Santa Claus gone bye-bye now

Shopping, any kind of shopping, at this time of year is like taking a course in suicide bombing for beginners, or how to make your own nuclear device with household detergents. There’s a fair probability you might get injured.

After two hours of futilely looking for two very run-o’-the-mill power-tool accessories, I grabbed copies of this week’s FM, Weekender, A Field Guide to Butterflies and Moths and What Snake Is That? — in that order — at the CNA and bolted for Milky Lane at Clearwater Mall for my regular fix of pecan-nut sundae. As always, Grace with the radiant brown skin of a Cajun Cher and the cute lisp saw me coming and swept the clutter of unnecessary menus from the pedestal table. “The uthual?” she asked.

I barely had time to catch the headlines in the Weekender before the spirit-rejuvenating tower of ice cream, cream, chocky sauce and nuts arrived. Grace and Milky Lane are my version of Cheers.

“Are you bubbling over with Chrithmath thpirit?” she asked — aag moedertjie! “I only took enough out to last me the morning, Grace, and I’m afraid I lost it all in the traffic,” I responded.

“Aah, thame!” She looked genuinely sad for me. Then she smiled. “Thith’ll put it all back. You’ll thee.”

That’s when I noticed the very palpable paucity of Christmas spirit all around me. As I devoured the smooth ice cream and munched my pecan nuts, I was struck by the mothers chewing their children’s heads off, wives and girlfriends getting the moer in with the menfolk gawping at big-screen TVs, trolley dodgems, scowls, mutters, wailing babies (that’s enough to rob Mother Teresa of her patience), the looks from harried shelf packers that will still be felt by unborn generations 80 years from now, and the numerous, ridiculous little modern tableaux of someone laying down the law into his/her/its cellphone like so many Marcel Marceaus.

No matter where I have gone the past few days, it’s almost as if you could wave an entomologist’s net through the air and bag a whole lot of animosity. I meant to hit the Pick n Pay, but the thought of a gory gladiatorial confrontation of trolleys down clogged aisles knocked that nonsense right out of me.

It saddens me that at the time of year when we should be filled with compassion, joie de vivre, ubuntu, barmhartigheid or espíritu navideño, quite the opposite literally permeates the very air we breathe. And it doesn’t matter what God you believe in or whether you even have an immortal soul; it’s pervasive and not picky about who you are or what you have.

A little later trying to find parking at Hillfox, some insensitive life form in a Subaru had simply put on his hazard lights and stopped to take a call on the ubiquitous cellphone. The guy in front of me, who was actually a gal with short hair, popped a polite little toot. “Aaag, fok jou!” was all the response she elicited. I burst out laughing.

And I bet that in two days’ time Mr Subaru will be full of Hoor Jy die Engelsange? and asking the baby Jesus to deliver us from evil.

But, it seems there really is a tangible ambience of aggro in our rainbow archipelago. I suppose it’s been for here for years now and we’ve just become inured to it.

With the strength of all currencies (except the Zim dollar) against the rand, it seems there’s a marked influx this year of expats I know into South Africa. So far, two separate couples from Oz and the US, a cousin from Wimblefontein and distant family from the frozen wastes of Juneau, capital of Alaska, have arrived and been in touch by email, SMS or phone in the past week. Each has remarked that on arrival at OR Tambo they felt they were walking into a solid wall of hostility and anger. Another arrives tomorrow night. I wonder what she’ll say.

It makes me wonder how the nation will greet St Nick on Monday night. Filthy fucking reindeer will probably just set the bloody burglar alarms off! It’s the last thing we need.