Critical skills are being lost
Let me say this, New Zealand has taken a lot from me. I’ve begun to suspect that it stalks me like a kind of reaper in All Black, cutting down the important people in my life.
The first was my hairdresser, Jean. The only hair professional I’ve met who understood that there is a time for chit-chat and a time to allow quiet contemplation of thoughts such as: “Hell, is that really what I look like or is it just these lights?”
One day, with hair so dishevelled it was not even acceptable by newsroom standards, I heard the news: “Jean has emigrated to New Zealand.”
Next, a friend from my twentysomethings. We used to rent a house with that charming twentysomething feel; furnitureless, echoey rooms, an empty fridge and beer. Marriage snuck up on him and, one day, out of the Facebook blue, he checked into Auckland.
But the most grievous injury by far has been the loss of my honest mechanic, Vern.
True Joburgers know there are about five honest mechanics in this city. Finding one is like winning the lottery. You don’t tell people, you just live out your remaining days in happiness.
This is especially true when, like me, you drive Hitler’s car. I call it that because it is a thing of true evil. Even when it is just parked in the driveway, it is silently trying to break down.
After the dealership was quoting state-capture sums to fix things, Vern would weld one wire together and gruffly say: “Just give me 50 bucks for the labour.”
Critical skills are being lost, I tell you. –
Charl du Plessis