Tania.co.za

Kortweg

The temple of the Holy Spirit

I had started the morning as I often do these days, doing ballet to a David Bowie CD. Lots of grande pliés a la seconde. I left Stellenbosch Medi-Clinic a few hours later in a very fine mood after my orthopaedic specialist, Dr. Polderman, explained the findings of my recent MRI scan to me. He had ordered the scan because he was afraid to do an arthroscopy considering my lympoedema. He had wanted to see what sort of layers he was going to have to go through, fearing that he might pierce something filled with sewerage from my leg. If that happened, it could lead to contamination and an infection in the bone. The scan revealed that I have a frayed meniscus, and that I also have a Baker's Cyst, the result of fluid build-up in response to yet another problem, a degenerating medial cartilage. Of course none of this is going to get any better (and it seems that my other knee has now also started playing up, probably some kind of fulfilment of my obsession with symmetry, hehe); but it is also unlikely to get worse very rapidly, so what we have decided to do about it is... nothing! (My mother had nasty surgery on her knees which left her partially crippled, so I am pleased not to take the same risk.)

I learned something very, very interesting too. Although he said that I may continue using my knees in whatever manner pleases me, I did manage to elicit from him that there are indeed certain activities (the abovementioned pliés, for example) that will cause more stress than others. "And also, if you want to be really careful, you should not be climbing more than one stair at a time," he said.
"Aw, no," I said, "I always climb two stairs at once. I may not even be exceptionally fit, but my friends are always complaining that they can't keep up when we do stairs."
"I know," he said with his quiet, dry smile, "I am the same. One stair at a time is just too boring."

Now here's the interesting bit, which explains why weight-bearing knee-bends are relevant: the vector force on that part of the knee is huge, increasing with the angle of the bend. Having lost in the region of 7–10 kg in recent months, I could already feel the difference it made to my knees when I climbed stairs, and I can feel the pain returning when I carry the equivalent mass in the form of shopping parcels up to my third storey flat. 7 kg is not an enormous amount of weight, but the effect was enough to convince me of how beneficial it would be if really obese people were to lose that 20 or 30 or 50 kg. Don't have an operation on your knees! Don't become dependent on anti-inflammatories! Just bite the bullet and lose weight! Dr. Polderman explained that the effect was even more profound than I had suspected: When you walk or climb or squat, the vector distribution of the mass in effect means that you have the equivalent of six times whatever your body mass is, pressing down on the fiddly bits of your knee. So if you weigh 100 kg, your knee is effectively taking a 600 kg strain! If you lose 20 kg, you lighten the load by 120 kg. That is a massive difference! By losing 7 kg, I lightened my load by a mass equivalent to nearly five bags of dogfood. Good grief!

(I hereby apologise to my matric physics teacher, Mr. Victor. I do indeed know the difference between weight and mass, and that they should not be used interchangeably. It's just that if I am to be understood colloquially, I gotta talk funny.)

Bottom line: I can dance, I can climb two stairs at once if I insist; I can do whatever I wish for as long as I can take the pain. Pretty cool, if you ask me. Someone once said something about youth being wasted on the young. I think it's true: the young enjoy their bodies without appreciating them. I am forty-one: young enough and old enough to do both.

Telkom smelkom

Telkom has recently imposed an apalling new fault reporting system on its clientele and longsuffering support staff. It is like something straight out of Catch-22. In the past, they used to be able to tell you when a technician would attend to your line which is down, and you could plan around that; and the techies themselves tended to get in contact with you regularly, even if the fixes were not that quick. Now they can't tell you when, and they also don't let you know afterwards when it has been fixed — you just have to keep checking the boxes in your server room yourself to see if this is your lucky day. They can tell you "a technician has been assigned" — no more. You can often be on hold waiting for them to take your call for over an hour. On two occasions since this system came into operation, our leased line has been down for nearly a week. It is so counterproductive having to spend the whole day using workarounds just to facilitate the normal operations of the business instead of getting down to my own work. The entire company's mail had to be channeled through an Outlook Express account on an old ThinkPad running Windows 98. How embarassingly primitive! Not to mention the fact that when it comes to mail, we normally "don't do Microsoft".

This occasion was the first time in my entire life that I actually felt a touch of disillusionment about making a living in South Africa.

Rooikoppie

Ek was vanoggend op soek na 'n rap-song wat ek onlangs geskryf het sodat ek hom vir iemand kon stuur wat daarvoor gevra het. Ek kon hom nie kry nie (hy is wel op die skootrekenaar, maar ek het nie nou die tyd om dit aan te skakel nie); maar ek kom toe op dié storie af wat ek so 'n paar jaar gelede geskryf het toe ek gereelde vryskutwerk gedoen het vir 'n opvoedkundige kindertydskrif.

Eendag was daar 'n dogtertjie, en haar naam was Rooikoppie. Sy en haar ma het in 'n huisie aan die Weskus gewoon. Rooikoppie se pa was glo 'n Skotse matroos, en 'n mens kon dit aan haar onkambare bos rooi hare sien.

Een mooi lenteoggend sê haar ma: "Rooikoppie, jou ouma is in die bed met masels. Ek het nog nie masels gehad nie, en ek sou dalk by haar kon aansteek. Maar jy het al masels gehad en ek wil hê jy moet hierdie fles boegoetee en die bakkie bredie na haar toe neem. Maar jy moet vanmiddag weer terugkom. Moenie met iemand op pad gesels nie, en moenie al weer blomme pluk nie, want dan kom ons in die moeilikheid by die Parkeraad."

Rooikoppie neem die mandjie by haar ma, en begin stap. Die Weskus se velde blom eenkeer per jaar soos 'n helder lappieskombers. Dis nie lank nie, of Rooikoppie vergeet wat haar ma gesê het, en sy begin die vygies en ander blommetjies pluk.

Skielik staan daar 'n groot luiperd voor haar.

"En waarnatoe is jy op pad?" vra die luiperd vir Rooikoppie.

"Na my ouma toe," antwoord Rooikoppie. "Sy woon anderkant daai bult."

"Neem jy die kortpad, en ek vat die langpad, en ons sal sien wie kom eerste daar," stel hy voor. Toe hardloop hy weg so vinnig as wat hy kan.

Toe Rooikoppie later by haar ouma se huisie instap, sien sy dadelik dat haar ouma iets ernstigs makeer. Die tannie sit kopdoek-en-al in die bed, maar daar is groot fout met haar lyf.

"Haai, Ouma," se Rooikoppie, "hoekom is Ouma so vol swart kolle?"

"Dis van die masels," kom die antwoord in 'n snaakse growwe stem.

"En Ouma, hoekom is ouma se vingers so vet en harerig?"

"Dis van die hormone," antwoord die harerige ouma.

"En Ouma," wil Rooikoppie verder weet, "hoekom brom Ouma so as Ouma praat?"

"Dis my maag wat grom, want ek is honger, en ek gaan jou nou opvreet!" brul sy, en met die spring sy uit die bed. Dadelik sien Rooikoppie dat dit glad nie haar ouma is nie, maar die luiperd wat sy vroer in die veld ontmoet het.

Intussen het 'n wildbewaarder vir Rooikoppie agtervolg, want hy wou vir haar waarsku om nie weer die veldblomme te pluk nie.

Toe hy by haar ouma se huisie aankom, hoor hy haar gegil en gaan dadelik binne. Hy rig sy geweer op die luiperd, maar die luiperd steek sy voorpote in die lug en skree: "Moenie skiet nie! Ek is 'n bedreigte wildsoort!"

Maar die bewaarder laat hom nie keer nie. Hy skiet die luiperd met 'n inspuitingpyltjie, en die luiperd raak dadelik aan die slaap. Toe laai hy hom in sy bakkie om hom na 'n veilige deel van die wildreservaat te neem.

En Rooikoppie se ouma? Sy het die hele tyd in die hangkas weggekruip, en al haar gestrykte klere opnuut gekreukel. Toe die rumoer verby is, klim sy uit die kas, en sy eet die bredie en drink die boegoetee wat Rooikoppie vir haar saamgebring het.

'n Paar dae daarna het die wildbewaarder ook masels gekry, maar Rooikoppie se ma het vir hom ook boegoetee en bredie gestuur, en hy was glad nie ontevrede nie.

Opsomming van die naweek

Birth announcement

Alison and Neal had their baby yesterday afternoon. She was born in Oudtshoorn after a long and difficult labour.

Auf der Galerie

Wenn irgendeine hinfällige, lungensüchtige Kunstreiterin in der Manege auf schwankendem Pferd vor einem unermüdlichen Publikum vom peitschenschwingenden erbarmungslosen Chef monatelang ohne Unterbrechung im Kreise rundum getrieben würde, auf dem Pferde schwirrend, Küsse werfend, in der Taille sich wiegend, und wenn dieses Spiel unter dem nichtaussetzenden Brausen des Orchesters und der Ventilatoren in die immerfort weiter sich öffnende graue Zukunft sich fortsetzte, begleitet vom vergehenden und neu anschwellenden Beifallsklatschen der Hände, die eigentlich Dampfhämmer sind - vielleicht eilte dann ein junger Galeriebesucher die lange Treppe durch alle Ränge hinab, stürzte in die Manege, rief das - Halt! durch die Fanfaren des immer sich anpassenden Orchesters.

Da es aber nicht so ist; eine schöne Dame, weiß und rot, hereinfliegt, zwischen den Vorhängen, welche die stolzen Livrierten vor ihr öffnen; der Direktor, hingebungsvoll ihre Augen suchend, in Tierhaltung ihr entgegenatmet; vorsorglich sie auf den Apfelschimmel hebt, als wäre sie seine über alles geliebte Enkelin, die sich auf gefährliche Fahrt begibt; sich nicht entschließen kann, das Peitschenzeichen zu geben; schließlich in Selbstüberwindung es knallend gibt; neben dem Pferde mit offenem Munde einherläuft; die Sprünge der Reiterin scharfen Blickes verfolgt; ihre Kunstfertigkeit kaum begreifen kann; mit englischen Ausrufen zu warnen versucht; die reifenhaltenden Reitknechte wütend zu peinlichster Achtsamkeit ermahnt; vor dem großen Salto mortale das Orchester mit aufgehobenen Händen beschwört, es möge schweigen; schließlich die Kleine vom zitternden Pferde hebt, auf beide Backen küßt und keine Huldigung des Publikums für genügend erachtet; während sie selbst, von ihm gestützt, hoch auf den Fußspitzen, vom Staub umweht, mit ausgebreiteten Armen, zurückgelehntem Köpfchen ihr Glück mit dem ganzen Zirkus teilen will - da dies so ist, legt der Galeriebesucher das Gesicht auf die Brüstung und, im Schlußmarsch wie in einem schweren Traum versinkend, weint er, ohne es zu wissen.

Franz Kafka

(I suppose I should apologise for not posting a translation, but I can't. I have never found an English translation that does this story justice. If you ever suffer from clinical depression as a result of something bad that's happened in your life, do yourself a favour and learn German, so that you an read Up in the Gallery in its original form. It may just make you feel better.)

Hello

Well, if you want to take two days off, you actually have to drive three hundred kilometres and don't take a laptop, otherwise someone will find a reason to make you get up at 9:30 when you actually intended getting up at 11:30. Liz hasn't been to work for two days, so I have come into my own office first and now I must go to Mikhailo to work on a report.

The Live concert was very enjoyable. I was tired when I went, which was a good thing, because it meant that I was relaxed and thus able to enter into a mild state of hypnosis which wore off by about 3:00 this morning. Our American neighbour, Mark, was one of the group that went. He is, in the opinion of the rest of us, the maddest of the lot. He has a degree in Psychology and most of the rest are seeing shrinks, but we really wonder whether it shouldn't all be reversed. Well, more about all that later. I will leave it up to Roelof to blog about the finer details of the concert and to contact the who's who of the industry. Bottom line: The band was good, the events management (Big Concerts) was bad. Hopeless toilet arrangements (why couldn't they rent some portable toilets and bring them into the Velodrome?), inadequate policing of what people brought in (they never even checked Roelof's 7 kg backpack), etc., etc.