Victim of the ‘bah, humbug’ bug
WHEN I was in matric my English teacher was one Mr Flay, an immigrant from that tiny island with a shortage of tooth-whitener, whose inhabitants have quarrelled with every country in the world except insignificant places such as Mongolia and Andorra.
He was a sexagenarian with a razor-sharp wit, and a notoriously miserly bastard, rest his soul. The rumour mill had it that he had made his fortune somewhere in the Great Lakes region and was filthy rich. This was confirmed after he died and apparently left his next-of-kin an eight-figure fortune. This is why we never understood why he lived in a hovel in the school staff quarters and wore Pep Stores chinos, held together by cotton thread, and Hush Puppies.
We got a glimpse into his psyche when the time came for us to choose our English literature set-books for the year. We had a choice between a relatively obscure novel (in our minds), Silas Marner by George Eliot, and some play or another by William Shakespeare. Silas Marner won by a landslide. Anything to avoid Shakespeare.
What happened in the next six months or so was a marvel to watch. The main character in the book, Silas Marner, is — you guessed it — a notoriously tightfisted old weaver. I have never seen anyone relate to a fictional character in the way that Mr Flay was in tune with Silas Marner. During one lesson he stopped reading and asked us: “Have you never taken a crisp R50 note and rubbed it between your fingers, smelled it, rubbed it all over your face because you were in awe of the beauty of money?”
This was followed by a protracted, awkward silence as it dawned on the old man that he was all alone.
I’m not sharing this story to posthumously mock the best teacher I ever had but to illustrate a point. Upon brutally honest introspection, it occurs to me that I have grown up to become Mr Flay-cum-Silas Marner. This realisation has been a bit slow in revealing itself but it is a truth about myself I now fully own. I am a hopeless cheapskate. A miser. A penny-pincher. A Scrooge. I have such an advanced aversion to spending money my picture should be placed next to “enemy of capitalism” in the dictionary.
In my defence, this is how I rationalise it: capitalism depends largely on the exchange of money for goods, which in turn involves the creation of the desire for said goods, called marketing. Marketing is nothing but a set of activities designed to persuade consumers to spend money on items they do not need. And this is how people leave home intending to buy a sack of potatoes and come back with bags full of ice cream, key rings that glow in the dark and chewing gum. It is the cornerstone of the capitalist system.
But, as Mrs N knows, when you send me to the supermarket to get a bag of potatoes, I come back with a bag of potatoes. I lack the desire for nice things — unless the nice thing is a golden liquid. I’m damaged goods, I know.
If they ever messed up and made me President Ngcobo, government spending would drop so drastically even Pravin would plead with me: “Dear honourable, revolutionary president, please spend something. Plan a trip to New York and take five jets with you, just to get money into circulation.”
I would make parliamentarians stay at the Formula One, fly Mango and maybe even insist on middle seats for them to highlight the need for gym. I know; they would recall me after only eight months at the Union Buildings and the Rev Frank Chikane would fail to author a hagiographic eulogy to my presidency entitled Eight Months on Mango. I’m one of those few people who still use a cake of soap to shower. Apparently everyone else has moved on to shower gels. Sorry, but that’s too much like taking a shower with Sunlight liquid.
Anyway, I digress. I use my cake of soap until it’s about the size of a watermelon pit. You know when soap has dissipated to the point when it no longer gives you lather? When it’s so tiny that when it drops to the floor you need a razor-thin egg lifter to scoop it up? No? I guess that means I’m probably the only one who, when they open a new bar of soap, takes the spent, lather-less sliver and attaches it to the new one to avoid waste. Maybe I need help. Or maybe our crazy, heavily steeped-in-crassmaterialism world needs a bit of whatever bug it is that I have.
The other day I spotted a 50c coin on a convenience store floor. For a few seconds I considered the question: “Is 50c worthy of a knee bend?” My decision was made when it occurred to me that you can still get Chappies for that much. As I walked away, blowing my first Chappies bubble, I gave quiet thanks to Mr Flay.