Oh Blog It All

For the most part I like my job, the hours are easy and the pay doesn’t totally suck. Occasionally the work is interesting but even when it’s not, I still do a pretty good job. Today though I got called upon to do something that is really not part of my job description. Actually I was doing my boss’s job for him. Not the whole job mind you, just a part of it that he had been dreading doing and had put off doing for a while now. It didn’t take me long to get it done and of everything I’ve ever done there, that little bit is what I am most proud of.

We needed to write a motivation for a nomination for some award for someone we deal with regularly. At just under half a page it wasn’t much but it was possibly the best piece of writing I’ve ever done and I got paid for it. (While it’s very tempting to post that piece here, I really don’t want to get dooced, so just trust me on this).

I am proud of that piece of writing though; it’s subtle and concise, with just a touch of humour at the end to make the reader smile - even if I did have to explain the joke.

“Great Geek’s Girl, congratulations, but why do we need to know or care?”

You don’t need to know nor do you need to care but I do, because I know I’m going to forget this feeling of pride, of accomplishment, of taking a small step in the right direction. I’m going to need this piece of writing to remind me of what I really want to do. I’m going to need this piece of writing to remind me that right now, I believe I can do it.

I shuffle the cards and start laying them out in the familiar pattern. Turn over one card, then another, play a card then turn over two more. Soon I am all out of cards and I shuffle them again. I can hear sirens, not to far from house. I wonder where they’re rushing to, wonder if someone is hurt or lost. I wonder if they get there in time.

I look at the clock on the wall, the minute hand has hardly moved since I last looked. It’s late and it’s dark and he’s still not home. I wonder whether those sirens are rushing towards him, I wonder why they would need to. Then I have to stop thinking because I can feel the edges of my heart slowly start to crumble.

He’s late, but I cannot think of it any more, so I shuffle the cards and start a new game. While I wait.

I hear a car pull up, finally he’s home. I turn over the second card and then the third as I wait to hear his key in the door. As I begin to turn over the fourth card there is a knock on the door. I put my cards down, he’s probably forgotten his key.

I almost don’t see the man standing right in front of me because my eyes are drawn to the flashing blue light. The man says something but I can’t hear him. I am trying to follow the light with my eyes. He reaches out and puts his hand on my shoulder, I had forgotten he was there. He repeats his question. I start to laugh. Then I am laughing so hard and he’s looking at me strangely but I don’t care. He repeats his question. I can’t stop laughing but I point and the man walks away.

Finally the laughter tapers off and I become silent. I close the door and return to my game. As I turn over the last card there is a familiar sound, a key in the door. I say nothing until he’s standing before me and then I begin to cry.

My game is over for tonight but she’s played the game for the last time.

(Okay, maybe I can do this.)

I have great faith in our legal system. I think judges are impartial and far less likely to be swayed by sentiment and emotion than a jury would be. So, even if I don’t like the outcome of the Jacob Zuma rape trial, I do accept it.

What does concern me, as a woman and as a citizen of this country, is that this was an extremely high profile case. As such I expected the police and the prosecution to made doubly sure to dot every i, to cross every t, to check and check and check again every statement, every piece of testimony; to be absolutely sure that they had a solid case, because they must have realised that every bit of this case was going to make international headlines and be scrutinised by anyone with even a passing interest.

But if they fail to secure a conviction in a case where, I assume, they did their absolute best, then what hope is there for victims where the accused are not politicians with money and power and ego-boosting and blindingly loyal followers? The statistics say they don’t have much of a chance.

I have been trying, unsuccessfully, to write something, anything on the outcome of Zuma’s rape trial but every time I think about it I get so worked up and spluttering angry that words fail me.

So, instead I’ll post a link to one woman’s story and you tell me if women really do go around making accusations of rape for fun and profit.

The Tyger

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the suburbs of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy boxed asymmetry?

In what distant cranny or nook
Did your creator have to look?
To what bargain did he aspire?
To entice this poor lowly buyer?

And what shop, and what store,
Could I have not seen before?
And when I began to walk thy beat
What become of my weary feet?

What the dress? what the shoe?
What exactly is a girl to do?
What the credit? what the cost?
What self control has been lost?

When the shops threw down their sales,
And shoppers heard my cries and wails,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the suburbs of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy boxed asymmetry?

With my sincerest apologies to William Blake - if you prefer, the original can be found here.