Ih’m ‘n traffis!

Driving home for me used to be blissful. I strap in my seatbelt, click on the mp3 player, turn up the volume and glide home in a bubble of music and relaxation. But I said “used to”, didn’t I?

For some reason our quiet coastal line has become densely populated by cut throat vaalies* and business men. When did this happen?

The problem is that the more people = more cars = more traffic = more traffic cops.


For those of you that don’t know, despite me owning my new(ish) car that belongs to me and is in my own name** I drive illegally. I do not have my drivers licence. This is purely because I have failed the drivers test. Twice, but we won’t go there***

Anyway, so there I am, listening to my music with one eye open watching the traffic, when all of a sudden I see the oke in front of me staring in his review mirror. Annoyed, I try to ignore him.

Cut to five minutes later, where I am now idling at the robot next to him, softly chuckling at the immensely kitch red and black dice dangling from the interior of his roof, when all of a sardine I hear:

Oke: “Hallow mooi cherrie, hoe gaan dit?” (Translation for foreignors: Hey there pretty chick, how things going?)

Acting deaf and dumb for a few seconds, I pretend not to hear him.

Oke: “Vis traffic are badt, ne?” (This traffic are bad (t, just cos he can) hey? – poor grammar unintentional on his part)

Sigh. I look over to him and nod, curtly. Polite enough to aknowledge him, impolitely enough to stop him talking to me. I am listening to the new Truth CD, for fuck sakes! Why is he annoying me with words coming out his capped-tooth mouth?

Oke: Do you sommer net want to go for a klippies wiff me? (Are you in the mood to have a drink with me?)

Me: No, buddy, fanks alot, though. (Thats me ripping him off right there, didja notice?)

Oke: Ag, what a disappearance (I can only assume he meant dissapointment), cherrie. I was look forward to it lorts. (lorts = lots, just by the way)

I am forced to go on the high way now, granted it saves me being hit on by clutch plates, and I get to not have to worry about cops on the way home, but shit man, it costs 14 Souf Efrican Ronts everytime!

* The english okes are m’kay, but its the dutchies that get to me. Them with their jean pant, skin smeared in sunscreen (too late, everytime as they already look like pink lobsters with peroxided yellow hair. Chops!).

** This is a family “joke” in an unfunny sort of way. I was stubborn enough to find a loop hole in buying my own car, yet not smart enough to actually pass the driving test. Go figure.

***ok, we can go there:

  • First attempt: cop commented on my boobs – I swore at him, I failed.
  • Second attempt: Cop commented…. on my bad parking. That wasn’t his fault, that was just me being a fem driver. Dammit. Oh, and then I reversed into the pole. Woopsie.