Write-hoff

There are days when I long to be locked in a darkened cell wearing a pair of orange overalls, Hilton-style. Devoid of human contact. Minus a driver’s license. I am living through one of them today in fact.

I think my occasional antisocial leanings stem from my days as a telesales person in London. 1) I was conned into it. 2) I hated it. It made me more uncomfortable than Dubya Bush attending a Greenpeace bring 'n braai. My employers must have thought I had a bladder the size of a sesame seed what with the number of trips I made to the ladies to avoid striking up yet another arduous conversation with a self-important marketing prick I imagined wearing a salmon shirt . I just could not stand selling advertising over the phone. At least I drew the line at the headset.

Even though I have long since kissed those torturous, telephone-chord strangulating days goodbye, I am sometimes transported by some nightmarish time machine from a Stephen King novel back to that emotional state of flatness. I feel the familiar signs of impending reclusiveness coming on like a game ranger senses a fresh rhino dump over the next koppie.

• 90% of all verbal emissions and written communications are junk
• Speaking of junk (in trunks) the only conceivable remedy is to throw a Mars bar at the problem, though this is in most cases, on a once a month basis
• Spoken and written junk induces withdrawal

Wallowing never helps. Tantrums sometimes do (Hilton again). Ill-equipped with the Queen’s illustrious ability to get stiffen her upper lizard lip, I usually just wait for a day or so to pass and the Fun Police to return my personality.