination that has now been told it needs help. Really?

The whole point of reading is that, assuming the material is skilfully and lucidly written, the brain will use the words to interpret everything that is written. Should Jane Austen describe a scene in which there is a clap of thunder very few of us would need to actually hear the sound of thunder. If we did it would very likely destroy the continuity of our images and the line of the story. Reading is best done in silence.

In the days when I taught reading and writing for radio I particularly enjoyed the way in which my colleagues were slightly startled when I explained why, as a medium, radio was so superior to television. In essence, what I said was this:

The processes of reading the written word, hearing the spoken word and writing the words themselves are closely related. Radio is a refined form of reading, with one remarkable change to the process. Listening to the radio, be it music or speech, allows you to occupy your hands with something else, something familiar with which you are comfortable. You cannot do this reading a book.

It might be knitting in the case of a talented woman, or model building, cooking or any number of other activities in which the brain is able to concentrate on the radio and at the same time supervise repetitive tasks which bring pleasure. All the images conjured up by the words on the radio, be they news, talks or drama or sport, will be supplied effortlessly to the mind.

This is why the mind fundis of today tell us that radio is companionship, whereas television is distraction. Radio is interactive, and so is reading. In Britain radio listenership has grown in leaps and bounds over the past two decades. When I was a newsreader on the BBC World Service in the 1960s the chief announcer (I think the august post was held by John Snagge) rejoiced in the title Head of the Spoken Word. Dare I say that says everything.

The very idea of reading a book (and, by the way, I quite like the iPad and the Kindle) in which I hear the sounds of a waterfall, a train, cows bleating or sheep mooing would drive me nuts. Yes, I know cows moo and sheep bleat; I was just making sure you were paying attention.

I sometimes fear that the encouragement of reading among the cellphone obsessed, Internet enslaved yoof of today is a lost battle.

CB

9/9/11

The line is far from immaterial…

CHRIS BENNETT celebrates the arrival of spring, and possibly the trains.

I READ with interest an article in this newspaper a couple of weeks ago which dealt with a proposed railway service between Port Shepstone and Germiston.

There were two reasons for my interest; the liking I have always had for rail travel and the linking of the underrated and under utilised sometime harbour of Port Shepstone with Gauteng.

It has always seemed to me such a pity that rail travel in our country has, by and large, been abandoned. I accept that many aspects of the railway service for which the Indian sub-continent, the Americas and Europe are world famous leave a lot to be desired; but the fact remains that the governments of those noble lands have maintained that service in the interests of their people, interests which are not very visible in the workings of the South African government.

I am not sure which is the more desirable of the two termini; Germiston and Port Shepstone share a somewhat bald and unappealing aspect, but the service could be very useful.

The new, and largely unused, King Shaka Airport, which, when I travelled to it on the excellent bus service from Margate a few months ago, seems to be somewhere near the Mozambican border, is not a great help to the South Coast. Nor, come to that, is the Margate airport, a far more pleasant little facility, rumoured to be flying again ere long.

So let us await with anticipation the return of the railway to this part of the world.

Something else arriving shortly will be spring. It is possibly most people’s favourite season, possibly because it means the end of the cold(ish) weather and the arrival of flowers, bees and nestlings.

Spring is such a sensible word; it seems to convey much that we associate with the awakening of the seasons. In most cultures spring is considered the first season of the year.

The season is quite short lived in this fair land. Those lucky enough to live there, or lucky enough to get to the northern areas of the Cape can see the near-miracle of the blooming desert; those in the Highveld watch for the wonderful change from the dusty, parched brown of the wiry tree-dotted hills and mountains around Pretoria to the verdant splendour of imminent summer.

My local hostelry, the High Rock, will be celebrating the first day of spring - on the second day of spring – with an event we enjoy every year. The spring braai will be tomorrow, Friday evening, September 2 at about 6pm.

The landlord, Paul, and his delightful partner Belinda (one of those very pretty names of which we hear far too little these days) will be in charge of things and all the various necessities for a successful braai will be available.

I gather they are also arranging a fine spring evening.

CB

28/8/11