We function under a lot of illusions. For instance, we think that everyone is also normal, all the time. That’s not quite true.
There you are, driving along the freeway quite happily when you slide into the fast lane to overtake my mother in your lane. Next thing, the fellow behind you in your new lane starts yelling, hooting, flashing, and brandishing his club of choice. Worse, he is not going to let you get away with an apology. He wants to tell you, in detail, and at high volume about his dreadful day before he hurts you.
I’ve often wondered how many such wild people are diabetics in the throes of hypoglycaemia. (Hint: A good time to avoid diabetics, even if they don’t have weapons.) Maybe if we all carried chocolate around to offer these crazed angrymen at times like these fewer bad things would happen?
In the past few months I have bumped into a few Norwegians working in banks. They’re working half days because some really bad thing happened a while back and they are unfit to work full days.
In SA, of course, if they’re employed by large firms or the government, we give them time off. If they’re self-employed like me they climb back on the treadmill each morning because they have no other options. Medical certificates don’t carry much weight with creditors.
Some years ago I was asked to invest an afternoon with a bunch of Ph.Ds at Wits University. I was intimidated. My role, I thought, was to teach them how to set up their own businesses. What better qualification to have on your business card than Ph.D? Heck, you could be selling life assurance and people would buy whether they needed it or not. Them is very imposing letters.
Would you believe that not a single one of them wanted to start his (or a few her) own business. Not one! They all wanted jobs with big titles and salaries commensurate with their degrees. No amount of cajoling could persuade them that the world was at their feet.
I now understand why. When their brains implode they will have a pension, or a medical aid and enough time to recover. Unlike you and me. Although, and I must be frank here, I doubt my brain is in any danger from too many IQs taking up residence.
I can safely say this after a few days of reading Norwegian. When I started it took me three hours to reach page 15 of the New Hardy Boys title that I cannot write here because it offends too many spam engines, translated into Norwegian from American by Astrid Martinussen Almaas. (The book is targeted at twelve-year-olds.) That might seem a reasonable pace, but the book starts at page 5! The first few pages are the copyright notices.
In this case Google Translate is my tutor. If I do not understand a word or phrase, I simply type it in for an English rendition. As it turns out, it took me three hours to type in each word in the first 10 pages of reading. And typing when you have a few extra letters (å, ø, & æ) can be quite exciting. Google even yelled at me a few times. As did the old folk at the next table as I massacred their language.
Bottom line, almost everyone I know would rather take a solid day job with a fixed, albeit boring, salary. That’s because almost everyone I know who is getting close to 60 has a pension fund that is worth a little more than a few million dollars. Zimbabwean dollars, that is.
No wonder my mother keeps reminding me to get a real job.
Which reminds me, I have a UK distributor looking for SA products to represent in the FMCG field in England. And I have a Norwegian importer looking for specialised beadwork from Africa, but with a Norwegian twist. (At least, until they read this weeks mutter and start looking for a real job.) If you are interested, please email me.