Dealing with people who can’t count

Most South Africans can’t count. This is a much more serious handicap than you might think.

Of course numeracy is a major challenge even in the so-called First World. I read somewhere that only 6% of Britons exhibited a satisfactory grasp of the concept of a percentage in a survey. If the stat is true, that means only six out of a hundred Britons fully understand what “25% off the retail price” means when they walk into Marks & Spencer. That is frightening. In retrospect, the credit crunch was always inevitable under the circumstances.

This post was inspired by an SMS I received from a friend who works in a logistics department at one of our major food manufacturers. It read: “Someone I work with just asked me to calculate how many cases we’ll get out zero tons of production”. This is not a laughing matter. It is a national tragedy. This is when someone else would be training his telescopic sight on the already beleaguered Naledi Pandor. Not I. I think Julius has got that one covered.

I’m more interested in the phenomenon itself. Some months ago I put our French piece of automotive excrement on the market through AA Autobay. (For the record, I believe the French should stick to French toast, fries, letters and things). Once I registered I was told that I had 14 days to bring the car in for an evaluation or I’d forfeit the money I’d paid. Like any self-respecting procrastinator, I remembered to book the test the day before the expiration date.

That’s when I discovered that I was dealing with one of these people who can’t count. I had registered for the service on, say, Friday the 7th. And I was trying to book the test for Friday the 21st. The lady on the other side of the line was insisting that the last date I could bring the car in was Thursday the 20th.

Me: But it says on your website that I have 14 days to do the test.

Lady Who Can’t Count: Yes, and the 14 days expires today.

Me: But today is the 20th, dear. That’s 13 days after I registered for the service.

LWCC: [confidently] No, but that’s not how we count. We start counting on the day you register.

Me: Whatyoutalkinboutwillis? There’s only one way of counting.

Realising that I wasn’t making any headway, I respectfully requested to talk to her supervisor (“You’re an idiot! Who’s in charge over there?”). Enter LWCC #2. No, LWCC #1 is right. Fourteen days after the 7th was the 20th, “the way we count”. Okay, you get the gist of this tiresome tale of arithmetic bankruptcy. If you can count, that is.

I see plenty of evidence of this tragedy in our media all the time. How many times have you read an article that went, “Three out of four readers polled agreed that Schabir is a faker. Only one out of three thought he was sicker than a dog, 9% were undecided”. And then you keep glancing at the date to make sure it’s not the first day of April.

I often state that my head is an odd jumble sale of ideologies. There are things I’m conservative about, such as my belief in the castration of all rapists. With blunt instruments if it’s not too much to ask. There are things I’m liberal about, such as the legalisation of weed, cocaine and all forms of street walking. I also have a very strong fascist streak inside me. If I ever became president, I wouldn’t stand for this nonsense of housewives in the greater Bryanston area mucking around with pottery classes, floral arrangement lessons and other such rubbish. I would send all of them to basic numeracy classes for the good of this nation.

If people learned how to count, we would save ourselves a bundle on Road Accident Fund claims, for instance. I have personally all but given up on our drivers. The very first intersection out of my house is a four-way stop. Now, naturally you have a sprinkling of roided-up penises in double cabs who just couldn’t give a flying saucer for anyone else’s safety. But the majority of transgressors at this particular four-way stop are well-meaning, law-abiding individuals who just can’t count to four. And counting to four is an integral part of safely manoeuvring oneself through a four-way stop, for some odd reason. I don’t know how many times I’ve sat there counting, “One, two, three … oh ferchrissakes ma’am in the TATA, IT’S NOT YOUR TURN!!!” And they always have the same bunny-caught-in-the-headlights look when you meet in the middle of the intersection.

And then there is that bunch of bright sparks who try and weave through the traffic on the N1 to Pretoria at 7.45am. Elementary arithmetic should tell you that, in peak-hour traffic, all those daring stunts will only save you 38 seconds at most in travelling time. Have you ever had a genius behind you flash his lights at you to close the 10m gap between you and the car in front of you? I always feel like stopping the car, stepping out and giving him an impromptu lecture. I want to point out that, at an average speed of 60km per hour, it takes roughly 0.6 seconds to traverse 10 metres and “Oke, do we really want to risk an inferno on this highway over three-fifths of a second?” And then I always remember the film gloss of sheer indifference that instantaneously enveloped a friend’s eyes the last time I tried to dispense these nuggets of mathematical wisdom.

When I’m being harassed from behind over 0.6 seconds, I personally always just continue leaving enough space for a taxi to weave through because my reflexes are shot for some obscure reason. I like knowing I have that cushion. And then Mr Impatience behind me performs a Juan Pablo Montoyan stunt, swerving into the yellow lane, before hurling himself in front of you. And they’ll continue engaging in this retarded swerving in and out of lanes for the rest of the trip. And then, as you enter the Pretoria CBD, they’re always so amazed that you’re still there, a mere five metres behind them.

It’s called counting, Einstein! You should try it some time.

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