THE Meltdown

Standard

I sometimes write stuff in advance and hope that I will complete it and post it here at some point. Sometimes I find stuff like the below:

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Everyone knows that I am the calm, cool and never ruffled by external factors kind of girl. I am the proverbial duck, calm on the surface but paddling like a madman under the surface. But you’d never know that looking at my face. You’d think that this girl has got it all together.

Anyway, 2nd March will forever remain in my mind as THE day. The day the duck tipped over and her head was underwater while her webbed feet (that no one knew existed!) were furiously paddling in the air. This is a good recipe for drowning and getting dry feet. But this is not about cooking, rather, what cooked.

I woke up early in the morning knowing that I needed to take my car to the garage to be serviced. I had to leave early since our relatives from my mum’s side (the Dzarigutas) were visiting. They are the type that can tell the story of how Eve was created from Adam’s rib in 3 hours. “The rib went, cccccrrraaaaaaccckkk! But it was like it was cleanly sawed off the ribcage. He narrowly missed puncturing the diapghram…..” etc. That was not a day for stories. It was a day to get things done – I hadn’t taken the day off to sit down for 2 hours and hear about how the tea was made that morning. No.

So I grabbed a sandwich and a bottle of water and left the house. But not before I met with Hipilicious, who was ready with a snide remark about how dirty I had left the table top counter with breadcrumbs and Skinny, who wanted to inspect the sandwich to make sure that I hadn’t placed some contraband in it. Contraband items are those items that Skinny has put in the fridge and labeled with her name. These items will most likely go bad because she doesn’t like eating food that has been in the fridge. But you dare touch any of her items. You’ll have your name on the Waki report, Ocampo list and your name will not go mis-Singh everytime she wants to give examples of people who don’t respect boundaries.

I had decided to try a new mechanic that had been recommended by a workmate. My old mechanic had gotten too comfortable with quoting prices that would cater for his rent as well as take care of the old spareparts that he fixed in my car. My workmate, a really cool guy, Chris, who is always smiling and giving thumbs up. He is a very happy guy and it is really really hard to know when he is in trouble or when he has received a very poor performance review. I have never seen him upset but I imagine that he cries with his hands in the thumbs up position. Anyway, Chris told me about this mechanic that is super cheap and works with the mother ship – the company that imports the brand that I drive. I am not going to talk about the brand because you might just get stuck on that. You should see my payslip, there is a direct co-relationship between my payslip and the brand I drive. Either way you look at it, it is very depressing. Anyway, so I had called the mechanic, Peter, the night before and he said that he would be available by 6.30am. I love it when people are able to start working very early in the morning. I got to Buruburu by about 6.15am (shocker seeing as normally it takes over one and a half hours from Mrs. Adrian’s house to Buruburu)……………………..

 

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And funny thing is, that is the end of that draft that I had written.

Just to note:

1. It is NOT a true story. I don’t know where I was going with that. Next time I will write a more descriptive header rather than “THE Meltdown”.

2. Was I thinking of writing fiction? With such real descriptors of what actually happens in my life?

3. Does the fact that I am checking up old stuff mean that I am about to start documenting this crazy life  again? Maybe.

 

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