Cleanliness just doesn’t work here
I don’t shower or bath as much, so my body hasn’t the same shine or smell as my neighbour's limo.
Cliff Buchler.
Living in a lifestyle complex with over a hundred odd neighbours makes me think of a bag of liquorice allsorts. Different colours, shapes and sizes. And some strange habits thrown in.
Take motor cars. In my book they’re there to take you from point A to B. Not so for Big Berty. In summer he keeps the bonnet up, in the garage, with a fan aimed at the engine.
This, he says, is to prevent rubbers, gaskets and piping from going hard. Makes me wonder whether running a fan over our bodies at night would prevent bones, tissues and muscles from calcifying. Must run this by GP Dr Evert next time he tickles my body with his icy stethoscope.
Back to Berty. His car is washed and polished, including windows, hub caps, engine, chassis and exhaust pipe, after each outing – thrice a week.
I don’t shower or bath as much, so my body hasn’t the same shine or smell as his limo.
About garages. In my book they’re to house the vehicle. And half empty paint cans. And old greasy braai grids. And last year’s tyres (must remember to flog them to road protesters who can’t get enough of them).
And tatty boxes containing rusty kettles, pots, pans, cracked glassware, CDs of Jim Reeves and Gracie Fields and water-soiled albums filled with sepia photos of forebears long gone.
And, as for the floor, no real garage is without oil, grease and paint stains. And spider webs in the corners.
A natural and earthy habitat. Warm and homely. Not so for a young couple. The first thing they did was paint the floor with a grey sealant. Smooth as silk. A floor you can eat off. Save for a raised white tool cupboard resembling a medicine chest, nothing more. Except the car.
Wouldn’t surprise me if they washed down the car’s tyres before entering the garage lest they dirty the floor.
Wonder where they hide garage scrap? Then there’s the oke who scrubs out the grass catcher with bleach after each mowing.
“Never know what dangerous pests lurk in the cuttings.” My mom Maggie would’ve approved of these weirdos. But then she was an obsessive-compulsive.
Cuckoo over cleanliness. Yuck!
