This blog will continue at a different site.

This blog will from now on continue at my new blog/website at www.thewhiteou.com

The articles posted here have evoked a fair amount of interest and it appears the site is on a rapid growth-path. I am no expert but I've been told by web gurus I need to move the domain from a Google-owned site to one where I own the domain name. And I should do it sooner rather than later.

Please go to www.thewhiteou.com where you will find all the articles currently on this site and any new ones posted.

Thanks for visiting. See you over at the new spot.

The world's dumbest tourist visits South Africa

I caught a radio news story about a Canadian who has to be the dumbest tourist ever to visit South Africa -- or anywhere in the world for that matter!
To save him further embarrassment I won't mention his name but I am sure, if you really want to find it, a quick internet search will turn it up.
Let me just say, it is not the same Campbell who set land-speed records in a specially-built car.
This particular tourist came to South Africa to party, visit interesting places and meet and interact with interesting locals.
It seems the not-the-sharpest-knife-in-the-kitchen-drawer visitor hooked up with five men and women from a Bloemfontein squatter camp (or to use it's more politically-acceptable designation, informal settlement).
With expensive camera and lenses draped over his shoulder, iPod dangling from his neck, cellphone in his hand and...wait for it...this is the kicker...R67 000 (about US$8 000) in his pocket, he asked his new-found chums to show him around the quaint little tin cottages of the squatter camp...er...informal settlement. He also asked them to take him to the local nightclubs and taverns.
Though I have no evidence to support my conjecture, I would hazard a guess that he looked forward to swapping names, telephone numbers and email addresses with the friendly, dusky beauties of the squat...er...village.
I am going to assume my readers are way smarter than the Canuck in question and, as such will refrain from stating the obvious details and outcome. Suffice it to say, it did not end happily for the man who makes a maple leaf look smart, involved a stabbing and a much poorer but hopefully wiser (don't hold your breath on that) tourist.
A man was quickly arrested for the crime, tried and sentenced.

Screwing like bunnies

Justice in South Africa is swift and efficient. For World Cup visitors that is. For the rest of us perhaps not so.
Take the recent case of the Benoni businessman who made many desperate calls to the Ekhurhuleni Metro Police calling on them to save him from being drowned when his car was trapped on a flooded road.
In all fairness, the cops who ignored the calls had good reasons for doing so -- they were busy in the operations room, fucking each other like bunnies and, let's be honest, stopping sex, trying to find a tissue and pulling up your pants so you can go save a civilian you don't even know, is not fun. So let's cut 'em a bit of slack. It's not like they were having lunch or anything!
In an interview with the Star newspaper the businessman said: "At the time, I ended up trapped in my car in Benoni when heavy rains caused havoc. I realised I was not going to make it. My car's battery failed and water started pouring in."
According to the report: the dead battery prevented the man from operating the electric windows or opening the doors of his Chrysler. He then used his cellphone to attempt to contact his family, lawyer and the metro police.
"By the time I had finished making the calls, the water level in the car had already reached my neck. I managed to open the sunroof and pulled myself out of the car."
The businessman, now stuck on the roof of his vehicle, contacted ANC ward councillor, Valerie Taylor, asking her to organise to have the metro police sent to assist him.
Taylor and a Community Policing Forum member then walked into the metro police offices, allegedly catching the two officers having sex. The businessman's lawyer later said that the officers "were caught having sexual intercourse in their office by an ANC councillor and a CPF member, after they failed to respond to my client's numerous emergency calls".
Meanwhile, the businessman went about helping another victim of the flooded road just a few metres away.
"I was saying my prayers, crying and shaking," said the second motorist, who was identified as Tanki Rabela.
"God sent this man to help save me," Rabela said, adding that the water had rendered his cellphone unusable.
Metro police and paramedics reportedly only arrived after the pair had made their way to safety.
I contend, when he called he should have said he was a soccer fan in the process of being mugged. That would have brought the cops...fast.

Fast cars

Some may even have raced to his aid as fast as the Limpopo traffic officer who was this week arrested after he was caught driving at 274km/h in his personal vehicle.
Officer Joe Munyai, from Louis Trichardt, reportedly took his Mercedes-Benz C200 Kompressor (I'm not even going to guess how a traffic cop is able to afford that car) to well over double the speed limit of 120km/h on the N1 near Bandelierkop, where two provincial officials recorded his speed.
The section of the N1 where Munyai was caught has only one lane in each direction.
Munyai, who according to a Makhado municipality spokesperson has not been suspended, has since appeared in court and was released on bail of R1000.
It is no doubt purely coincidence that the Ekhurhuleni Metro was, until two years ago, commanded by restaurant-bomber, killer and maimer of ordinary citizens and alleged drunk driver, Robert McBride.
But maybe we shouldn't judge him too harshly, after all, the Truth and Reconciliation Commission let him off but not before they harshly slapped him on the wrist with the stinging admonition that the bombing that killed three women and injured 69 others was a "gross violation of human rights."
Not that it made a jot of difference to the SA Government, as Robbie was awarded the Merit Medal in Silver and the Conspicuous Leadership Star from the South African National Defence Force for his "service and combat leadership in Umkhonto We Sizwe."
(Read Ben Trovato's hilarious open letter to Robert McBride here.)
It sure is a strange and sometimes fucked up country that we live in!

The best choc-chip cookie in the world.

The White House Art Gallery and Coffee Shop in Parys. Home of the world's best choc-chip cookie.

On Sunday I tasted the best choc-chip cookie in the world.
I may be exaggerating, as I obviously have not tasted every choc-chip cookie ever made -- although I've tried hard to reach that lofty goal and have the waist-line to prove it.
Choc-chip cookies are my drug of choice and while Mrs White Ou makes a mean CCC -- maybe the second best in the world now -- I regret to say, I have found biscuit Nirvana.
The biscuit in question, that I came across completely by accident, can be found in Parys, a little town on the banks of the Vaal River, about an hour-and-a-half's drive south of Johannesburg and I came across it completely by accident.
My son and I planned to give our motorcycles a run and Parys sounded like a nice turning point. In years gone by I've passed through the town, on my way to other destinations but never stopped.

Delightful little hamlet

I'm glad I changed that. It is a delightful little hamlet, with streets lined by quaint coffee shops, art galleries and antique shops. We spent a pleasant morning strolling through the down and, in one of the shops, I picked up a pristine Kodak Retina IIc camera, complete with leather case, for R250 (about $30). Made somewhere around 1955, the little gem needs to be serviced and lubricated -- standard procedure for cameras of that vintage -- that will cost another R250.
Once done, I will have a precision German instrument, equipped with one of the finest lenses ever made, that will certainly outlast me. (To read more about my passion for German life-shuttered cameras visit my photographic blog, The Light Stuff.)
But back to the choc-chip cookie.
We pulled into Parys, cold, wind-blown and keen to find a good cup of coffee.
We chose an establishment called "The White House Art Gallery and Coffee Bar", for no reason other than it was close to where we'd parked. It turned out to be a good choice...perhaps it was destiny...because it was there that I found THE cookie.

No fanfare

There was no big fanfare upon arrival at our table and no prior indication of what was to come. We did not order it, it was just part of the package that is a cup of coffee at The White House.
But when I bit into it...!
It's difficult to adequately describe a taste experienced to someone else, but I guess you want me to take a shot.
The biscuit was harder than the usual limp, somewhat soggy, offerings so often encountered in coffee shops. It snapped when bitten, rather than crumbled. It's texture was coarser than expected, sort of like a health biscuit and it was sweet but not overly so.
The embedded choc-chips were large and generous but it was the other flavours that grabbed my attention...pecan nut and a hint of marzipan.
The producer of this sublime confectionery turned out to be the establishment-owner, Annette Dannhauser, an artist whose work adorns the walls. In search of a quieter, more tranquil life, she and accountant husband, Jannie, moved to the village from Johannesburg, although he still commutes to and from the "big smoke" every day.
We spent a very pleasant hour chatting about the town, things to see and life in general and, on their recommendation, I will return to visit the nearby Vredefort Dome, World Heritage site.
I left with two packets of the world's best choc-chip cookies and a promise that I'll be back soon.
I have no doubt this article will get flour up the noses of some bakers, maybe even spark a choc-chip cookie war -- fire away, I can take it -- but until I am proven wrong, Annette Dannhauser's biscuit will hold the position of "best in the world"
...at least in my opinion and on this blog.

Details of the White House Art Gallery and Coffee Shop.
33 Bree Street, Parys. Tel (+27) 056-817-2889
www.annettedannhauser.co.za

Some other views of Parys and the Vaal River:

Renewing my passport

At the beginning of the year I realised my passport had expired and a trip to the local Home Affairs Department was imminent.
Based on previous experiences of inefficiency and unpleasantness, it was not a prospect I relished.
Memories of standing in long lines for an hour or more, only to have the window get shut in my face just as it was my turn to be served, or being told I was in the wrong queue and "should be in that line over there" that hadn't moved for the last two days, are still vivid.
For days I hesitated, trying to find a way around it. Perhaps I should use a service that does the queuing for me, I thought.
"Don't be silly," said Mrs White Ou, always the voice of reason. "We're not millionaires and it's not as though you have much else to do any way."
I couldn't argue on either of those points.
"In any case, I've heard things are a lot better and while you're there, get renewal forms me and also for Kevin (my youngest son.)"
And so it was that I found myself, early on a Monday morning, at the beginning of the year, at the offices of the Department of Home Affairs in Randfontein. The doors had just opened but the queues were already significant.
I joined the line waiting to be served by a man behind the "Enquiries" counter.

Building true unity

It is claimed that the World Cup will turn out to be this country's greatest ever unifying force. While I agree the whole affair put us in party mood and, for a while, we forgot our differences and banded behind the national team, it cannot compete with the unifying experience of visiting a government department.
Now that really builds true unity. People from all levels of society, who normally would not give each other the time of day, become bound by shared suffering, induced by inept officials and a system designed to screw you around.
Linked in our common misery, we individuals rapidly become a common mind, swapping stories of previous experiences at the hands of not-so-civil servants.
It becomes a competition to see who has been screwed-over worst.
A coloured woman with a toddler hanging on her skirts and peering at me from between her legs, struck up conversation.
"How many times have you had to come back?" she asked.
"It's my first, I just have to get some forms for a passport," I replied.
"This is my fourth. They've been fucking me and my husband around every time. First it's this and then it's that. Then they want something else. My husband can't come any more, he's got to work. You know how hard jobs are to find these days..."
By the time my position in the line had advanced two yards I knew pretty all there was to know about her family... how her husband enjoys a drink or six on the weekend, that she'd voted ANC but probably wouldn't do so again in the next elections and a lot more.
If we'd just thought of it, we probably would have exchanged telephone numbers and even ended up going on family outings together. (The last part is not true, I just said that to impress foreign readers.)
She, in turn, knew about my kids, how difficult it was for them to find work and my solutions for South Africa's problems and world hunger.
When it was my turn to be served at the "Enquiries" counter, I felt all warm and cuddly -- new South African!

Can't take them out of the building

"I need three sets of passport application forms, please," I said to the guy manning the counter.
"You'll need to fill them in here," he said. "We no longer allow people to take them out of the building."
I was taken aback. Surely he was joking.
"But I need to get photographs done and I'm sure there are other details that must be filled in," I responded.
He was not joking.
"There's a man outside who'll take the pictures and you only need complete a few details, the rest we'll get from the computer system."
"But what about my wife and son?" I asked.
He stared at me with a look usually reserved for people who've suffered head-traumas. It was just so damn obvious and I couldn't see it.
"They'll have to come in," he sighed.
"But they work and can't take time off."
"We've thought of that too," he replied, "that's why we're open on Saturday mornings."
Behind me the people in the line were growing restless.
But I was not easily swayed.
"This is ridiculous," I huffed. "Tell me why I can't take the forms home, fill them in and bring them back."
"Because people don't bring them back," he replied. "And, because of that, I get given a set number of forms in the morning and a reconciliation is done in the afternoon."
"That is simply nonsense," I said, in the most indignant tone I could muster. "I'm not like that. I will fill them in and be back."
I scooped up the forms and marched defiantly out of the building, expecting any moment to be beaten senseless by the bemused security guards but nothing happened.
Earlier this week, while watching television, Mrs White Ou suddenly turned to me.
"Did you ever get those passport forms?" she asked.
I thought for a moment.
"I did," I replied. "They're sitting on my desk, I just haven't got round to giving them to you yet."
"We really should fill them in," she said, and turned her attention back to the television.

South Africa's World Cup folly

A few nights ago I engaged in a heated internet discussion about the merits or otherwise of staging the World Cup in South Africa.
I was called unpatriotic because I feel this is one of the most stupid things this country has ever done. A well-known motivational speaker asked why I simply didn't pack up and leave but then he would -- he makes a living peddling bullshit and getting people to hug each other and pretend all is well in the land of candy and rose-coloured glasses.
Make no mistake, the scenes of South Africans of all races and persuasions hugging in an orgy of glee are real -- for the moment. But what happens after FIFA, the current de-facto government of this country, packs up their R25 billion tax-free windfall and leaves us with the bill and the hangover?

Emporer's clothes

This is a classic case of "the Emporer's clothes" only, this time, it is "only true patriots who can see the finery." Anyone who does not buy into FIFA and government spin-doctoring is automatically labeled as negative and unpatriotic.
But let's consider the facts.
Visitors come to our country and find the picture painted by the media and we "white ous" is completely false. The reactionaries are lying!
There is almost no crime. The airport is quick and efficient, roads into the city are beautiful, with little traffic and the countryside they see from their tour-bus windows is as clean and litter-free as a Swiss chocolate box picture.
Well yeah! That's because hundreds of police officials suddenly miraculously appeared from God knows where they've been hiding since 1994. Those foreigners who became crime-victims saw the suspects arrested, tried in special courts and packed off to jail within a couple of days. (Begs the question of allowing enough time to mount a proper defence -- but let's forget about that.) It's quick, efficient justice, run with Swiss-German precision. It's good pr..."...and you sceptics and afro-pessimists believed all that stuff written about the South African Police and legal system. Shame on you!"
But the truth is, it's all bullshit, a carefully choreographed facade there while the eyes of the world are upon us. The reality, for we ordinary ous of all colours and persuasions, is a lot different.
Farmers, now numbering in the thousands, continue to be murdered. My mate, who was shot in a hijacking attempt seven years ago, still waits for the police to interview him. Next month, after seven and a half years, I finally get my day in court for a Road Accident Fund claim that the government-run body has delayed in every way possible, no doubt hoping I will die in the interim. I am not holding my breath that the matter will be settled.
According to some newspaper reports fewer than 10% of murderers are caught and sentenced. The list goes on and on. The truth is, justice experienced by ordinary South Africans is a whole lot different to that being displayed to the world.

Not our normal experience

There is no doubt the airport experience for football fans is wonderful. That's because access roads in the complex are closed to South African citizens so visitors can be whisked through with a minimum of fuss.
The main routes have been cleaned up and are pristine but again that's not our normal experience.
It's all a carefully-created facade. The Adidas infomercial flighted on the afternoon of the opening World Cup ceremony is a good example. In the programme, a giant truck drives around the country, getting people to sign a giant Bafana Bafana journey. It was wonderful viewing but not the country we see. There were no plastic bags hooked on barbed-wire fences, no empty beer-cans lying around, no mangy dogs or shitty squatter camps and no dirty kids with snotty noses and grimy, outstretched begging hands. There was no raw sewage floating in the streams, just shiny, happy, freshly-washed people in beautiful, pristine surroundings, all happily part of the Rainbow Nation.
But beyond all of this lies the irrefutable fact that this country simply cannot afford to run this event. The roads that so impress the fans now, will be tolled by next year and it will reportedly cost motorists 50c per kilometre to use them.
The stadiums, according to a number of news reports, will each cost in excess of R10 million per month to maintain, a cost that undoubtedly will be passed on to the rate-payers of the municipal areas in which they are located. Whether these, admittedly world-class, facilities will become white elephants or not remains to be seen.

No money for power-stations

But what really sticks in my craw is the fact that the stadiums cost well in excess of R12 billion and the newly-commissioned Gautrain will end up costing over R20 billion yet government tells us there is no money to build power-stations. Few will forget the rolling-blackouts and the writing is on the wall that in the near future we can expect more of the same. So consumers will have to pay annual electricity price increases of around 40% p.a. for many years to come.
Then there is the small matter of closing the country's schools for five weeks, to allow a bunch of overpaid primadonnas to kick a modern pig's bladder around a field. Even in normal years South Africa's matric results can at best be described as "dismal".
Somehow the priorities have gotten screwed up and the final cost of "putting South Africa on the world map" will bankrupt us.
But what the hell. Don't worry about the future. Eat drink and be merry. Enjoy the fantasy love-fest and show your support and patriotism by buying official supporter-clothing. Be patriotic and forget that by doing so, you make FIFA, the Local Organising Committee, elite government cronies and global companies like Adidas even richer.
Heck let's replace the Blue Crane with the ostrich as our national bird. After all we are currently a nation with its head in the sand and backside in the air, ready to be bum-raped.

Read Mandy de Waal's brilliant Daily Maverick article on Sepp Blatter's Twitter debut and what many people think of him.

Hester Green – working for seat in heaven

Over the weekned I became engaged in a robust and at times heated internet forum discussion about the merits or otherwise of South Africa hosting the Soccer World Cup. I intend to write about why I think we're all being taken for a ride and are burying our heads in the sand in a later posting but was struck by a point made by one of the contributors. He said he is sure God is really to be found, not in the Jacob Zumas, Julius Malemas or Sepp Blatters of the world but rather in ordinary people few of us will ever hear about.
It was a profound statement that increasingly made sense the more I thought about it.
Coincidently, just last week I met one such person in Toekomsrus, a predominantly coloured area in Randfontein. I thought I'd share her story. She is a nominee in the Randfontein Publicity Association's "We Salute You" campaign.

Toekomsrus resident, Hester Green (59) is working for a place in heaven.
Every year the former teacher, mother of three and founder of Women Against Women Abuse (WAWA) helps around 3 000 desperate people save their families and marriages -- and she has done so for the past 11 years, with very little financial support.
Born and raised in the Eastern Cape, she came to Randfontein in 1977 where she worked as a teacher at the Toekomsrus Primary School. In 1998 she was medically boarded and has since lived on the modest pension she receives.
“I soon saw the effects of alcohol in my community and how it led to the abuse of women and children,” she says.
“I saw the impact it had on the kids at school and their families and knew I had to do something.”
At her own expense, she signed up and went for training with a number of counselling organisations.
“Once I had the training I needed, I opened my home in Arrie Street to women in need,” she says.

People came

She spoke to groups of women at the library, visited churches and schools and spread the message and, as the word got, out people came.
Little did she know what she’d let herself in for.
“They came at any time of the day or night,” Green says. “It was a huge adjustment for my family and, without them, I could never have done it.
“On occasions, just as we sat down together for a family meal or to watch television, there’d be a woman running and screaming for my help in the front yard.
“That meant the family had to retreat to their bedrooms so I could counsel and comfort the scared woman. It was very difficult for them but they stood by me through it all.”
And all the time more and more people came.
“In 2002 WAWA had to find other premises,” she says. “My furniture was broken and worn out from all the traffic in my home. I couldn’t use many of my dining-room chairs – I still can’t.
“I knew there was a disused building at the back of the Toekomsrus police station and approached the station commander who gave us permission to use it.
“We moved in with two chairs. There were no tables, filing cabinets or anything -- just those two chairs.”
But that was not going to stop Hester and her small team of volunteers.
“Although we got absolutely no financial assistance at all, we somehow, with God’s help, kept the work going.”

Jackie Selebi

Later that year, the then Police Commissioner, Jackie Selebi visited the station and asked how he could help.
“He organised furniture, cupboards and beds that allowed us to set up a shelter,” Green says.
It’s been a long hard road.
“Men in particular were suspicious,” says Green. “They thought we would automatically take the woman’s side and get them thrown in jail.
“But that is the last thing we want. We believe in rehabilitation and keeping families together where ever possible. Our approach is to get the woman and children out of immediate danger and to allow the situation to calm.
“Then we work on getting the family members together to talk, work through their problems and find lasting solutions. We are there to save relationships and marriages, not break them up.”
Although based in Toekomsrus, WAWA serves all communities of Randfontein and the current economic downturn has seen dramatically increased demand for their services.
“Many men find it difficult to come to terms with the fact they are no longer able to provide for their families,” Green says, “and their frustration and anger easily boils over.”
Nowadays WAWA receives a small stipend from government but it is not nearly enough to meet expenses.
Green’s own husband and children are out of work. Her dining-room chairs are still broken and she has to find ways to stretch her meagre pension even further. There are attempts by some political factions to hijack the project she started more than ten years ago.
But in the face of this, the ex-teacher from Toekies, simply sighs and shrugs her shoulders.
“You’ve got to have hair on your teeth to do this work,” she says.
“At least I can still help someone and maybe God will have a nice velvet chair for me to sit on at his dining-room table in heaven!”

Living with scary critters in Randfontein

When you move to the countryside -- even though my piece of countryside is only 11 kilometres out of town and not a very attractive town at that -- you end up sharing your life, space and home with all sorts of critters.
Some are nice, like the hedgehogs that make occasional rare appearances in our garden. Or the chameleons that take up residence in the trees from time to time.
There are many birds out here -- I counted 28 different species in the space of an hour on one occasion.
And on sometimes at night we hear the call of jackals or the hoot of owls.
It sounds as though I live a little corner of paradise. My own private game reserve.
My northern suburbs friends become all misty eyed when they look across my 21-acre estate, watching the sun set and then, right on cue, the dogs spook a rabbit and go whooping after it across the gold-smeared fields.
"Oh this is just so wonderful," I remember one particular Sandton resident saying. "I'd move here in a shot, if I had the chance."
Of course she'd do no such thing. Living in a gated-community on a golf estate allows her to do the important things in life -- like playing golf and bridge with her girlfriends and lazing by her pool to tune up her tan before the annual Plett holiday.
She does like wildlife. Hell she and hubby have a Pajero and go to a lodge in Botswana every year. But she likes it at a distance, preferably with a tall, ice-frosted glass clasped in one of her well-manicured hands.
And she likes only cute critters.

Life's not like that

But that's not the way life is out here.
When you live on a farm -- I like to call it a farm. It sounds more posh than telling people I live on a plot -- you share your space with more varieties of bugs and biting insects than you knew existed. Rats, in particular, find your home and ceiling especially attractive.
They seek warmth wherever they can find it, sometime taking that quest to ridiculous levels.
Like the time Mrs White Ou asked me what I wanted for breakfast.
"Just a slice or two of toast, please Dear," I replied.
From the lounge I could hear her open the bread bin and a few seconds later yelp as a loud explosive, electrical flash took place in the kitchen, tripping all the power in the house.
"I'll check the breaker outside," I said.
I reset it and she switched the toaster on again.
The blue flash that arced from the toaster to the plug was mighty impressive, as was the gunshot-like crack when the power tripped again. This time it was accompanied by a strange smell -- a cross between hair burning and chicken cooking.
"I think there is something wrong with the toaster," she said, peering into it a moment before she let out a shriek I'm sure the neighbour on the next "farm" heard.
There, in the bottom of the toaster, wedged between the heating elements, eyes popped with smoke emitting from its mouth and twitching like an inmate strapped to an electric-chair, was a large, grey, Norwegian Rat.
Lest I convey the impression that Mrs White Ou is afraid of scary critters let me place on record, she is not.
For example, the colony of bats that has set up home in an air-brick in my office scares me shitless but, for some unexplained reason, my dear wife finds them cute -- especially when they fly in tight formation around her broom.

Snakes

Even snakes do not bother her much and, over the years, we have had our share of encounters with those creatures!
The two types most come across are the puff adder and the rinkhals, neither of which you want to meet in a dark alley, or anywhere else for that matter. Yeah, I know the "they're more scared of you crap..." that gets spouted by greenies who only ever encounter them on the National Geographic Channel, but when you have a metre-long, seriously pissed-off, puff adder in your kitchen, you tend to be less sanguine and understanding.
Which is exactly what happened on one occasion.
Both Mrs White Ou and I were away from home but at different places. When Mrs White Ou returned she found the Maid standing outside, acting more weird than usual.
It seems a puff adder had crawled into the kitchen alcove and she'd pushed the pet bull terrier in with it and locked the door.
Fortunately, both the maid and the bull terrier were blessed with the same level of intelligence, which is to say, almost none.
I don't think the dog even knew the snake was there and the reptile slithered into a corner from where it spent the next hour hissing at the none-the-wiser dog.
Mrs White Ou was faced with a dilemma. In previous snake-encounters she simply used her broom to sweep the serpent into a box and then released the critter in the veld "so it can help keep the rat population down and not upset the delicate balance of nature." (Funny how there's never a snake around when you really need it -- like when a rat tries to warm itself in your toaster!)
But this puff adder wasn't of a mind to simply be swept aside.
There was no alternative but to shoot it, which was easier said than done considering its foul mood and the fact it was hiding in a small room.
Then there was the small issue that the only firearm almost suited to the task was a single-shot, target .22 pistol.
But Mrs White Ou was not to be deterred. Twelve shots later, along with a number of bullet holes in the wall, a punctured dog's food-bowl and gooey bits of puff adder liberally scattered about, the job was done.
It might have been dirty -- nothing like a hit by the Calzone Crew -- but it was impressive and didn't go unnoticed by the dim-witted maid whose productivity suddenly doubled.
I too took note. She's scary. I mean... if she could do that to a critter she actually thought was important in the greater scale of things...