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.

The Languages Of My Love.

So, I hightailed it out of work yesterday. I've been worried that The Daughter has been coming down with a wee cold, you see. So wanted to get her home and snuggled into bed with her mom. (We're snugglers, are The Daughter and I. Like huge style.). But I think my desire to spend as much of my medical aid's savings on homeopathic antibiotics and vitamins (because it's the kind of shopping spree that makes me feel like I'm a proper adult without having to part with any cash) has started to pay off. Six different vitamins and immune boosters this morning and she was as chipper as a bottled bee.

The Daughter: Mom, when can I have a brother and a sister? (She feels she's waited long enough for sibling company and so I must just produce one of each, at the same time.)

The Pant: One day, my baby.

TD: Are my brother and sister going to speak English?

TP: I'm sure they will, Precious.

TD: Because if I have Afrikaans brothers and sisters then I won't understand them and then I won't know if they're hungry or thirsty.

TP: That's true. I'll order English brothers and sisters for you, okay?

TD: Okay. But if God doesn't have any English ones, I don't mind Zulu ones.

TP: Really?

TD: Ja. Because at least I can say 'hello' to them which actually means 'I see you' and you say, 'Sawubona.'

TP: Wow, my angel. That's very clever.

TD: (chuffed) I know.

TP: Where did you learn that?

TD: Aarrgghh Mom! (said with the tone of part disdain part irritation that one would use when speaking to a complete mental arthritic.) I know lots of things. They're in my brain.

TP: Okay. So when you go to big school and you have to choose another language to learn, which one are you going to choose?

TD: Um.... (pausing for thought - I had asked her a fairly important question.)... I think I'll choose American.

TP: But American is English.

TD: No it's not. Americans say 'yeah' instead of 'yes'. And they call jam jelly. And jelly jello.

(She did have a point.)

TP: That's true, my precious. But you can only do Zulu or Afrikaans.

TD: Hmmmmmm.... (with limited options, one really needs to consider one's choice carefully). I'll do bonehead.

TP: Pardon?

TD: You know, Mom. Bonehead. Same as rok.

TP: Where did you learn that?

TD: Uncle told me. He said Afrikaans is also called crunchie. But I think that's a chocolate.

So there you have it, folks. The Daughter's second language will be bonehead/rok/crunchie. A wise choice, I suppose, given that she's already proficient in Zulu.