Even a cut ’n blow gets in your hair

See, I’m too easily distracted by the goings-on around me. Like my Heidi stacking crockery in the cupboards. Stacking, in her case, means banging plates and saucers on each other, sounds reminiscent of breaking plates in a Greek restaurant. Same goes with knives and forks crashing like cymbals in the hands of a crazed rocker.

Not good for someone who’s agonising to find words to convey the right meaning to a fussy reading public, among whom are pukka linguists. Last weekend was a public holiday and many sunned themselves on beaches, or force-fed themselves in eateries.

Others were glued to the TV listening to the president going on about reconciliation – and the injustices of the past. (But he conveniently bypasses the injustices of the present under his government. Who is to reconcile with whom, Mr President?). Fortunately our complex is silent as the grave. And Heidi is done with the dishes.

An ideal time to boot up and wax lyrical. Wrong. Out of the blue a start-up motor grunts through our open back door, accompanied by the smell of petrol fumes. Our neighbour, a good man in normal situations – but trying to write can’t be classified as being normal – has obviously forgotten about Reconciliation Day and decided to mow the lawn. And his mower, once the silent type with a steady pitta-a-patta, has over the years evolved into a monster without baffles.

With ears filled with this loud yammer, finding usable words is an impossible task. In frustration my fingers automatically spell out words described as vulgar in dictionaries. Disgusted with myself I take off to my reading room overlooking the mountain and despite the noise, I manage to control my displeasure. No sooner had I closed my eyes to relax, when silence reigned.

Maybe my neighbour somehow sensed my inner feelings and called it a day. With soaring spirit I return to the laptop and churn out two scintillating paragraphs to excite the editor, if not the linguists. Shortlived. I’d forgotten about the blower – that contraption used instead of a grass catcher. Its noise is far worse than the mower, and the job takes twice as long.

Again my fingers do the (vulgar) talking. Utterly dejected I slink back to my reading room. Even the mountain doesn’t buck me up. Reconciling with my neighbour will take some doing. The day is lost on me. This bad column proves it.

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