Where Words Will Not Suffice.

Sometimes, although I find this happens seldom, I have to admit that words alone are unable to aptly express certain events or sights.  Oh yes.  Sometimes only a picture will suffice.  Or several pictures, as it happens.

So yesterday I found myself accompanying a bunch of teens on a sporting outing.  We rode there by bus - the large kind - and without thinking, I chose the front seat that looks directly out of the wide-view windscreen.  Error.  Of gravest proportion.  Look, I don't want to get into details, but it's fair to say that my rectum was contracting with such vigour and out of such fear that when I alit, there were definite munch marks in the seat.

But it is the destination to where we travelled that had me gaping at the mouth.

Upon arrival this sign was proudly on display:

For those of you who are lacking in the Afrikaans language, the sign reads "Your One Stop School".  And I have just a wee problem with this sign.  What is the target audience of said advertisement?  Is it parents of children of the school-going age?  Because, if so, I would hasten to think that anyone would consider an establishment of education based on its convenience.

The sights that greeted my as I ventured into said school, had me reeling.  At one stage, I clutched onto a banister with with hand around throat.  It was because of this:

Now I am most sensitive when it comes to a) bad hair days and b) difficult hair.  My own hair a case in point.  But this, I fear, is tantamount to child abuse.  Surely the parents of said child should not be allowed to bludgeon their child's hair with garden shears regardless of how much they dislike her?  It's criminal, is what it is.  There are unsuspecting public outside of the house, people.  Please.

If that was not bad enough, I found myself on the side of a field, just slightly behind this number:

Can you understand why I was confused as to whether I was actually in South African and not in a Walmart in the deepest south.  That is a man in his wife/girlfriend/sister's shirt.  In public!

After sending said photographs to The BF, the following interchange of texts ensued:

The BF:  Is that male or female?

The Pant:  To be honest I'm not entirely sure.

TBF:  Mother trucker.

TP:  Pal, this is a real experience.

TBF:  That's no lie.

TP:  I'm worried that my child (who was with me) might absorb this trashiness by osmosis.

TBF:  Don't let her breathe.

And so she didn't breathe.  And I've decided to start saving.  The Daughter is going to the same school Kate Middleton went to.  Finish and klaar.