Gautrain Experience

Like many Gautengers, when the Gautrain went 'live' to the public in June 2010, I decided to 'make like a tourist' and get on the Gautrain to O.R Tambo. The difference was that I wasn't going on a leisurely jaunt for breakfast with a couple of friends, I really was flying out that morning at 6:45am. In retrospect, was somewhat of a risky move on my part.

The Convoluted Platform Process

At Marlboro station I bought my gold card and a one-way place on the train for R110. I made my way up the steps and at the platform asked a security official if I was on the right platform to O.R Tambo. He wasn't sure but said yes, this was the train that goes to the airport. Another security guard walked by and he said no, I must first go to the Sandton station because we couldn't go directly to the airport from here. A stately gentleman waiting on the platform said that he was definitely told that this was the right platform to get to the airport. Can you see how this got really confusing?

Riding the Train

It was just after 05:00. The train was due to arrive in 2 minutes. The only sign I could see on the platform I was on did say O.R. Tambo, but I wasn't quite convinced. Do I go back down to find an information box or ask the ticketing office to make sure, and risk missing the train, or do I stick with the majority vote? I decided to stick around with the stately gentleman.

When the train arrived, 3 passengers hopped on, the doors closed and it moved off. As quick as that. If I was even thinking of changing my mind and getting off, that thought left me as quick as that Gautrain sucked in and spat out passengers. It all happened so fast, for I remember as we all three still stood there, a train official was telling us that we are on the right train but we have actually got on the wrong platform. The train will be going to 'Ortia' but we won't be able to get off at 'Ortia' and that we will have to stay put and head back to get off at Sandton. From there we will have to get off the train, walk two carriages down, and get onto the same train, and then only will we be able to get off at 'Ortia'.

The Plot Thickens

By this time, the blood pressure was already climbing. If only this Gautrain official would stop saying blooming 'Ortia' already and tell us if we were on the right train to the blooming airport, known as O.R. Tambo. She kept pointing to the map above the door and telling us to study it. The two other passengers kept asking her what, who or where 'Ortia' was. And I studied the map.

Well, 'Ortia' was of course, O.R. Tambo International Airport. If the stately gentleman who turned out to be the vice-president of an airline didn't get it, my guess is the majority of foreign visitors ain't going to get it either. The map, though the equivalent of 1+1=2 compared to the London underground which can be equalled to advanced calculus in comparison, didn't offer an any real relief. I had a plane to catch, and if I was heading to the airport, why couldn't I get off at the airport? Why did I have to go all the way back to Sandton?

After convincing the 'Ortia' official, who stubbornly refused to give up on that word, that we were told at the Marlboro station to get on this train, she called her superiors, who we had to convince, and finally, with a sigh of relief, we were allowed to get off at O.R. Tambo, without going through the rigmarole that we would have had to. And thank goodness it was sorted out in time, because 12 minutes after getting on the Gautrain, it had arrived at O.R Tambo station.


What Went Wrong and 6 Things you Should Know When Travelling the Gautrain

1. Upon buying a gold card, this tell the ticketing official that it is your first time, in which he should direct you to the right platform.
2. One Gautrain Gold Card per person. Gold cards cannot be shared.
3. It may happen that your Gold Card won't register at the turnstiles. Allow another 5-15 minutes to your time for them to sort this out.
4. Security staff and officials do not necessarily know which platform is which. Make it your business to find out from the ticketing office.
5. Ortia means O.R. Tambo International Airport.
6. Remember that you travel via Sandton to the airport when you get onto a train at Marlboro station.

The Gautrain is marvellously fast, but if you have a plane to catch, give your self enough time to allow for knowledge-based hiccups. Poorly-trained staff is the biggest downfall of the system, and in time, I'm sure experience will rectify many issues. In the meantime, be conservative, especially at 05:00 in the morning.

An attempt at wellness

The man who came to the door on a chilly, misty Autumn morning called himself Ernest Frost, NLP practitioner and wellness coach. I had booked a session with him for hynotherapy after having read an article in a monthly magazine on the subject, touting him as someone who offered the service.

Speaking to him on the phone I felt like I was talking to a plumber. Perhaps it was a combination of his accent, tone, pitch and crudeness. Perhaps he was having a bad day, I thought, perhaps he's actually a very approachable guy when you actually get to meet him, I thought.

As I mentioned, the air was crisp, and mist in Johannesburg meant one thing in the morning, even at 10am. Sitting in traffic. So I left extra early, compensating for accidents, malfunctioning traffic lights and road rage. Also, having never been to a hynotherapist before, I thought I should also get there at least 5 minutes early, in case of paperwork and the usual reception area activities.

I rang the doorbell (which didn't work,) 10 minutes before the scheduled appointment, knocked on the door - a few times - and decided to check if I had it wrong. "Hi Ernest, my name is so-and-so, I have an appointment with you this morning at 11 o' clock?" Back came the gruff, glacial so-what monosyllable:"Yes?"
"Well I'm here now."
"Hang on." Seconds later and the Trellidor slides open.
"I rang the doorbell, but I don't think it works".
"Well, it's still early, and I would have come down at 11."
I must say I was taken a little aback. I really shouldn't have been, I'd had two passionless telephone conversations with him enough to have warned me what lair I was stepping into.

Now before I go on, you have to realise that I specifically asked for hynotherapy because I know that my problem is deep-seated and stems from childhood. I am old enough to have learnt visualisation techniques and being the producer of my own movie. Unfortunately, ladies and gentlemen, I got dragged into a horrendous 90 minutes of neuro linguistic programming that I honestly didn't want.

So there I was, ushered like a naughty school girl into the principle's office and told to wait for the clock to strike 11am while he went off to make himself a beverage. As I sat in the corner of a leather couch that felt and looked like a black hole, Gandhi and Mandela stood side by side, Gandhi saying "A man is but the product of his thoughts what he thinks, he becomes." Mandela telling me that there is no easy road to freedom. On the opposite side of the wall, framed A4 pieces of paper. Diplomas, degrees, who knows, who cares. Only Ernest Frost himself I suspect.

The session kicked off with the general personal questions, where do you live, are you married, do you have kids. You know the kind that are supposed to be ice breakers but actually serve little or no purpose at all. So when he got to the "What work do you do" part I thought oh c'mon get on with it and told him what I was there for. What I should have repeated to him at the same time was that I was there for hynotherapy, just in case he'd forgotten, just in case he didn't write it in his appointment book. Just in case. But I didn't. So he went on, and before I knew it I was having my neurolinguistics programmed. Apparently.

He made me think of situations, asked me to tell him where in my body do I feel this and that emotion, made me imagine myself from above and below. God, it was all too much and it all went on too long, and halfway through the ordeal I detected a sign of exasperation and impatience - from him. For me, it was like I'd entered for a marathon and got an ultra. 42km in I started feeling the pain and the panic, like I wasn't going to get out of it alive. A few times I felt like bailing, but entering the race was my choice, so I continued sitting in the corner of the black hole with my eyes closed, imagining and visualising and praying never to do something like this again.

Don't get me wrong, NLP works tremendously for some, but I took to it much like a rugby player would take to a ballet rehearsal. I probably got some benefit out of it, but I would have scored more tries if I went to rugby practice instead.

100 minutes and R450 later, I walked back out into the day, the mist had mostly lifted, there was a peek of blue in the sky, and I was glad to say goodbye to the earnest man with the frosty demeanor. Perhaps these are good qualities for a hynotherapist.

Road Race Disgrace

Make no mistake. I love road races. I sometimes have been known to prefer jostling amongst the running community instead of trekking out on a Sunday in solitude for a 20km run.

But hell, I hate the attitude of road runners who litter the street, kerbs, and bushes with their empty sachets, their sticky energy gel wrappers, their gum and their snot-laden tissues. And if another idiot throws their half-used water sachet right into my path again I may not be so zen about it the next time around.

I can hear them chucking their non-biodegradable foil wrappers at me, shouting their right to litter:"We paid our entry fee, so we have the right to own the piece of road we run on!" And with it we throw out all civility and consideration for our fellow man. We spit and we pee and we toss with gay abandon. Okay fine. Except that those freaking wrappers and sachets get in my way, dammit. One of these days I am going to slip on one and crack my kneecap and then we will see what happens to both of yours.

The solution is really a no-brainer. Whoever came up with the idea that runners needed to be catered for at every 2-3kms must've had shares in the plastic and packaging industry. Honestly, this constant feeding at waterpoints with Coke and water - and now it's sweets and heck knows what else is next - is giving the sport a wimpy facade.

Take trail runners. They are hardcore athletes in their own right just because of the conditions they run in. If they can scramble up and down sand and loose stones, cross rivers and scale hills the gradients of walls, and have to carry their own hydration and energy replenishment - without littering - then why can't we? We've turned into spoilt brats, us roadies, and it gives us a bad name.

Races don't make much money, if at all. Often they run out of water. (And maybe I'm really getting profound now but I always wonder how hygienic that plastic sachet is that I have to insert between my pearly whites to rip open). So save the 2.3 sachets per person per water table and get some sponsorship from a runner's belt/hydration pack manufacturer or something. And Coke - Isn't it ironic that the company is to blame for severe water depletion and degradation in some communities due to their unscrupulous bottling operations? So, in my tree-hugging opinion, ban Coca Cola! The child in me doesn't want to slate EnerJellies and Bar Ones but the health freak (and tree-hugger)in me screams: Empty Calories! Tooth decay! Give me a banana.

So race organisers, at the risk of being vomited upon, I stick my unbranded head out here. There is no need for all this pomp and ceremony. For a 10km race I can carry my own bottle thankew very much; for a 21km 1 bottle and a banana does me well, and for a marathon, if I survived with a hydration pack and some dried fruit and lived to tell this tale, I doubt if anyone is going to die out there without their precious luxuries. Let's be tough! Let's be hard core! Let's gain some respect back. And if anyone can't handle the pressure, then they shouldn't be in the game.

Breathe.

As I said: I love road races.

Telemarketing time wasters

So I received a call on my cell phone the other day. It went like this:

Me: This is Val.
She: Hi, is this Ghustaive? (the U pronounced as in ‘bus’ and not ‘goose’.)
Me: No, this is Val.
She: Can I speak to Ghustaive?
Me: No, this is not his number.
She: Is this 0839825042?
Me: Yes.
She: And this is not Ghustaive’s number?
Me: No, this is my phone number, that is why I am answering the phone. What is it in connection with?
She: Well if you are not Ghustaive, then you wouldn’t know if I told you.
Me: Well, this is my phone number you dialled so perhaps I am allowed to ask.
She: And you say you are…?
Me: Val.
She: So how can you both have the same number?

The Worst Broadband Offering in the World

Services providers have been the bain of my existence, and I'm sure yours, dear reader, since the history of the beginning of the development of the human species towards a technologically advanced era.

It is ironic that the more we think we are progressing, the less we actually get anywhere. I speak as a South African living in Joburg, you understand.

Johannesburg has been around as a 'place to be' for 124 years. Telkom, and its evolution, has been around since 1991, which makes it 19 years old. I thought I heard on the radio yesterday that they were boasting the acquisition of new cables to their existing system in a deal with SEACOM. But I struggle to get excited these days. They can knock themselves out laying cables undersea but what good is that to me when they can't even get my cable at home working.

The first one was struck by lightning. It took about 5 days to fix. One week later, it was split in two, because a truck drove down the street and the bloody cable was strung across it. That took 4 days to fix. 2 weeks later, the same thing happened, and they responded in 4 days. This is only due to my screaming insanely and threatening to slit my wrists. Yet another week later, and that feeling of deja vu was very strong indeed. I was beginning to think the internet gods were punishing me.

I must also inform you that the internet is my work. Without it, I cannot work. And if the gods were constantly slashing my cable what message should I draw from this? Were they trying to tell me to stop working so hard? Take a break Val, there's more to life than the internet. Or perhaps they were merely telling me to fire Telkom.

So with my cable strewn across the lawn like a limp and dead fish, neglected and forlorn, I thought, OK, I have been patient with the call centre morons, I have begged, pleaded, sweet-talked, and finally shouted - everything but bribed. I have asked to speak to a senior person, who was, of course, in a meeting, what do you expect? And who is apparently very good at returning calls, according to the call fault reporting 10212 kippie. In the end, I decided to take my power back. I can't control them, so I'll go somewhere else. Hah! That was the joke of the week.

On the line to Neotel:
Me: I'm looking for telecommunication options, tell me do you have coverage over my area?
Him: What's your full address?
I give it to him
Silence.
After a while he finally informs me that he is busy checking.
Me: Ok, so while we're busy waiting, could you tell me about your service?
Him: Uh... (and a second of brain dead silence)
Me: What is your contract period,what options are available, I am a new customer, I know nothing about you. What can you tell me to help me decide if I want to use you or not?
Him: Well, you've actually come through to the technical department. Let me put you through to sales.
And with that he was gone. I guess he's still waiting to check if there is coverage at the address I gave him.

Sales: Mumble mumble speaking. How can I help you?
Me: I am a new customer. I'm looking for reliable internet connectivity. I know nothing about Neotel. Can you help?
Sales: How much would you like to spend a month?

And so it went. After 5 minutes of grilling, I recieved no help at all. It was like extracting missing brain cells from a headless chicken.

Finally I asked: So is it possible for you to find out whether there is coverage in my area?
Sales: Sorry, you will have to try and call back later, our system is down.
And with that I made up my mind that if that was teh service I was getting before I even got it, then I don't want it.

Teach Engrish? But you Chinese!

Sometime at the beginning of this year I had an irrational urge to scratch an itch I have had for over a decade. I don't recall exactly how it all came about but it was one of those classic "I woke up one morning" moments and when loverboy sat down to have dinner that evening, I, unabashed, boldly announced that I was going to teach English in China.

I wanted to immerse myself, come out on the other side confidently strutting around Chinatown conversing fluently with the locals, I pictured myself flowing with the tai chi ball between my palms. Loverboy just looked at me and carried on chewing beetroot.

The weeks that followed went along fairly fluidly as we both went along our business as if we were merely buying a new television set. I was doing some enquiries on the best courses to take, and he was busy as usual with earning a living.

Now take heed all ye who want to TEFL in Asia, I have done all the research you can possibly think of, you may want to peruse this blog before you go through the rigmarole yourself.

Firstly, if you do not have a degree, you will not be able to work legally. Boy, why didn't any of the course institutions tell me this in the beginning? Okay , so o intellectual one, you have a degree, but you have never taught anything or anyone before in your life and your degree major was ceramic firing. No problemo, if you have the time and the cash, there are courses that will cover the basics. The rest is up to you.

For the sake of brevity, I will not take you on the long journey of all the different courses available, the important things to know are:
Do NOT do an online course, unless you're a student wanting to take a month or three off to teach. If you're serious about teaching, whether it is for 6 months, a year, or indefinitely, and especially if you are making a career change, a CELTA (Cambridge accredited) or TESOL (Trinity accredited)course are the only 2 choices.

Another valuable piece of information I established was that it is in your favour to apply in the city or country where you plan to teach. Besides the higher chance of finding work, the acclimatisation into another culture is invaluable. For some the culture shock may be too much to bear, by studying and living in the country, by the end of 4 weeks, you should have a pretty good idea of whether you want to, or can tolerate the strange conditions. If you're young and adaptable, its all part of the rich tapestry. If you are not, and are not used to living in small spaces, sharing one bathroom and toilet amongst 5 people, you may go into mild depression. Of course, if you can afford it, you can book into a hotel. But, and here is another thing you may want to know: don't expect to a good salary in the beginning. Food is cheap, accommodation, if you are willing to share with other students, or do a homestay, is cheap, but unless you are a top earner, a decent hotel may be beyond your reach.

If you intend applying in various cities, as I did, realise that just because you have applied and passed the interview in one city, doesn't qualify you for acceptance in another. I applied in 4 cities. And each time the application form took me hours on end to complete. Some applications were 20 pages long. The form consists mainly of a grammar test, which is used to assess whether you are worthy of an interview, which is conducted via telephone or skype if both parties are in different cities.

Through the curtain of tears everytime I thought of leaving my cat, my goldfish and my loverboy, the determination of finding a TEFL job was still as strong as ever. So armed with ADSL line and laptop, I sat for gruelling, butt-crunching sessions trawling my options, my chances, for how to get the best shot out of this madness.

Shock turned into dismay turned into horror. It was apartheid all over again. Here I was, a South African born Chinese, discriminated against whilst living under the White regime, now not dark enough to be considered 'previously disadvantaged' under the ANC rule, suddenly feeling like an abondoned child because her mother didn't like the look of her.

I dodged a bullet. So here is my advice to you if you look anything but pure and lilly white: If you are serious about TEFL in China, don't be. They do not take learning English seriously. It is a country that will pick you for the colour of your hair and eyes and never mind that the Philipino with the teacher's degree in English literature with 5 years experience is waiting in the wings for that job. It is a country that is mind-numbingly superficial and racist with a view of the western world as distorted as their cheap plastic rose-tinted glasses.

My response to all my interviewers when they enquired why I chose not to do the course anymore: Once I was facinated by China, the country, its culture and its people, now I am merely dissapointed. Interesting how an itch that can last 15 years can take 2 months of scatching to make it all go away.

Morning tug-of-war

For the past few days I've been waking up every morning with the thought of having a muscle-rippling male person lying next to me, all solid and soft at the same time. It makes me want to lie in some more. So I resist the usual pre-programmed auto-response to reach out for the morning talk show host on my left to thrust me into reality, because the faint imaginery chemistry on my right draws me closer to what seems so much more appealing.

As I turn towards him, he stirs and turns, looking at my naked face. And in the half light of the early morning, I see the soft, scrapey stubble of his beard. It moves towards my vulnerable lips, and I think to myself, does my breath smell? And then realise how ridiculous that is. For one, my breath never smells, not even in the morning, and for another, can a figment of one's imagination, no matter how powerful, smell, for pete's sake. And with this profound question lingering in my head, I laugh at my silliness, turn around, reach out for my talk show host, and get the hell out of bed.

Tough, tougher, toughest

The previous week's oddball cold weather in mid-November made an exit out of Jozi just in time for the city's tough event of the year. I've been told by numerous people that it lives up to its name. 3500 enthusiastic runners thronged to the start line outside RAC, nervous first-timers such as moi and seasoned participants gunning for their permanent number. Phutt! The gun goes off, stopwatches are set and a wave of bodies sweep up the hill on Jan Smuts Avenue. At the turn into Republic Road the big kahuna awaits, 2 km of dominant uphill, and this is just the start. Only one and half km in and a 'oh-no' numbness in the left foot and familiar a burning sensation in the right ankle that tells tales of lactic acid and insufficient warm ups creeps up on me. I know from experience that this can last for a while and worsen if I don't slow way down, so I slow down just a little. It's a long, long way to go, baby.

At about 3 and a half kays on the top of the hill I'm more or less on target at 6min/k and now it's just time to engage 4th gear and cruise. The soft waves of gradual downs and ups along Malibongwe Drive takes us up to about 11km before turning into Witkoppen. I'm feeling strong at the 10km mark and making good time, the numbness and burning decided the pace was too slow for them and moved on, but a pitstop put a spanner in the wheel, though I was grateful for the convenient stone wall on an elevated empty stand amongst the vegetation. Though there were portaloos, they were mostly occupied. On the downhill on Witkoppen whilst trying to make up for the few lost minutes at the pitstop. I saw a couple of men who had apparently answered to the call of nature on the empty stand before the turn, and then conveniently took a short cut through the bend. It got me wondering facetiously whether the reason why the winning men are always so many minutes ahead of the women in races, is because, one, their physical make up is so much more practical in many ways, and two, they get away with a little bit of cheating. Of course this is not true. In every race I do, I see at least one truly inspirational person. It was along this part of the route that I saw a 60-year old male runner, and I wanted to greet him, say well done, pat him on the back, just something to encourage him and show my respect. And then I thought, he probably does this all the time. No big deal. But it is a big deal. It's a very big deal the older you get, that is why I am in awe and endlessly inspired by older athletes such as these, and not a fraction of an iota by the young guns.

During this race I found much to be grateful for. The fact that we got respite from the rain, and the cool weather and clusters of cloud sustained just long enough for at least two-thirds of my race. I was grateful to my body that day for not letting me down in many ways. I sometimes experience sharp knee pains, distances of more than 15 often give me blisters, stitches happen after drinking, over a long race any one of these ailments could have occurred, but the only niggliness was the tender hot spot in the ball of my right foot in the first half of the race. I tried to make up my mind whether I should ask for a moleskin patch from my second when I see him for the first meeting point at the 18km mark. I decided to push through. I had only done one 21km race before this and never ran anything longer. I remember a point around the 22km mark going up Main Road between the Clay Oven and the Bryanston post office, I deliberately kept my eyes reverted down so I couldn't see the hill ahead of me, but for a few minutes I looked up, looked around me, at the stream of amazing people ahead of me, many who were 60 + and I couldn't help smiling. I was really doing this. There was no more pain, and no more fear. I was here.

Every step of the way, I was grateful for the people who gave me encouragement, mentored me, and believed in me. I was even so priviledged to have been seconded. And even though all I needed from my second was a drink of energy whenever I saw him, seeing him was the best part of the race, besides finishing. There were those who said, with great emphasis, that the Tough One is tough. That is true, for I saw the strain on their faces, I heard the heavy breathing, the laboured foot falls as I passed by. There were just as many others who said, "No! don't listen to them. It is not tough, tough is in your head." In the month that followed after I entered this race, I kept this in my mind and it became my mantra. Yes I was nervous, I didn't know how I would fare, I'm experienced enough to know that anything can happen, at the back of my mind I knew that I could do it in 3:30, but I wanted to do better. Not just for myself, but for all those people who gave me the confidence when I myself had little.

I ran past some walkers and I heard "Go Run/Walk For Life!" and looked back to see a RWFLifer beaming and cheering me on. At the top of the hill on Main, when I saw my second, I stopped to walk and take in a drink, and it was there that I realised my legs had turned to lime jelly. I couldn't feel them and they wobbled a little, I had to focus for a few seconds to keep them going in a straight line. But since I couldn't feel them, I figured, that's a good thing too, at least they don't hurt. The body is strange. Remarkable, but strange. You can keep hammering it and you can make it keep running for hours on end and it will just keep going because you ask it to, because you will it to. And then when its all over and you give it permission to stop, it really does come to a grinding halt. For most of the race, I cannot say that I felt real pain in my legs, but five minutes after crossing the finish line, I could barely walk. One valuable lesson I learnt to do after a long race: do not just sit down and rest. You will not be able to move after that. You will require a wheelchair, you will turn into a cabbage.

Just before the 31km mark I felt a dreaded squeezing sensation of cramping muscles. Only one more kilometre, don't do this now, cramp all you want later, breathe deep, think calm... and then I saw my club manager's smiling face and the panic stopped before it began. That last short steep hill was worse than the 10km climb prior to it. Many runners were walking up, huffing and puffing up, I just wanted to make it up. To this day I still don't know how. How the cramping stopped, how I managed to keep running up that hill, how I found the last bit of energy to pick up speed as I passed through the entrance of the RAC. Some women on the side cheered me on as I raced to the finish line, knocking down a couple of men on my way! My second was there, ready to pick up the pieces. I clocked 3:17. I had finally arrived. Some people may only feel like a true runner once they've done a marathon, I felt like a true runner then. That's the Tough One, it brings you down to earth, it gives you damn good idea of your true abilities and achievements, it's tougher than most marathons. Yes, it's tough, but tough is in the mind.

The Many Metaphors of the Learning Curve

Often it feels like the faster I peddle the less I go anywhere. The web has opened up a plethora of possiblities and opportunites, but it is also opening them up at an exponential rate that unless you're the Lance Armstrong of learning curves, it's either switch to granny gears and try and keep up or turn around and bail out, but one must keep up with the Joneses and the Joneses I know are always the ones way up front on the cutting edge of that damned sickel.

It's hard to teach an old dog new tricks, and though I am old in chronological years, I am as frisky as a Jack Russel. One who has 29 years of post-matric work experience behind her is undoubtedly old. I get shouted at rather regularly when I state this fact, as if I was admitting to stupidity. It's odd really. But I do sometimes tackle the learning curve like a puppy dog with a shoelace, which, to another human being, can seem something like an exercise in stupidity.

At other times, my ever present companion sits next to me like a shadow that forever stretches into the distance. Sometimes it's fat and short and shaped rather unattractively. Squatting out in front of me and reminding me of how much work I have to do to achieve my goals. Other times it's long and thin and runs along side me and laughs with me. I have learnt to embrace it, yet oh yes, I am still learning to make real peace with it.

My formative years have been, to say the least, unusual. Unusual in a way that a middle class White South African would call unusual. I am not White, I am neither Black nor Coloured, nor any other colour one may choose to use for a person's race. As a Chinese South African pre-94 I had a little more opportunities for education than a Black person, but for reasons only my parents themselves know, schooling was second fiddle to working in the family business. So I studied little, and scraped and squeezed through matric kicking and screaming. If you ever ask me and I tell you I have no regrets. Don't believe a word. I won't believe you. I regret,
wholeheartedly and unashamedly, not paying attention at school. Enough said. And so the stage was set for my entire working career to come. Needless to say, the lack of meaningful education and alphabets to the end of my name always subconciously, (and often consciously) hindered me, made me feel inferior, and created a mountain that should have stayed a molehill. Forever and a day that mountain is a part of the learning curve that I am constantly climbing.

So here I sit with 29 years of work experience, an infallible track record for attendance, and a folder full of (whoopie) certificates that are worth less than the space they take up in my study. What should I do with a NPC3 qualification in photolithography, numerous certificates in various print and web software applications, and certificates for this and that design course or another from a previous life when all I do when I'm not working is learning about "the next big thing", because I have come to the revelation that actually, that current next big thing - social media - is what I have been passionate about since the inception of the internet. Everyone is going on about Web 2.0 as if it's a new concept. It is and it isn't. UseNet groups in the history of the internet were made up of individuals who developed a communication style that didn't come from grammar books and English professors with marketing or journalism degrees. And then later came the Chat rooms like Firefly which got me running up the agency stairs to boot up the Mac. The internet has come full circle and grown up.

I am proud to say I've grown up with it. I know how web users think, and I know how they like it. I will even have the audacity to say I was one of the first. This would somehow make me qualified to a certain degree to write copy for the web, to manage content in various social media sites and to do it predominantly well. And I do. And I have. But it's not enough. Not enough to answer an ad that glibly asks for 3 years experience, plus degree/diploma in journalism/copywriting/marketing, plus samples of, etc. And so I sit on the inside of this learning curve that looks like a tunnel, and I peddle. I pedal because it's the only thing I know, and hope that I can pedal faster than that damned curve.