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Strength in numbers
26/02/2008 12:46 - (SA)
David Moseley
I've often wondered, if I was attacked by a shark - or even an irate seal - while surfing, and all she managed to get her serrated gnashers on was a chunk of my head, what job could I possibly do if I was brain dead.
If masses of my grey matter were left drifting around the Atlantic, feeding gulls and mumbling penguins, what could I possibly do in the aftermath to make ends meet? Likewise, if you're just born a little slower than the rest, there must be some hope out there... short of jumpstarting your brain every morning with jumper leads and a car battery, of course.
A solid place to start would certainly be somewhere in the restaurant industry. Here you can pretty much get away with staring vacantly into space while people order, get to the last person at a table of six, murmur something about the specials under your breath and then take out a pen, asking your exasperated diners to slowly repeat the orders you've just knowingly confirmed 30 seconds ago. Alternatively, till operator at a fast food outlet is also an appealing option.
Here you get to grin winningly in some kind of industry standard faux-beatific manner while slowly repeating everything the customer says, yet somehow managing to get the order completely confused with what you actually had for dinner the night before.
Take this little exchange from Nandos: "Hello fine waiter." Hello happy customer, what would you like today? "I would very much like to enjoy your fine chicken burger with Peri Wedges, while my colleague here would like the chicken salad with no olives or tomatoes, and a Coke and sparkling water to drink."
Yes, (now smiling happily as if only recently lobotomised by Tom Cruise and his Scientologist crew) of course. So that will be two chicken salads with extra feta and a side order of wedges. Would you like your coffee to go or sit in? Thank you for coming to Nandos that will be R200 for a piece of chicken. Do enjoy your day.
Flexing your muscles
Still, I think I found my real answer to the question last night at the gym. Should your brain cells ever start failing you, fear not, because you should be able to find some sort of occupational succour as a personal trainer.
I'm not talking about those clever chaps at sports science institute-type establishments with degrees that put astronauts to shame or the sly dogs who run their own private gyms fuelled by the fire of desperate housewives.
Rather, I'm talking about your garden variety "I had 12 protein shakes for breakfast" franchise personal trainers, the guys who think eating barbells will help with iron deficiency (or worse the girls who look like they could drop-kick Bakkies Botha), the guys at the gym who look utterly bewildered when you ask where the gents is and then slowly point in the general direction of the swimming pool 30 seconds later. Those guys.
I could do that.
I could learn the ins and outs of the Lower Back Spinal De-anti Columnar Strengthener 2009 Pro Series Elite and feed on the insecurities of porky people the world over. All you've got to do is grunt a few times, point at the machine, flex your guns and shout encouragement as your charge fends off a heart attack while dreaming of a svelte new life.
I could do that.
Send your comments to David.
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