The potholed road to an unabridged birth certificate (Part 2)

[This story was written in 2007 when I still lived in Namibia.]

This morning I pitched up at Home Affairs at 7h30. The row was even longer than the one I encountered yesterday. I got that sinking feeling in my stomach, and decided to tackle the long road to Gobabis. Only 197km of open road between me and four Unabridged Birth Certificates.

I took off after filling up at around 08h20. At exactly 10h00 I stopped in front of the Home Affairs offices in Gobabis.

There were people in front of me, but I’m guessing they were only about 6 persons.

This was a mixture of applications for ID’s, birth certificates and death certificates.

Mr. Agarob (his real surname, no kidding!) was sitting next to me on the bench. He featured a nice homely alcoholic aroma, and I suddenly wished I had also taken a few sips before entering this place. But I was soon relieved of my misery. I was at the counter only 15 minutes later. I explained that I needed full birth certificates. The nice lady said I should rather apply for them in Windhoek, because she has to request them from Windhoek, and she was still waiting for other peoples’ documents since May. I once again felt as if the earth beneath me had sunk in.

But this lady was really nice. She could see my disappointment, and then suggested that we phone them in Windhoek and get confirmation over the phone. The people in Windhoek take very long before they answer the phone, so she will dial the number and I must sit in her office with the phone, and call her when someone finally answers. This happened quite a while later, and she took over and discussed the issue with the person on the other side. This person took down the details of all three my kids’ birth certificates, and told her to hold on. The phone was again transferred to me, and I called my angel lady a few minutes later. The person on the other side confirmed the details on the birth certificates, and she was now happy that all details were correct according to the Birth register in Windhoek.

What happened now still seems like something out of a dream or a movie. She gave me the Official Full Birth Certificate book, and told me to fill in the details just as I had on the application form. My handwriting was very neat on the application, and she was happy that I could fill in the form myself. I faithfully and neatly filled in the details for all three my children. She signed all three certificates and stamped them.

Now the issue of my own birth certificate still remained unresolved. She said I could leave my application with her, enter my name in their other book, and call in a month’s time to see what happened. But maybe I should just try again in Windhoek, because she cannot promise me anything.

Great.

I walked out of the building exactly an hour after my arrival, with my three children's Full Birth Certificates in my hand. Not only were they in my hand, but they were also made out in my own handwriting! How many people can say that?

Lucky kids! Hopefully they will never have to struggle to obtain things like these when they are adults, because they will be citizens of a developed country. I wonder if the Australian and New Zealand Immigration guys know how much trouble we have to go through to obtain these simple items.

On the way home I took a few shots of a nice park in Witvlei. The Joel Kaapanda park. See what you down-under guys are missing?

I also took a nice shot of a donkey car:

When I arrived back in Windhoek at 12h30, I decided to give the Home Affairs Office another try after 14h00. Maybe the crowds disappear after lunch.

I arrived at 14h05. I couldn't believe it! There were only about 10 people outside. At 14h15 they came to open the gate, but did not even bother to control the crowd, as it was too small to worry about. I thought something must be wrong, but what the hell, try it anyway. I ended up second from the front in the row designated “Birth certificates Khomas region”. The only problem was that we were all now sitting nicely on the benches, and waiting, but there was no one behind the counter. Only the cashier’s box had an occupant.

Anyone who tried to go near a counter was confronted by the Police lady, who did not take kindly to any uncontrolled behavior. “Sit there!” was the only answer you got to any question you asked. I sat. The lady next to me began talking to me, and I told her where to go and what to do in order to obtain a passport. I was now suddenly the expert around here.

Ten minutes later our nice Police officer started handing out application forms. She walked along the row, and handed you whatever form you needed. I got a big frown because I had my form already prepared and completed. Now my neighbor needed a pen. I had a pen, because I was prepared for anything! My pen soon became public property, but I don’t mind as long as I get it back.

Finally a lady appeared behind the counter. People everywhere jumped up to storm towards her. “Only ONE at a time!” she yelled. Everybody got back. Soon it was my turn, and she took hold of my papers. She started filling in an A4 paper titled RECEIPT.

“Come back in 7 days” she said and handed me my receipt.

That was it.

I will go back in 7 days, (definitely in the afternoon), take my receipt with me, and see what happens. I got my pen back too. I walked out of the building at 14h30.

I am still a bit stunned. What a day.

And almost no one even noticed I wasn’t at work today.

This had better all be worth it…

The potholed road to an unabridged birth certificate

I originally wrote this story on 30 July 2007, when I still lived in Namibia. This was in preparation for my move to Australia, which was well worth all the trouble:

This morning I had enough courage to try and obtain unabridged (Full) birth certificates for myself and my three children. I phoned the Department of Home Affairs last week about it, and they said I must bring copies of the abridged certificates, and come apply in the Northern Industrial area. You can only apply on Mondays, Tuesdays and Wednesdays.




So here I was. I first had to go the office to finish a few office-related thingies, and then pitched up at Home Affairs at 10h45. What greeted me was a "row" of people on the outside of the building.

They were roughly organized into three large bunches. I figured out my bunch was the lot standing behind a sign that said something about birth certificates.

The other two rows were Death registration (I don’t want to go there?), and ID documents. (Been there, done that!!! Did my ID in Gobabis, and it was worth the trip.) Imagine having to stand in this line to register the death of one of your loved ones - as if the experience wasn't bad enough already...

Anyway, I was standing here and noticing that nothing was really happening. Until about 11h15. The building is protected by a security gate. Whenever there is enough space inside the building, a police officer opens the gate and tries to control the crowd that wrestles to get inside. Once you're inside, you've made it! You’re “IN”, you’re on your way to progress! But while you're outside, you have to wait for the officer to open the gate every 30 minutes or so, and hope you can squeeze through.

At 12h30, it suddenly seemed that the outside row (where I was still located) tended to become less populated. A German guy next to me was also noticing the sudden progress, and started to investigate. There was a secret! Another door on the right-hand side of the building was open, and people were entering in there. Wow, we squeezed through and were just lucky enough to get in before someone realized the mistake and closed it up again.

The inside of the building was stuffed with people. I managed to get through to the counter, and requested information about the Full Birth Certificate. Apparently I was in the wrong line. This line is for people born outside the Khomas region, not those born in Windhoek. My line is the unorganized bundle that occupies the whole third of the building on the other side.

But after begging desperately I managed to get hold of the documents that you need to fill in. Nice photo copies, those that seem to be a copy of a copy of a copy. I still don’t know if I have to pay, but I've prepared myself to take some cash along.

Now I have a new plan. Tomorrow morning I will rise early, make sure I arrive at the building at 07h30 at the latest, and have my already completed forms with me. Maybe I will be able to squeeze through with the first bunch and then it shouldn’t take more than two hours.

If this doesn’t work, I’m getting in my car and driving to Gobabis. It worked for the ID documents, and should hopefully work for the Birth Certificates as well. I’d rather drive 4 hours than stand in a stinking sweaty bundle for two hours.

Pray for patience…

[To be continued]

'n Dag in 1977

Ouma was 'n tawwe Ouma wat nie nonsens gevat het nie. Ek kan onthou sy het op 'n stadium by die kommandos geleer skiet. Sy het nie tyd gehad vir Kommuniste en duiwelse mense nie. Sy het goeie Duitse bloed in haar are gehad. Sy het vir my 'n army boshoed gegee – 'n camo ene, wat ek tot vandag toe nog kan onthou.

Ek onthou eintlik bitter min van Ouma.

Ek onthou wel die hospitaal se gange. Daai reuk van die hospitaal wat ek nou nog nie kan verdra nie. Die reuk van mense wat doodgaan.

Toe ek in Sub A was het ons gereeld gaan stap saam met Ouma, daar in die straat af. Maar later was sy meer gereeld in die hospitaal. Kanker. Ons het baie daar gaan kuier, en dit was nie vir my lekker nie.

Op 7 Desember 1977 het my tannie by ons huis aangekom. My ma was nog nie terug nie. "Ouma is hemel toe", het sy vir my en my boetie kom sê, met trane in haar oë.

My boetie het my gevra: "wat bedoel sy?", en ek het geantwoord dat ek dink Ouma is dalk dood.

Oupa was nooit weer heeltemal dieselfde nie. Hy het 9 jaar lank geld gespaar sodat hy 'n huis kan koop voor hy sy vrou vra om met hom te trou. Hy was toegewyd in sy liefde vir haar. Daai tipe lewenslange band wat mens nie meer deesdae baie sien nie.

Elke jaar onthou my ma die datum – 7 Desember. Daar was blykbaar altyd sewes in haar lewe.

Nog 'n jaar verby, nog 'n seisoen langer terug – en mens onthou net sulke stukkies van alles. Hoe verder terug jy dink, hoe minder kan jy duidelik onthou.

AKTUR en die olifante

Ek was 6 jaar oud, en groot genoeg om skool toe te gaan. Ek het 'n koffer gehad wat amper so groot soos ek was. Ek het groot-oog daar op die skoolgronde aangekom, en maatjies begin maak.

Ek kan nie onthou watter jaar presies dit was nie – party geskiedenis-boeke praat van 1977, ander noem 1978. In 1977 was ek in Sub B, en dit kon moontlik daai jaar gewees het. Wat ek wel kan onthou, is dat daar groot politiek aan die gang was. Volgens die maatjies op die speelgrond was daar slegte mense wat DTA's was – hulle is kafferboeties en hulle is kommuniste en wie weet wat nog. As jy iemand kry wat 'n DTA is, dan vorm almal so kringetjie om hom en hy word uitgestort.

Blykbaar is almal AKTUR, jy sien. AKTUR was die goeie ouens. Hulle het 'n olifant gehad vir 'n simbool. Baie belangrike olifant.

Dit was omtrent die somtotaal van my kennis van die politiek in 1977. Toe ek later uitvind my ma stem DTA, toe is ek vreeslik geskok. Solank niemand weet nie, dan is ek oraait. Miskien was dit anders op ander skole in Suidwes, maar in Dr van Rhijn laerskool in 1977, was AKTUR beslis die in-ding.

Ek het geen idee gehad wie of wat AKTUR was nie. Dit staan blykbaar vir "Aksiefront vir die behoud van die Turnhalle-beginsels". Ek is net vertel dat Dirk Mudge ons nasie uitverkoop en dat ons nie moet toelaat dat die swart satans ons land afvat nie.

Snaaks genoeg wys die statistieke dat hierdie tipiese houding onder die Afrikaner vir baie jare al voorkom. AKTUR het slegs 11.9% van die stemme gewen in 1978, volgens hierdie webblad. Meer as 82% van blanke suidwesters het vir die DTA gestem. Praat nou vandag met mense in die land, en hulle sê vir jou dis alles die mense wat DTA gestem het se skuld. Niemand het kamstig DTA gestem daai tyd nie. Almal is deel van daai 11.9% AKTUR mense. Skokkend ne.

Dis dieselfde met daai klomp wat "Stop FW" gestem het. Blykbaar is almal vandag deel van die minderheid wat vir hulle gestem het…

Ons het gereeld speletjies gespeel. Jy weet, daai speletjies waar iemand die kroek is en die ander ouens is die cowboys. Al verskil was dat die kroeks DTA's was, en die goeie ouens was die AKTURS. Enige ou wat in sy broek gepiepie het in die klas, of dalk 'n vuil kol agter op sy broek gehad het, was outomaties as DTA gemerk.

Al hierdie goed gaan aan op die speelgrond terwyl ou Hendrik van Rhyn vir ons staan en kyk terwyl ons so speel. Hy was 'n ou swartman wat jare lank by die skool gewerk het. Hy het geweet hoe om daai blou wasvelle op die afrolmasjien te sit en dan sommer 'n hele 100 afdrukke te kan maak – hy was 'n slim ou man. Mens kan maar net wonder wat in Hendrik se kop aangegaan het as hy hoor hoe die wit kinders politiek speel.

Daar was so outjie wat altyd na piepie geruik het. Wonder wat van ou Loekas geword het. (Ja, dis hoe hy sy naam gespel het.)

Klomp van die kinders in hierdie skool was in die koshuis. Plaaskinders. Hulle was bietjie snaaks, van hulle. Hulle het rog gevreet pouses, en altyd oor die koshuiskos gekla. Hulle pa's en ma's het hulle op die ouderdom van ses hier kom aflaai, en dan sien hulle vir pa en ma net as dit langnaweek is of vakansies – en dan moet hulle werk op die plaas. Meeste van hulle kon al bestuur en het al 'n koedoe of twee platgetrek voor hulle tien geword het.

Twee van die koshuisbrakke het elke pouse gesit en kar-kar speel. Ek kon die ding nooit verstaan nie. Hulle het op die stoep gesit met hulle rue teen die muur, en hulle voete so voor hulle uitgestrek, en dan kar gery. Wroem wroem, hulle start daai ou Ford en die rook trek en die biesies bewe. Hulle gaan om draaie en deur slote, en sit die voet oppie petrol en dan briek hulle verwoed.

Elke liewe pouse vir 'n hele jaar lank het Ian en Smittie hierdie speletjie gespeel. In die klas sit die man met 'n liniaal, en dan gebruik hy die liniaal as 'n speedo – jy weet mos, daai ou simpel speedos wat so in 'n reguit lyn geloop het met die wyser wat so van links na regs beweeg hoe vinniger jy ry. Dan slaat die onnie daai mannetjie met die liniaal dat die hare waai. More doen hy dit weer.

Die plaaskinders was nie altyd so lekker nie. Maar daar was ander wat erger was.

Baie van die kinders in die skool se ouers het by die spoorweë gewerk. Windhoek Wes was daai tyd 'n wit buurt naby die spoorweg stasie. Daar was 'n paar snaakse karakters in daai skool. Party van my maatjies het in standerd vier nog nie eens 'n telefoon by hulle huis gehad nie. As ek vir ou Danie wou bel, moes ek die bure bel, en dan roep hulle hom, en hulle is nie baie gelukkig oor daai ding nie. Dan hoor ek hoe skreeu hulle daar iewers in die pad af om vir Danie te kry. Die mannetjie was later onderhoofseun – kan jy dit glo. Ons hoofseun was een van die twee wat kar-kar gespeel het op die stoep. Hy het later onderhoofseun by Windhoek Hoër Skool geword ook.

Ek wonder vir wie stem hulle nou? (Wat se verskil maak dit in elk geval?)


 

Sonde met die bure

Die storie het eintlik niks met my bure uit te waai nie, en ek weet nie of ek veel sonde het om oor te gesels nie. Ek is sommer net lus vir nonsens praat, en die titel laat dit klink asof daar iets is om oor te praat.

Ek het gister weer bietjie vooruit gegaan met die tegnologie in my huis. Ons het op die oomblik drie rekenaars (of neukenaars, soos my oudste dogter die ding genoem het toe sy nog klein was). Ons het egter net een printer, en die kinders van vandag ken mos nie meer van pen en papier en kryte en potlode nie. Nee-eee, hulle moet mos Powerpoint presentations doen en technicolour plakkate in 3D produseer. Nie dat dit 'n verskil maak nie, want deesdae kan niemand mos meer 'n standerd pluk nie, hulle gee jou net so algemene punt wat sê jy is net so dom soos allie ander kinders, of dalk bietjie bo-gemiddeld, of effe useless in vergelyking met die gemiddeldes. Maar niemand kan tog in die 22 ste eeu so gemeen wees om te waag noem dat 'n kind te dom is om deur te kom nie. Dis 'n vreeslike skending van menseregte, en dis klaar nie meer sonde om gay uit te draai nie, dus moedig jy nie kinders in daai rigting aan deur te sê hulle onderpresteer nie.

In elk geval. Drie rekenaars. Ek het 'n fancy draadlose netwerk ook hier in die huis. Dit beteken natuurlik dat hier vreeslike brain-waves oral om ons koppe vlieg – daai radio seine is die hele plek vol. Ek het 'n stewige stukkie internet ADSL2+ konneksie wat ek by Telstra kry. Elke maand mag ek 25G se data aflaai. Ek weet nie wat maak mens met 25G se data nie – ek kon nog nooit by die limiet uitkom nie. Ek sal daai hele Wikileak-affêre se geheime tien keer kan aflaai en nog steeds 24G oorhe.

Die een printer is nou egter 'n krisis. Die ou rekenaar wat die kinders moet gebruik, se Wi-Fi ding werk nie altyd lekker nie. En elke keer as ek die printer uit daai masjien se USB port uithaal dan vou sy wireless konneksie ook. Dit gaan nou al vir 'n lang tyd so aan, en gister toe maak ek 'n plan.

Ek sien 'n advertensie vir hierdie wireless printer – die ding kan enige plek in die huis staan, en as jy kliek op die "print" knoppie, dan spoeg hy technicolour papier uit al is sy drade nie in jou masjien in gedruk nie.

Volgens die ou by die winkel is dit peanuts om die ding te installeer – jy druk 'n knop of twee, en binne 10 minute print jy Mickey Mouse prentjies in 3D en full colour. Ek is mos darem 'n ingenieur en ek weet dit behoort vir my nog makliker wees as vir die gewone ou leek om die ding aan die gang te kry.

Ek kom by die huis met my fancy HP boks en ruk hom uitmekaar totdat net 'n printer oorbly. Die dingetjie lyk sommer heel wild, pikswart met knoppies en liggies en 'n skermpie wat praat met jou. Dit alles vir slegs $48 – dink jou dit in.

Ek lees ewe die instruksies – wil nie tyd mors en sukkel nie. Hulle vertel my ek moet die CD in die neukenaar in druk en dan die installasie doen voordat ek die USB kabel indruk. Ek doen alles ewe geduldig, maar na 'n halfuur se gesukkel vertel die installasie program vir my dat die printer nie met hom wil praat nie. Ek lees op die internet, loer oral, soek, maar niks werk nie. Ek stel aan my virus program maar niks wil werk nie.

Ek sit natuurlik ook met drie neukenaars wat elkeen 'n verskillende operating system het. Die oudste een – die ene wat die kinders moet gebruik – hardloop nog op XP. Die ouer laptop hardloop op die gehate ou Vista, en my nuwe nommertjie gebruik Windows 7. (Mens sal wonder of Windows7 beter kan wees as Windows95 – die nommer is dan kleiner?)

Elkeen van hulle doen ander goed as jy die printer probeer installeer. Nou is daar al ongeveer 2 ure verby en hierdie man is boos.

Ek sien later die IP adres van die printer op sy screen is heel verkeerd – hoe het dit dan nou gebeur? Die ding se blou liggie brand, wat beteken hy is op die wireless netwerk, maar volgens sy IP adres is dit nie op hierdie netwerk nie. Ek kon net sowel gepraat het met daai maankarretjie wat op Mars sit – die ding se posbus werk nie reg nie. Ek vind later uit ek moet die wireless router ook so bietjie skok-terapie gee. Sit hom af en sit hom weer aan en siedaar – printer het nou nuwe IP adres.

Nou sien ek al die printer op die netwerk maar die ding willie werk nie. Die neukenaar sê later vir my dat hy en die printer dieselfde IP adres het. O gonna, wat maak ek nou? Ek kry toe 'n manier om in die printer se brein in te klim deur die IP adres in my web browser in te tik. Skielik gaan 'n nuwe wêreld oop – jy kan al die printer se binnegoed hier verander. Ek verander sy IP adres, en siedaar – alles werk.

Uiteindelik werk my slim $48 plan. Maar tien minute se dinges man – jyt 'n ingenieursgraad nodig om die ding aan die gang te kry, en selfs dan sukkel jy. My vrou wil he ek moet haar leer hoe om iets in te scan op die printer – ek sien nie kans nie. Dis een ding om self te weet wat jy doen, dis 'n ander om dit vir mense te leer. Veral mense wat nou nog nie verstaan hoe om files te copy en paste na 'n memory stick toe nie.

Wel, die ding is nou gedoen – my netwerk laat loop teen 'n gevaarlike 52 Mbps, terwyl my internet konneksie getoets is op 7Mbps – eintlik veronderstel om 20Mbps te wees volgens Telstra. Selfs my WII masjien is sommer met die wireless gekoppel – jy kan ewe nogal op Joutjoep gaan via jou WII console. As jy wil.

Eendag gaan Julia Gillard vir my 'n optiese vesel na my huis toe aanlê, dan is my internet spoed sommer iewers tussen 100Mbps en 1Gbps volgens die regering se beloftes. Dit beteken my wireless router sal useless wees want hy loop teen maksimum van 52Mbps.

Teen daai tyd sal daar seker in elk geval baie ander speelgoed in my huis wees wat daai bandwydte wil gebruik. Blykbaar maak die Japsnese alreeds yskaste wat vir jou emails en SMS'e stuur as die melk opraak. Of nog beter, die yskas bestel sommer melk van die local IGA af via die internet, en as jy weer kyk is die melk by jou voordeur nog voor jy agtergekom het die melk is op. (Of dalk vind jy uit jy het nooit die melk in die yskas teruggesit nie – dit gebeur elke dag in my huis…)

Fireworks

I haven’t written a lot lately.  I love writing, but at the moment there are a few things happening in my life that I don’t really want to write about.  Frankly most of it is just so negative that I would send you into a depro if I wrote about it.  And to lose the last few committed readers that still dare to venture onto this blog, would be a fatal blow to my waning popularity.

In short, a friend of mine bamboozled me out of a lot of money, and I am in the process of demanding justice.  This process is quite intimidating and complex, not to mention costly, and may in fact not have the required end result, which should be justice. 

I’ve always been one of those suckers who continue to believe in the idea of fairness and justice.  And I still do.  A little bit.

Although I know a few good decent people in the legal industry, I have to say that in general, lawyers are a bunch of blood-sucking thieves, and even when you do have a good case that should go your way, the costs of getting this through court basically reduces your ability to act in any way.

Most of the lawyers I contacted at first, just wanted to go the easy way and create a paper-war.  They want to sit in the office being a pen-pusher, in stead of actually taking the matter to court.  And they literally charge you in 6 minutes timeslots.  When you go over into the 7th minute, you’re out of pocket for another 30 or 40 bucks, depending on the amount of personal debt this lawyer has to cover in order to sustain his expensive lifestyle.  They’re worse than engineering consultants. 

And why not?  These are the folks who end up being judges, members of parliament and other kinds of high-rollers, and they draw up our laws – why wouldn’t they create a system where they are the beneficiaries of other people’s bad luck?

Even though I was totally able to draft and send off my own “final letter of demand” to the debtor, most of the lawyers I contacted insisted that I write a letter of demand on their letterhead, which would apparently have a much better effect than my personally written one, which I simply got off the internet. 

For this great service a company like Ah*rns Lawyers (Full Name withheld to protect the innocent) would charge you $440.00.  What a farce.  Even after I repeatedly stated that I had already sent off a letter of demand, and that I now wanted to proceed with real legal action, M*rc#s Ah*rns still insisted that I first send off another letter on their letterhead.   According to him:

“…I recommend a letter of demand from our firm. It will threaten the claiming of costs and interest and carries a lot more weight than your letter as it shows you are serious as you have engaged solicitors.”

There’s nothing in there that wasn’t in my original letter.  Except a huge cost to print a piece of paper with their colourful letterhead on it.

This, of course, was after Mr Ah*rns took more than a week to respond to my first request for assistance. 

I finally got hold off a legal company who seems to have a lot more integrity.  They responded to all my emails in a speedy fashion - they even arranged the first meeting for free.  I was free to discuss my whole case with a lawyer, and could then decide what to do based on their advice.  If you live in Perth, I would highly recommend Havilah Legal if you ever need to talk to a respectable lawyer.  Check out their website.

Anyway, this still doesn’t mean that I’ve received any of the money this scumbag has stolen from me, but at least it’s a start.  One day when the whole matter has been done and dusted, I will tell you the exact details of what happened.  For the moment, I’ll leave names and details out of this to protect the guilty.

Anyway, last weekend we attended the annual Fireworks at Hillarys, and I took a few nice photos of the events.  Fireworks seem to be part of my life for the moment:

Acer 5315 shutting down?

This is not one of my normal blog posts.  This is one of those that you hopefully would come across when you search for the following fault:

“Acer 5315 laptop shuts down out of the blue”, or

“Acer 5315 laptop overheats, causing the system to shut down”.

If you have these problems, then is the post that will give you the easy solution.

I investigated this problem and found that the system shuts down due to the CPU overheating.  The computer protects the CPU from frying itself.  The question, however is why does this happen?  The fan is running, everything else seems to be fine.  I tried a lot of different things, but couldn’t really figure it out.

I tried the Acer support centre, who took three days to tell me that this is a “software problem”.  Here’s their solution:

Thank you for contacting Acer’s online helpdesk, and for providing me with these details.

The problem you describe can sometimes be caused by an underlying software issue, and so I should like to suggest you run through a system recovery.
I have provided some simple and easy to follow instructions that will help you perform a system recovery, though please note that all personal data will be deleted, and your system restored to its factory default.
I suggest you first backup your personal files to CD/DVD, an external HDD or a USB storage device if possible, and also recommend that you keep regular backups of your personal files.
Here are the instructions as mentioned:
1. Firstly, please ensure that all USB storage devices are removed before proceeding with a system recovery
2. Restart your Acer product; please then begin tapping both the ALT & F10 keys together repeatedly from the moment you see the Acer boot screen
3. Please continue tapping both the ALT & F10 keys together until you are presented with the Acer recovery console
4. Select ‘Restore to Factory Default’ from the recovery options and enter your recovery password; the default password is six zeros – 000000, though you may have changed this at some time
5. Please press enter to continue, and then follow the on-screen instructions
6. The system recovery will be complete within 30-45 minutes, at which point I trust your system will return to its normal operation.
Thank you for your enquiry and I look forward to your response.
Have a great day.”

Got it?

OK, now this sounds like a typical IT helpdesk solution – if all else fails, re-boot, wipe out everything and re-install it – what a stupid suggestion!  How will that solve an obvious hardware issue?

I tried to read up on the web, and found people with the most amazing solutions.  Stuff like this:

1) Install the script that controls the fan
Download the script in the attachment in the post: http://www.mail-archive.com/acpi-bug.../msg14582.html
I have also attached it below.
2) Unpack the script
tar xvfz acer_fancontrol.tar.gz
3) IMPORTANT Modify the script to match your hardware (It is set up for a 2GB 5720Z as it is).
gedit acer_fancontrol
Pick the memory size which matches your memory size
4) Try it out
sudo ./acer_fancontrol
If you used the slightly modified script attached to this post, you should see that it prints some messages out like "Ignition Off", "Clutch down" or something. These correspond to the fan speeds, and you should be able to hear the fan working for anything above "Ignition Off".
5) If it works you can install the script
sudo cp acer_fancontrol /usr/bin
sudo cp mempat /usr/bin
6) Make it run automatically
sudo gedit /etc/rc.local
Insert "acer_fancontrol" before the final "exit 0"

And all sorts of other crazy stunts like tinkering with your BIOS and installing other operating systems.

go into terminal (or whatever you use) and type:
su root <-- it didnt seem to work with the sudo stuff, it kept saying your not root blah blah blah and thats the only way it didnt complain about it
cd /proc/acpi/thermal_zone <-- This will get you into the right folder.
gedit cooling_mode <-- make sure that its this file your editing.
and then add this into it when it opens up in a text editor:
cooling mode: active
save the file, then restart the computer.

(…What the hell?)

This is all nonsense.  The problem is not with the operating system, not about whether it’s 32 bit or 64 bit, Vista or XP - nothing to do with that.  It’s a HARDWARE problem, you stupid geeks!  Hardware is the manly stuff that actually make things work, like wheels and gearboxes.  Not everything can be fixed by updating software!

I saw one bloke’s response where he mentioned something about opening the internal fan and removing the dust bunnies.  I thought that I’d been there and done that, having already blown out the notebook with a compressor.  But then I read on, and realised that you have to open up the fan, and you’ll see what he means.

All the other wise geeks ignored this bloke’s comments and kept on with the nerdy-talk – BIOS patches, ISO file editors and who-knows-what.

But no one really had a proven solution.  Most of these geeks screwed up their computers beyond repair, causing even more problems.  Some talked about putting the notebook in the fridge to cool off, some messed with their CPU voltages.

One bloke even took his machine back to Walmart and got a full refund!

I took the advice from the smart guy on the forum, and opened the fan.  Now looky here, here’s the answer!  At first I thought I was looking at some sort of gasket between the fan and the heat sink block, but when I totally removed the fan I saw that this was in fact a dust bunny that blocked off any air supply to/from the fan:

Note that even if you try to blow the notebook out with a compressor, you won’t get rid of this little sucker without unscrewing the fan cover and removing the fan. 

So, this isn’t a virus, it’s not your BIOS patch, it’s not the Acer ePower management software, it’s just a plain old dust problem.  You can’t even blame Vista for this one.

Suddenly this old laptop is running sweet, full speed 100% CPU usage at a cool 50 degrees Celsius, in stead of the normal 80-85 when no program was running.  Awesome.

Cost to repair: $0.00

Value of this knowledge: Priceless.

Oh, and yes – don’t try the Acer helpline – a waste of time.

Apostles and Notorious Public prophets of doom

I recently managed to sell my share of a property that I owned in South Africa. I actually made a loss, because I got back the same amount that I paid for the piece of land 4 years ago, but I was just glad to get rid of this dead investment and move on to greener pastures.

My brother-in-law was kind enough to buy out my share, and he transferred the money to my SA bank account. After numerous struggles and hefty fees I finally managed to deposit the funds into my local Commonwealth Bank account – just in time to pay a deposit on a property deal in Melbourne. Don’t ask - but yes, Melbourne - even though I live in Perth... (it’s complicated.)

Anyway, a few days later his lawyers contacted me. We just need to finalise some of the documents, as my brother-in-law paid the funds even though the documentation hadn’t been finalized yet – which was a very kind deed from his side.

So, I owe him a lot – I need to sign these documents and make sure he gets value for his money.

Easy enough. At first, they just wanted my ID documents, my marriage certificate and my bank account details. Everything was going smoothly.

Then came the shocker:

If you sell property in South Africa, and you are not in the country to sign the documents, the documentation needs to be “apostilled”. I’ve never really heard this term before, but believe me - it’s nothing enjoyable. It sounds like some kind of sickness and is in fact worse than one.

I received a list of instructions with documents that needed to be signed. I had to sign these documents in the presence of someone who is qualified to apostille the documents. This person must be

1. Head of a South-African diplomatic or consular mission; or

2. a person in the Administrative or professional division of the public service, serving at the South-African diplomatic, consulor or Trade Office

This sounds easy, doesn’t it?

I jumped onto Google and checked it out. Yep, Perth does have a “South African Honorary Consulate” – good news.

Luckily I rang them up before travelling all the way into the city. “Nope, we don’t do that”, said the lady. “You need to go the Department of Foreign Affairs (DAFT)”.

“Which one?”, I asked - “the Australian Department of Foreign Affairs?” This doesn’t make sense, but the answer was yes.

This morning I jumped onto the train in Leederville and got off at Perth station, on the way to the Exchange Plaza. The DFAT is on level 17. I saw a door with the words “Apostille” written somewhere on it, and was feeling quite happy at finding the right place.

The lady behind the window informed me that they can’t apostille something that I sign in front of them. I need to go to a “Notary Public”, and this person would be able to do it. Then I have to return to the DAFT and hand in the documentation, and it takes 24 hours for them to finalise. It costs $60 for every page, plus $20 for binding it. For my 5 pages this means that this is going to cost me a minimum of $320, plus the Notary public’s fees.

Great.

She gave me an outdated list with names of Public Notaries on it. I saw that some of the addresses were also in St. George’s Terrace, so off I went looking for these Notorious Publicans.

They’re notoriously unavailable.

Either Mr. X is in court, or Mr. Y simply does not do this anymore. Or, “you can call his secretary and make an appointment, but he’s very busy, you know…”

I was referred from the 25^th floor of one building to the 28^th floor of the building across the street – then to the 4^th floor of building Y, and on again to the 23^rd floor of building D. In the meanwhile, the lady at the DAFT informed me that they close at 1pm. So at 1:30pm it was a lost cause anyway.

I finally had to admit defeat, and I crawled into Gloria Jeans for a coffee and a sausage roll. When I finally got onto the train I felt I a bit of a failure after wasting three hours in the city without achieving anything.

Next time I’ll plan this better. Make appointments. Pay huge sums of money. Make more appointments. Pay some more. And then hopefully mail these completed documents back to South Africa at enormous cost.

Or I could ignore it all, do nothing and hope it all goes away while I let my brother-in-law stress it out on that side.

Die dag toe ek gesteel het

Ek kyk nou weer diep hier in my sondige siel in, en bely weer hier voor die massas al my sondes. Ek het lankal al my Police Clearance sertifikaatjie by die Nambabwiese polisie gekry. Hulle sê my record is so wit soos sneeu. Maar ek het so bietjie van 'n kriminele agtergrond wat hulle nie van weet nie...

Ons het Duitse bure gehad waar ek groot geword het – ons het al die jare in een huis gebly, my ma-hulle sit nou nog daar. Die eenkant was heel beskaafde mense. Aan die anderkant het die Richter's gebly. Hulle was 'n goddelose klomp. Letterlik en figuurlik.

Daai oom het sy vrou gevloek sommer daar van onder af, dan is sy daar bo iewers by die huis. Later het die kinders net so lekker gevloek. Hulle vloek hulle eie ma soos ek nie eers 'n vyand van my se ma sal vloek nie. Ons het gereeld gehoor hoe skel hulle mekaar, en as hulle ma praat met hulle, dan skreeu hulle: "Fock dich, mutti!!"

Dan sê Oupa vir ons, ons moenie eers dink daaraan om sulke woorde te gebruik in hierdie huis nie – dis selfmoord. So is daar nie by ons huis gepraat nie.

Die klomp was partykeer nogal entertaining. (So op 'n SouthPark siek-humoristiese manier.) My broer het my vertel toe ek al eerstejaar op die Bos was, toe is daar een dag groot marrakkas. Die twee oudste broers het 'n fight opgetel, en die een het die geweer in die hande gekry. Ouboet het vir ma bietjie geklap – nes sy pa hom geleer het. Kleinboet raak toe heel bossies en kry daai geweer daar uit die kluis uit.

Hy gee daai man so bietjie voorsprong in die straat af, en trek daar los. Skote klap die wêreld vol, ouboet koes net en hol straat-af. My oupa wou tussenbeide tree, toe vloek daai mannetjie hom. Oupa het partykeer so kwaad geraak dat hy vries – gelukkig was hierdie een van daai kere. Hy het nie grootgeraak in 'n wêreld waar kinders oumense vloek nie – dit was taboe. My broer het hom gaan kalmeer en die klomp is later weer stil langsaan.

So was hulle gewees. Rof en onbeskof, en windgat. Het baie geld gehad, al die jare Mercedes'e gery, en die eerste TV in die buurt was hulle sin.

Ek het Duits gepraat in die huis toe ek klein was. Na my ma-hulle se egskeiding het ons al hoe meer net Afrikaans gepraat, en Afrikaanse skool toe gegaan. Ek kon egter nog goed Deutch praat met die bure se kinders. Oom Buurman sê toe eendag maar ek moet Afrikaans met die kinders praat, hulle moet die Taal aanleer. Nou vandag praat hulle Afrikaans en Duits, en my Duits het heel verlore gegaan.

Eendag in die laerskool, toe gaan ons winkel toe, en Thomas gaan saam met my. Daai Minimark naby Hidas, hy's vandag nog daar. Porra se winkel, tien-teen-een 'n Porra wat uit Angola gekom het. Ons loop daar in die winkel rond, ewe onskuldig. Thomas wys my later - toe ons by die winkel uit is saam met my ma – hyt klomp sweets daar in sy sak gedruk en by die winkel uitgekom sonder om te betaal.

Dis 'n nuwe wereld wat vir my oopgaan. 
Ek weet dis verkeerd, maar daai adrenalien en testosteroon begin praat, en hierdie klein mannetjie wil nou ook bietjie steel. Die volgende keer toe my ma minimark toe gaan, is ek weer saam, met slim planne in my kop. Ek kyk daai plek uit, niemand sien my nie, ek pocket daai sweets. By die till betaal ek net vir so 30 sent se goed – dit moet net lyk asof jy eerlik is en betaal vir jou goed. Die res is mos bonus.

Toe ek daai plastieksakkie so wil vat om te loop, toe kom daai Porra en staan so by my langs die till. My ma is al uit by die winkel uit, gelukkig. Hy vra: "wat van daai goed in jou sak?" Ek is heel omgeboul, ek stotter en vertel hom ek het skoon vergeet, ja, ek moet die ook betaal. Ek plak toe maar die geld daar neer op die till met 'n bewerige hand. Daai Porra het my net so skewe grynslag gegee.

Tot vandag toe weet my ma nie wat gebeur het nie. Hoe ek my vrees en bewing weggesteek het vir haar, weet ek nie. Maande lank het ek nooit saamgegaan Minimark toe nie.

En tot vandag toe is ek te bang om iets te steel.

Die mannetjie met die manbag

Ek staan nou die dag hier by die poskantoor om 'n koevert te koop. Die poskantoor hier lyk bietjie anders as NamPost - dit lyk meer soos 'n klein weergawe van die CNA. Hulle verkoop allerhande groottes koeverte en CD's en almanakke, koffiebekers, poskaarte en penne, en wie weet wat nog. Amper alles behalwe seëls lyk dit my.

Ek staan en wag in die tou, want ek wil my koevert koop.

Hier twee plekke voor my staan 'n gevaarte wat my sommer laat skrik. Die mannetjie se hare staan soos wilde spykers op sy kop. Hy dra sulke swart klere - ek dog amper hy is 'n bankrower wat nou poskantore wil beroof. Sy ou swart spykerhaartjies lyk bietjie deurmekaar, en hy het sulke lekka punk-style grimering hier rondom sy ou grillerige jakkals-ogietjies. Daar hang 'n kettinkie om sy middellyfie van sy belt af, en hy dra allerhande oorbelle aan sy neus, tong en ore - en wie weet waar nog...

Sy help-my-sterk-lyk swart hempie bult nou nie juis van die spiere nie. Maar wag, hier is 'n ding op sy bo-arm. Nee, dis nie bultende spiere nie, dis nie 'n tattoo van 'n draak wat vuur spoeg nie; dis 'n regte egte "manbag" wat hy so lekker drapeer hier oor sy kunsterige armpie.

Hiert, gogga! Ek val amper om, ek sluk amper my adamsappel heel in, so verbouereerd raak ek. Ek het al gehoor van die man-bag affêre, maar nie gedink daar is mannetjies wat die goed regtig dra nie? Ek knyp sommer my bene styf teenmekaar, en staan met my rug teen die muur, so benoud voel ek.

Toe dit sy beurt is by die till, toe haal hy ewe sy geldjies daar uit sy swart sagte donserige man-bag om te betaal.

Kan jy nou meer?

Toe ek klaar my koevert gekoop het, het ek mooi oor my skouer geloer oppad terug kantoor toe, ek wil nie he die man-bag moffie moet my dalk van agter af bestorm nie. Die wêreld raak gevaarlik deesdae...

Tyd om fees te vier

Ons vier vandag twee jaar in Australië, en my verjaarsdag was ook laas week.

Ek het hierdie jaar ‘n klomp goeie geskenke gekry vir my verjaardag. My een vriend James het hier opgedaag met ‘n big-screen TV.

Daar is ‘n prentjie van die Pous op net om die ding heiliger te laat lyk…

Ek het al voorheen ‘n big screen by my ander vriend Tony gekry, maar hy was een van daai meer outydse tipes wat ‘n ton weeg.  Hy staan in die kinders se speelkamer.  Dus is hierdie nou al die tweede big screen wat ek present kry vandat ons hier geland het!

En my vroulief het vir my ‘n ordentlike koffiemasjien gekoop. Die ding forseer warm water teen 15 bar deur die koffie - ‘n regte egte koffiemasjien hierdie.

Daai koffie is so lekker, as ek in die oggende werk toe ry dan proe ek nog daai lekker koppie koffie hier in my mond - al het ek my tande geborsel. Die hele dag lank droom ek van daai lekker koffie, en kannie wag om weer huis toe te gaan en nog enetjie te brou nie. Mense, dis ‘n lekker lewe die.

Gisteraand het ek en my mooi vroutjie gaan uiteet. Ek het ‘n plek bespreek in die stad. Dis ‘n restaurant op die 33 ste vloer van die St Martins gebou. Die hele vloer draai stadig in die rondte terwyl jy daar sit. Dit was ‘n ongelooflike ervaring. Die kos was uit die boonste rakke, alhoewel ons nou en dan moes vra wat beteken die goed op die menu - dis sulke franse woorde.

My bestelling was:

“Char grilled grass-fed beef fillet, cacciatore sausage and brie polenta, roasted Field mushroom and red onion jam and a port jus”

Die sogenaamde polenta is eintlik maar amper soos mieliepap, en alhoewel ek nog nooit ‘n groot pap-vreter was nie, was dit lekker om ‘n slag bietjie mieliepap by my kos te kry.

Die vleis was uitstekend.

My ander helfte het vis bestel:

“Fresh ocean trout, cucumber yogurt, herbed and crumbed zucchini and eggplant, chorizo, chilli confit.”

Dit was blykbaar ook besonders lekker. Die kelner praat ook met so stewige Franse aksent, dus was dit by tye moeilik om uit te vind wat ons eintlik bestel, want hy het gesukkel om dit te verduidelik.

Ons poeding was

“Chocolate moelleux with a raspberry melting heart, vanilla bean ice cream”

Mensig, dit was ‘n stukkie hemel wat aarde toe gekom het. Dis amper soos ‘n chocolate brownie wat nes ‘n muffin lyk. As jy hom oopmaak, dan peul die warm sjokolade sous uit sy magie uit. Heerlik.

Die hele petalje het my amper $200 uit die sak gejaag, as jy die $11 parkeerplek in die basement bytel. Dis teen vandag se koers amper R1400 vir twee mense. Ek weet nie wat dit deesdae kos om in Suid Afrika uit te eet nie, maar dit klink vir my stewig. (Maar dit was elke sent werd, glo my!)

Ons is nou presies twee jaar al hier in Perth. Kan nie glo hoe die tyd vlieg nie. Vanmiddag vlieg my oudste na Canberra en Sydney vir ‘n skooltoer - ek is so lus om saam te gaan, ek kan my lag nie hou nie. Maar ek sal maar hier by die huis moet bly en die vroumense oppas!

i simpl storiki

Ek ht bslyt om vi julle i storiki ti skryf in “SMS taal”.

Vnoggnd tu ek by di garage uitry toe sien ek my kar si 1 wiel is pap.  Ek moes toe di wiel omrl.  ek ht vreeslk gevluk & kwat geraak oor di simpl wiel.

Eers mut jy di sparwl lat uitkom.  Die sparwl het i ding innie midl va di vloer ondir di mat.  Dar sit i mur wat jy moet drai tot di wiel oppie grnd is.  Dan mur jy di wiel tot hy loskom va di ding af.  Di sparwl is omtrnt helfte va di regte wiel – hy lyk soos i marie biskit en het grot letrs op wat sê hy maggie vinigir as 80 ry ni.

My hanne ht vrslk vyl gerak met die wiel ryliry.  Weetie hoeko i bleri wiel altyd so vuil moet wesie.  di pat is mossie so erg vuil ni man?  Ht somma my eie mur ook gestrip.

Tu mut ek die annir wiel afhal & di wiel-mur is bai styf vas.  Tu vluk ek wee baje.  Na ek di wiel afgekry ht mus ek di dun sparwiliki opsit.

Ek het di sparwiliki oppie kar gesit en toe mus ek na di tajr plek toe ry ommie tajr te fix.

i bleri skroef ht innie wiel gasteek en hy sit oppie kant va di wiel nou kan ekkie eers di wiel lat fix ni – moet nuwe ene buy.

8 nee man dissie lekka nie etse.

Ek wag tu viddie maniki ommie wiel om te ryl.  Tiwyl ek kyk sien ek di mensi wat karre was da by die kawasj.

Di wiel is kla ma ek mut nog di sparwiliki trig sit.  Dan mut ek wee di ou mur drai tot hy di dingiki oppie grnd lat sak.

Di dag kannet betr rak va hi af.

Die buurman se dogter en die swaai

Ons bure het ‘n groot swaai gehad. Oom Buurman was ‘n loodgieter, maar nie sommer enige ou plumber nie - hy was ‘n duitser. ‘n Duitse loodgieter doen dinge ordentlik, en hy het ‘n goeie reputasie gehad. Hy het elke Saterdag in sy garage gewerk, en sy radio kliphard gespeel sodat hy die rugby kan volg. Dit was nog voor ons TV gehad het. En toe ons in Windhoek TV kry in 1981, het hy geweier om een in sy huis aan te hou. 

Ek onthou nog hoe hy altyd rugby geluister het op die radio, so tussen die sweisery en werkery deur. Hy het aangehou daarmee tot ek na matriek uit die huis uit is.

Die swaai het hy self aanmekaargeslaan - hoe dan anders? Dit was die hoogste swaai wat ek in my lewe nog gesien het. Daai kettings was kilometers lank. Dit het baie energie gevat om die swaai aan die gang te kry en om hoog met hom te swaai. Die ding kon so hoog swaai dat ek skoon bang geraak het.

Ons het gereeld langsaan gespeel by die bure se dogter. Sy was ‘n jaar ouer as ek, en haar ouer suster en broer was baie ouer as ons. Ons het gereeld “pa, ma en kind” gespeel - ek is die pa, sy is die ma, en my boetie is die kind. Niks leliks nie - baie onskuldig. Ons het selfs “dokter-dokter” gespeel sonder dat dit ooit in iets viesliks ontaard het. Ons was goeie maatjies gewees, veral oor die vakansie tye. Omdat ons in die uithoeke van Windhoek gebly het, daar in Avis, was daar nie veel ander maatjies om mee te speel nie.  (Daai tyd was Avis soos nog ‘n klein plattelandse dorpie buite Windhoek, so ver was dit van alles af.)

Ek moes kies tussen haar of die mal duitsers aan die ander kant. My ma-hulle wou nie he ons moet met hulle speel nie - hulle vloek te veel, en die kinders vloek en slaan sommer die ma as hulle nie hul sin kry nie.

Sy het gereeld geswaai op die ding.  Die swaai het mens altyd so rustig gemaak, as jy daar hoog bo alleen was.

Elke nou en dan het ek ook ‘n beurt op die swaai gekry. Dan swaai ek so hoog as ek kan tot ek bang raak. As die kettings oppad ondertoe so bietjie slap raak aan die bokant, dan skrik jy jou hele middagete sommer weg.

Haar pa het altyd met so Volkswagen kombi bakkie gery. Eendag toe koop hy een van daai nuwe Kombi Fleetline bakkies. ‘n Gele, met so ronde neus met ‘n V wat afkom.

Ons staan bo by die huis se trappe, en gil van die trappe af: “Ryk omie, ryk omie!!” Ek weet nie hoekom ons dit gedoen het nie, maar dit was vir ons baie snaaks om iemand met ‘n nuwe kar te sien. Toe my ma ons hoor, toe word ons ingeroep, en die houtlepel word hard neergelê op ons agterente.

Ek het bietjie gaan opsoek oor die Fleetline, en het dit gekry:

 

In 1975 the VW Fleetline was released in South Africa as a budget alternative to the German models. It was only in production for a year and was manufactured in Brazil, comprised of parts from both older and newer versions of the transporter. Fleetlines came in three options: panel van, 15-Window Kombi and wide-body single cab pickup/bakkie.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hy het nie die Fleetline lank gehad nie, toe koop hy ‘n ander geel kombi bakkie, ene wat ek dink hy vandag nog het. Al sy pype en goed het hy agter op die tralies gehad.

Later jare het die meisiekind ‘n tiener geword en heel mislik geraak. Haar kamer se mure was vol posters van punks en rock stars, en sy het begin pop musiek luister en in snaakse goed begin belangstel. Ons het opgehou saamspeel, en ek het van toe af ver weggebly van haar kamer af.

Ek het later jare heel kontak verloor met haar.  Sy het met harige bikers en goete begin rondhang op hoërskool, en van daar af het dinge net vererger.

Ek wonder of sy nou terugverlang na daai onskuldige tye, toe sy nog nie probeer het om ‘n wille grootmens te wees nie. 

‘n Luilekker Aussie-biltongboer dag

Vandag het die Biltongboer weer een van sy hard-verdiende afdaggies gehad by die werk. Elke “fortnight” kry ek die Vrydag af. Met ander woorde, elke tweede Vrydag sit ek by die huis. Die kinders is by die skool en my vrou hol rond in die dorp. Ek is alleen - ek hou van alleen wees.

Vanoggend het ek bietjie afgestap na ons naaste IGA winkelsentrum net om die hoek, en bietjie inkopies gedoen.

Een van die artikels wat ek gekoop het, was ‘n Vanilla Slice, ook bekend as ‘n “snot block” in sekere dele van die land. Ek het die snot blokkie met ‘n vurk en ‘n skerp mes beetgevat, en hom versigtig benader saam met ‘n koppie vars koffie. Lekker man.

Toe word dit tyd om die vlam aan te steek vir ‘n paar mushrooms oppie barbie. Die armige sampioentjies het nie geweet wat hulle getref het nie. (Terloops, die aussies verstaan om een of ander rede nie as jy van sampioene praat en na hulle verwys as “sampy-jones” nie.) En toe kom die hoofgereg - ‘n lekker ou stukkie rump steak. Die IGA verkoop altyd vleis teen afslag as dit te naby die “use by date” kom. Ek weet mos ek gaan hom dadelik eet, so ek koop die goedkoop vleis.

Ek was bietjie lus vir ‘n bederf, en het toe sommer van hierdie vleissous gekoop wat jy in die mikrogolf warm maak. 40 sekondes later sit jy met ‘n heerlike pepper-cream sousie, net om die hoofgereg mee af te rond.

Die rump kry so twee minute op elke kant op die warm plaat, en dan is dit tyd vir hom om te wys waarvan hy gemaak is.

Heerlikste ou sappige stukkie vleis. Man, hierdie Wes-Australiese beesvleis is koning.

Ek voel nou bietjie moeg, en die dag is nog nie halfpad nie. Tyd om my koerantjie te sit en lees, en dan gaan ek eers bietjie lê. Dit was ‘n lang, harde dag die...