My Family, Mr Williams, You Are Addling Their Brains

Dear Mr. Williams,

I have a bone to pick with you. My family started to act all hupsy daisy and I thought to myself, “Who is to blame for this?”. You are, Roly. You are.

It all started innocently enough. I subscribed to The Herald, our town’s daily gospel, as I thought it would do the family some good to immerse themselves in current affairs. I was pleasantly surprised to find my kids fighting over the paper within a week, less pleasantly surprised when my daughter sent her brother to hospital with concussion after using her egg spoon in improper fashion. They all, including my wife, began to truly absorb the Gospel According to Avusa. Slowly though, things started taking a turn for the worse.

My son often lets his room become a bit of a pigsty, as is a young boy’s wont. “Son”, I said. “Son, your room looks like a pigsty. Sort it out or I’ll throw you down the stairs again.”

“Yes, Dad”, he hurriedly replied, as he subconsciously rubbed the dent in his head. He always seemed to do that when he was reminded of our now infamous altercation.

I arrived home later that evening and found his room in the same state. “Little shit…”, I thought. “I’m going to throw him down the garden steps this time.”, I added to my previous thought, though in essence one rarely punctuates one’s thoughts to such an extent so it could be deemed to have been a roll-on or continuation of the first thought.
I found him in the living room dressed in a shiny suit and crocodile skin shoes with his feet on the coffee table. There was KFC. Everywhere.

“Dad”, he began. “Before you predictably get very cross and beat me again, I would like to inform you that I have established a task team to deal with the unenviable aesthetics of my bedroom. I appointed numerous of my friends as members but unfortunately they opted to stay in bed, so instead I sat around here eating KFC I paid for with your credit card. Should you have any further questions, they should be directed to my head of communications.” He indicated towards a teddy bear who looked like his head had been submerged in hair gel.

“Ok…”, I thought to myself. “Patience, Rick. At least his vocabulary has improved.”

I showered and came down to the kitchen with my stomach rumbling, surprised to find my wife stirring a pot the size of my fist.

“Family!’, she announced, as we gathered around the table for dinner. “I would like you all to write down your level of hunger and reasons for requiring sustenance on a piece of paper, fold it up and hand it to me.”

Thinking this whole charade a bit odd, but willing to play along, I complied with her request. She gathered the family’s scraps of paper together before indiscreetly throwing them into the bin.

“We do not have sufficient food to go around so I will now serve according to tone of skin tan”, she declared.

Cripes. I looked at my arms. Too much time in the office. Cripes.

We spent the next half hour watching my daughter eat. I knew I shouldn’t have agreed to send her to horse riding lessons.

After our daughter’s dinner, my wife was strangely enthusiastic to volunteer for washing up duties. As I left the kitchen, I was sure I heard the rustle of a brown paper bag, followed by a full-mouthed moan of “Oh colonel…how I’ve missed you!”.

I muffled a girlish scream as I entered the lounge. My entire suite of antique furniture had been ripped apart and nailed crudely together to form a structure of sorts. Sitting inside the structure was my daughter.

I began to froth at the mouth.

“I WILL BRING THIS STRUCTURE DOWN AROUND YOUR EARS LIKE A PACK OF CARDS! I WILL SMITE YOU WITH PLANKS AND PUSH RUSTY NAILS INTO YOUR EYE SOCKETS!”, I screamed at her in an agitated fashion.

“You will do no such thing, father”, she replied. “You will write and address a letter of application to demolish a heritage structure to ‘Hole in The Bottom of The Garden, The Garden, Our House’. I will then go and fill in said hole, before appointing a committee to deal with your concern sometime next year. By that time, hopefully, your application will have degraded to such an extent that it will be illegible.”

Enough. Once I had lodged my application as instructed, I proceeded to gather all of the Gospels According to Avusa. I placed them in a big heap in the garden, poured petrol on them and set them burning. I even threw the family cat in there for good measure. I always hated that ruddy cat. The next day I pounced on the postman as he was about to deliver The Herald and buried the garden shovel in the back of his head. He joined my heritage application in the bottom of the garden.

Things have calmed down, for now. I cancelled my subscription to The Herald and instead took one out with Die Burger. Nobody can understand a word of it, but I believe it safer that way.

“What has all this got to do with me?”, I hear you ask, Rollo.

Everything.

You have an ability, Mr. Roland, to defend the most ridiculous of municipal actions. You’re like fuel to the Herald’s flame. Remember that time the Mayor literally drove his car onto the field of play during the Warriors’ Twenty20 final? You managed to somehow argue he was justified in bringing half the team to court for malicious damage to property. “They had options other than the cover drive”, you claimed. “If they’d played behind square they could have avoided damage to his Highness’ vehicle”.

That’s enough nonsense from you, Williams. Take up crocheting or something.

Yours in dysfunctional family unit,

R. Dagless (MD)

PS: Tone down the suit and hair gel. You look like an ambulance chaser.

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Alan Straton

Chief Cook, Bottle Washer and Broom Mechanic at MyPE

Passionate about Port Elizabeth and definitely NOT packing for Perth. Alan's ethos is epitomised in the words of Nelson Mandela; "I have fought against white domination and I have fought against black domination. I have cherished the idea of a democratic and free society. If need be, it is an ideal for which I am prepared to die." See more articles by Alan.

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