The Opinion Pieces are an eclectic bunch on current affairs & history often with a human interest aspect. The Movie/DVDs reviews are mainly on documentaries with a smattering of movie reviews.
This blog does not represent the story of these bridges. Rather it represents an attempt to link every photo of a bridge to the correct bridge mentioned by Margaret Harradine. This was more difficult that it seems as many bridges were destroyed multiple times. The original caption on a photo never identifies whether the bridge was in fact the second or even third bridge at that location. Blaine McCleland, the technical advisor on this series of blogs undertook this tedious exercise and has produced this report.
Main picture: Possibly the Folley Bridge (looks like South End side in the background with Lower Valley Road)
Like the overwhelming majority of Europeans of my generation in PE I was born in the Provincial Hospital – Sandford Block to be precise. Not for us the home births in a Tepee with a dreamcatcher gently twirling in the breeze while a Mother Earth midwife rocks on her haunches as she chants incomprehensible jargon. No, for all the talk about being tougher, my parent’s generation for once were wusses and did not do it au naturel like their mothers – sterile hospital birth it was.
Main picture: Parking lot exit into Buckingham Road – the scene of my denouement in early 1975 while on a mercy mission to visit a friend.
I am increasingly of the opinion that the wearing of masks is an imperative. I have just finished listening to a Czech doctor who said that it is mandatory to wear masks the moment they step outside and their infection rate is testimony to those measures. I’m not talking about the N95 mask but the ordinary pleated mask. Its all about risk reduction.
When I was directed by an email
link to this video (https://www.youtube.com/embed/BC1l4geSTP8)
I thought I had been sneakily misdirected to a televangelist’s video – he
looked just like your common or garden mercenary TV pastor/charlatan.
I must admit that I did not get
past the first minute of his presentation when his earnest piercing eyes forced
me to shut him down before I did the coyote trick and chewed my arm off. So, this will not be a comprehensive
refutation of his claims but I got enough of his drift and arguments early on
and I did not wish to waste my life any further than I had to. It’s all been said before.
If one doubts the terrible economic consequences of the disease, then these Nasa photos will jolt you out of your complacency. They show the amount of Nitrogen Oxide in the atmosphere which is primary due to the usage of motor cars but also any industrial process that burns fuels at high temperatures.
The first photo overs a period in January before lockdown – voluntary as well as involuntary – and the second covers the period after it has taken effect.
Disclaimer: As apposed to my brother Dean, I should
be the long distance runner in the family.
I, in my callow youth, was short, wiry and ornery (but mostly just went
my own way). Suddenly one day in
standard 9 the ugly duckling became a ‘swan’.
From always being on the ground in the annual class photographs I
suddenly found myself in the second row – heady times. In Matric, I proudly took my place alongside
all those guys in the back row who had played rugby lock their whole lives –
traditionally reserved for the tallest while the coach struggled to find a
position where he could hide me. I might
have got tallish, but I never got broad, let alone broadish. I left Varsity a tad under 6 ft and weighing
in at 73kg. By the age of 55 I had put
on weight – I weighed 75kg. I was long
distance material – rangy and still a bit ornery. Dean, my elder brother by 4 years, was not
the archetypal long distance runner. He
was an inch or two shorter than me and struggled with his extra poundage for
his whole life. In addition, a very,
very septic burst appendix (caused by our sister Cheryl, a tough little shit of
note, giving him a voltruis skop in the right side when he was 10 or 11)
ensured that his 6- pack, if he could get one, was ripped to pieces by the aggressive
surgery resulting in a recurrent stitch when running.
I think we’re f%$@ed no matter
what we do. Perhaps that’s an
exaggeration, but I believe that unless we make radical interventions soon, it
will be too late no matter what we do then.
I’m not referring to the tearing of the social fabric of society due to
social media or violent pc games, or the destruction of rain forests, or the
bleaching of coral reefs – I am only concerned here with climate change.
Bruce Koloane obviously agreed to plead guilty to his three charges at his disciplinary hearing which meant that no evidence was led and, hence, no red faces, particularly for No. 1 – that is if his face could turn red. Thinking about it, even if he was melatoninally challenged like me, he still would not blush as he has no shame.
But I digress. Pleading guilty is very useful in certain cases.
Main picture: Uit klaar parade, Officers Course, Tech Services Corp, Dec 1981
Main picture: The statue of Bruno with his gobby ball was commissioned by the Std 5 class of 1970 and has pride of place in the lobby of Herbert Hurd Primary
This is an obscure memorial, a semi private one. It is a memorial to a dog that meant so much to so many children from Newton Park in the late 60’s and early 70’s. In the words of Theo Rjis, Bruno seemed to belong to nobody but belonged to every pupil in the school and Gary Williams who struggled with schooling, “He was my school Prozac.”
Wow. Actually, bow-wow, not that Bruno said anything. He was the strong silent type as Staffies are wont to be.
This is the story of Bruno, a brindle Staffie, who was memorialized by the Std 5’s of 1970 and still lies guarding his gobby in the lobby of Herbert Hurd Primary School – my school.
The statue of Bruno with his gobby ball was commissioned by the Std 5 class of 1970 and has pride of place in the lobby of Herbert Hurd Primary Bruno didn’t know about Maslow’s hierarchy of needs as he was only in primary school, and even if he did, they were all taken care of. By night he lived with the Roberts, his part-time owners, on the corner of Hudson Street and 5th Avenue and by day he lived at our school. If his owners didn’t feed him interesting stuff, then there were more than 500 kids clamoring to see to his needs. If the Roberts weren’t loving enough there was always Mr Presley, the school caretaker who pampered him, not mention those 500 kids. And as for sex, well the Roberts had taken care of that for him.
Bruno’s only need, nay addiction, that he struggled with throughout his life was the need to chase a gobby ball. If it did sometimes happen that he was ball-less when Mr Presley, the caretaker, had run out old cricket balls or the kids were being stingy, then a half brick would suffice. I was also told that when he was caught short during school holidays, he would become a shoplifter. He would tootle over to Hill’s Chemist on the corner of 3rd Ave and Cape Road and steal a used tennis ball out of the basket where they were loosely kept – needs must and all that.
I suppose that there are many other stories, but I personally know of two: It was around 1968 and Bruno was by now solidly in his middle age. One day, a white bull terrier – the kind with the bullet nose and who say nothing but just take your name down – appeared on the grounds during break. HKGK. Before we knew it, the two were having a rort . They went for each other as only dogs of those breeds can do, with Australian subtitles since they were on mute as these breeds are wont to be. It was a cage fight of the most vicious kind with us forming the cage. When someone eventually managed to part them, Bruno was beaten and slunk bloodily away. We were distraught.
This new dog became king of the school, but not for us. We missed our happy, friendly Bruno and this young pretender with pink eyes did not cut it for us. Unbeknownst to us Bruno was at home licking his wounds, thinking to himself, “I’ll be back.” A long week went by and then Bruno returned. They had a massive rort again with Afrikaans subtitles thrown into the mix this time. Bruno saw off the pretender and was never challenged again. Order in the Universe had been restored.
On another occasion we came out at first break to find Bruno furiously digging around the concrete base of a post or pole that had long since disappeared. This was on the Willet Street side, about half way down the rugby field. That day we forwent our ritual games of Cops and Robbers as we munched our wax paper wrapped peanut butter sammies while curiously watching him. It was like a rort and we boys formed a rowdy circle around Bruno and his protagonist – The Rock. We shouted encouragement and advice but he didn’t need any, he knew what he was doing. Bruno, with his stiff little tail wagging enthusiastically in the air as he scrambled with his forepaws, was trying to dig around the side of this lump of concrete. Eventually the bell went and we trudged bemused back to the classroom wondering what second break would bring. Second break came and we eagerly rushed outside to see what progress had been made. There was Bruno proudly standing next to his lump of concrete which was about half his size and which was now out of the hole. His nose was all bloodied from nudging at the lump but his smile was bigger than ever.
Plaque on statue to Bruno
The
plaque says it all:
A friend who gave so much pleasure to so many for so long while visiting this school.
[1] We used the word rort
to describe a fight. Why, I don’t know
but there is a dated Australian usage that means a wild party. Seems reasonably apt to me.
[2] “I’ll be back” are the immortal words spoken by the robot played by Arnold Schwarzenegger in the 1984 science fiction film, The Terminator.
