Shaun Braces Himself For A Long Walk To The Office

An Attendant, Wondering Where All The Petrol Went.

Filling up at a petrol station is something I like to treat myself to every now and then. Together with a full body massage, a conditioning treatment, and getting my teeth cleaned, this represents the gist of my early-month spending, before the rest of my wages are blown on Jameson and irresponsible deeds. My arrival at the local garage however, made for grim viewing.

Normally I would rock up and proceed to cross swords with Hemmingway, a portly, laid back gentleman who excels in throwing dirty water over my windscreen and demanding R5 for his efforts.

I was greeted instead, by what us smug folk in South Africa call a “Mugabe Line” – dozens upon dozens of irritable customers, queuing for national product. It wasn’t bread or drugs we were after though, we had come to throw ourselves at the mercy of Engen, possibly BP, and maybe even Shell if things really became desperate.

Lawyers, business executives, teachers and gangsters, people from all walks of life had gathered in the name of petroleum.

Yes, the petrol workers’ strike had certainly ruffled the feathers of Cape Town suburbia, who stubbornly cling to their petrol-hungry motor cars like a protective mother clings to her mentally handicapped child.

Uber trendy and slightly intolerant toward others, Capetonians don’t have many options when it comes to other modes of transport.

Walking and jogging is confined to the treadmills of Virgin Active. Sure, you may occasionally see people running around frantically near Table Mountain, but this is merely to evade the gang of hoodlums trying to mug them.

Metrorail is certainly no alternative – the thought of being harassed in “first-class” carriages by toothless red-skin peanut sellers or bible thumping preachers is enough to make me hurl myself toward an oncoming train – something made all the easier by the broken windows and doors which refuse to close.

Buses and taxis are not the answer either – sitting on the lap of a sweaty, obese man with a runny nose and a roving hand sounds more like a Catholic Sunday school experience. It certainly wouldn’t inspire me to get out of bed on a cold and wet Thursday morning.

According to weekend newspaper reports, both parties are currently at the bargaining table. Petrol company bosses have taken their workers’ list of wage demands and used them as toilet paper, so negotiations are at a pretty delicate stage.

Analysts have predicted that the strike could last for several weeks, so get those walking boots out, be prepared to be felt up, and keep your red-skin peanut money handy.

Things could start getting hairy very shortly.