Out of touch, out of mind

2014-08-12 11:57

Sunday morning. I’m shattered. Broken. Gutted.

Not for the usual reasons. The Ghenginator’s in love and harder to find than Pallo Jordan so I’m in showroom condition. Plus I’ve had a rare Saturday off and haven’t had to stand around waiting for the Commander in Chief to deliver his Women’s Day address. Or had to listen to Nathi Mthethwa telling women to wear doeks or something similarly progressive.

I’m in serious trouble. Deep shite. Not the usual, self-inflicted type. Not blowing the month’s salary in a weekend bender or pissing off the Head of State here. This is far worse.

A small repair job gone wrong has wiped out my iPhone. And several thousand contacts.

Years of my life have just disappeared. Vanished.

I don’t have a backup. It went out my bedroom window along with my laptop, every recording device in the Harper household and my son Small James’ Nike sneaker collection in a burglary a couple of months ago.

I’m back in the Dark Ages. This is tough. It’s a bleak reminder of the fact that I learnt to write on a manual typewriter. Back in the Last Century. I filed my first stories using an electric typewriter. With no cellphone. Or email or internet. Then again, there were no instantaneous deadlines or billions of insatiable muppets with mobile phones to read shit on.

I’m dead. Nobody answers their work phone these days. If you don’t have their mobile number, forget it. It’s back to calling switchboards for me. It is what it is.

I grab the papers. A bad move it turns out, given my state of mind.

There’s pictures of Nathi, but he’s not wearing a doek. He’s wearing a bad copy of the Commander in Chief’s Nehru job though.

There is a story about the State Security Agency’s dirty tricks unit and the toys they have to play with while screwing over clean civil servants. Nice.

And another about the National Prosecuting Authority nailing its own bosses for giving Richard Mdluli a get-out-of-jail-free card. Yummy.

Another by my man JahNoDead about the Babylon acting as Lonmin’s hired muscle to break the Amcu strike. Even better.

Predictably, the paranoia hits, like that rush from that first massive toke of White Widow. What if it’s the DSO or DOS, or whatever they are called, who have wiped my phone and made off with my laptop? What if the Croc’s right and they are out to get us?

I grab my loan phone to call the Croc. I don’t have his number. It’s been wiped.

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