I wrote a letter – on paper with a ballpoint pen – as a final year optometry student! Astonishing. When could one find the time? To sister Sheila, newly-qualified teacher in Empangeni in Zululand. My news was:
Passed my supplementary exams.
Started organising our Annual Ball at Carlton Hotel already.
I’m SRC chairman till July.
The mighty grey and grey Opel Concorde ‘needs a tjoon up.’
I may not make Rag Ball in Pietermaritzburg this year!
Unhappy with res in Doories; expensive, badly looked after, phones don’t work; fought with matron; I am moving into a communal house, 4 Hillside Rd in Parktown, where Glen Barker and Clive Nel stay. ‘Before I go, though, I’m going to raise hell to see if things’ll improve.’ (!? )
Steve Reed, Cheryl Forsdick and I baby-sat for Bobby & Jill and Louis & Gail; Babies Craig and Twanet. ‘chaos for an hour, then not too bad. They enjoyed their evening; it had been a long while since they’d gone anywhere.’
Great parties; Braais; a Chinese Dinner-Dance; a cricket day; ‘Played our first rugby match in our new kit – pitch black from toes to necks with the only white our optom badge on the pocket and our numbers on the back; We beat the engineers 18-0.’ (I had REALLY wanted our kit to be all black – no white collars, no white rings on our socks, no white shorts – and we got that! Sponsored by Zeiss Optics).
‘Went to the Vaal river for a weekend’s skiing; two of the guys had boats; stayed in a resort – lovely; went to a 21st in Pretoria; Generally busy except for work – work is suffering muchly; latest tests got 50% and 82% – the averages , thought were something like 80% and 95%.’
And all that was in a letter written 10th March!
Later that year:
– truth-teller –
Went to Pete Brauer and Terry Saks’ wedding in Pretoria. I was best man, had to get on my hind legs. My partner was the delightful Cheryl Forsdick; Lovely evening; Driving back with Clive Nel and the delightful Sandy Norts in Clive’s gas-guzzling white Mazda RX-2 we had a midnight head-on collision; Some drunken idiot turned straight into us on the highway! I was fine but the others got a bit battered, with Clive, driving, the worst. He’s in plaster and on crutches.
The Class of ’77 had a wee gathering at Zena’s place in Feb 2020. The lies we told!! ‘You’re looking younger’n evah DAHling!’ Yeah, right!
Actually, none of that. A lot of truth was spoken. Which led to a lot of laughter.
Zena laid on a wonderful spread and we sat around a colourful table on her Sandton patio.
– Zena and Ray & Di Schoeman – Terry seated – Brauer, who didn’t read the dress code so came in a corona virus T-shirt – yours truly seated –
Schoeman smuggled in some gin n meths in an expensive bottle; Zena provided wine and buckets she said were gin glasses – old soaks have all sorts of tricks! Brauer provided beer; I just drank.
The afternoon whizzed past and all too soon we had to shuffle off to take our other meds.
We should do this every forty three years.
~~~oo0oo~~~
Is a gathering of presbyopes a parliament of presbyopes? I think we were more a chuckle of presbyopes. While searching I did find these: an unhappiness of husbands . . a tedium of golfers . . and – not being one – I made up a yawn of grandparents.
~~~oo0oo~~~
PS: Soon after this came lockdown and our little group of six turned into a wonderfully convivial whatsapp cartel, sharing advice, support and look sharp! in equal measure.
~~~oo0oo~~~
The Origin Story:
From: Pete S Sent: Wednesday, 20 November 2019 To: Zena Jacobson; Subject: Jacqui
Hi Zeens
I think that’s Jacqui’s correct surname. She was ___ way back in Harrismith in 1972!! She’s having what sounds like an adaptation problem with new multifocals. Thanks so much for agreeing to check her over. Cheers – Pete
PS: I will definitely commit to making a trip behind the boerewors curtain. I have abandoned the kids a couple of times this year and the house didn’t burn down, so I think I must keep on doing it more and more.
Zena: Can’t think of anything nicer than an afternoon with old friends. They are so few and far between these days.
Pete S: Thanks again. Brauer thinks a get-together is “a good eye dear”
On Thursday 21 November 2019, Zena Jacobson wrote: Great. Tell me when you want to cross the boerewors curtain and I will arrange a get together.
Pete S: In the new year. We need to get Terry into the loop. She’s Brauer’s memory glands.
Zena Jacobson wrote: Yes. I’ll set up a WhatsApp group for us, and we can chat together.
Pete S: Excellent. Brauer can sponsor the event. He must be flush with cash as he has just revamped his practice with bells and whistles and open windows, no vertical blinds.
..
And lo! It came to pass.
How fortuitous, as we formed a lovely support group through lockdown.
..
As a check on my powers of prediction: My house did not burn down, but you will remember I was distracted for a while in Zena’s garden on an over-long phone call: Jessie had fallen down after trying to drink as much alcohol as her more experienced friend. Did she inherit my genes or summing, dammit?!
Terry saved the situation with a sensible suggestion later that night when we were back in the gramadoelas: Send her to hospital.
Alcohol poisoning. They put her on a drip.
* sigh * If only she’d inherited my fine singing voice instead.
Ode to a Tighthead Prop – Author unknown(but probly some Kiwi – they tend to wax forth after a few). The poem could also be called ‘Delusions of Grandeur.’
It was midway through the season we were just outside the four and although I know we won it I can’t recall the score.
But there’s one thing I remember and to me it says a lots about the men who front the scrum – the men we call “the props”.
We won a lineout near half way the backs went on a run the flankers quickly ripped the ball and second phase was won.
Another back then crashed it up and drove towards the line another maul was duly set to attack it one more time.
The forwards pushed and rolled that maul They set the ball up to a tee the last man in played tight head prop and wore the number “3”
The ball was pushed into his hands he held it like a beer then simply dropped to score the try – his first in 15 years.
Then later, once the game was done he sat amidst his team he led the song and called himself the try scoring machine.
But it wasn’t till the night wore on that the truth was finally told just two beers in, he’d scored the try and also kicked the goal.
At 6 o’clock the try was scored by barging through their pack he carried two men as he scored while stepping ’round a back.
By seven he’d run twenty yards out-sprinting their quick men then beat the last line of defence with a “Jonah Lomu” fend.
By eight he’d run from near half way and thrown a cut out pass then looped around and run again no-one was in his class.
By nine he’d run from end to end his teammates stood in awe he chipped and caught it on the full then swan dived as he scored.
By ten he’d drunk a dozen beers but still his eyes did glisten as he told the story of “that try” to anyone who’d listen.
His chest filled up, as he spoke, his voice was filled with pride he felt for sure he would be named the captain of that side.
By nights end he was by himself still talking on his own the club was shut, the lights were out his mates had all gone home.
And that’s why I love my front row – they simply never stop and why I always lend an ear
when a try’s scored by a prop.
~~~oo0oo~~~
This try was much like our mighty prop Hubby Hulbert’s try in our epic match against the InjunKnees. Do you recall? ca. 1975
Hubby found himself lying down for a brief rest on the ground under a mass of other bumsniffers when an oval object appeared next to him and he placed his hand on it. The ref went wild and indicated we had managed to beat the Injun-Knees, a team no-one thought would be beaten.
We were dressed in our all-black jerseys, black shorts, black socks with OPTOMETRY in front and ZEISS in white on the back. To show our appreciation to our jersey sponsors after a few beers – also kindly sponsored by them – we would shout “ZEISS ist Scheiss!” – I’ll admit, sometimes we weren’t impeccably behaved.
That game against those Injun-Knees: We had spent 79 mins desperately defending our tryline when some scrawny scrumhalf type happened to get the ball by mistake and hoofed it as hard as he could in the opposite direction of where we’d been back-pedaling all day. Those days his hair colour matched the colour of our jersey; Nowadays the bits that are left match the colour of our logo. You can see a recent pic of him here.
We got a line-out near their line, Hubby fell down, the ball fell next to him and he inadvertently became a match-winning hero. He’ll call it a tactical move.
I forget if he gave a speech afterwards in the Dev but we wouldn’t have listened to him anyway. We’d have sung ‘How The Hell Can We Buh-LEEEV You!?’
The game was played on the Normaal Kollege grounds in Empire Road, Jo’burg. We shouted for our hosts as we waited for them to finish their game so we could trot onto their field and display our brilliance. Up Normaal!! we shouted. Ab-normaal!
~~~o0oo~~~ On 2018/12/11 Peter Brauer (he of scrawny scrumhalf fame) wrote: Classic example of how bashful props become more truthful / eloquent when their throats aren’t parched.
~~~oo0oo~~~
bumsniffers – forwards; the tight five; the slow; the engine room; workhorses; honest men; no fancy haircuts; dodgy ears; the brains trust; depends who you ask
InjunKnees – engineers; they had a T-shirt slogan ‘six monfs ago I cooden even spel injineer and now I are one’
Normaal Kollege – anything but
~~~oo0oo~~~
2020 – a 1977 letter cropped up. Maybe the only letter I wrote in 1977! To sister Sheila. In moving home and tidying up she found it:
– 1977 letter – about our special all-black optom rugby jerseys –
The Witwatersrand College for Advanced Technical Education chose a rugby team to play in the inter-college festival down in Durban-by-the-Sea and they didn’t choose me. I can only think the selectors hadn’t had their eyes tested.
So I had to choose myself and find my own way down so as to be able to add to the fun and laughter and educational and character-building value of such gatherings. And the imbibing contest, which was actually my forté, but – for some reason – they didn’t have a drinking span. Strange.
So we had to compete informally, yet enthusiastically. I spose because there were no officials officiating our match we lost sight of the time and forgot to arrange accommodation n stuff, so when it became very late we looked around and found we were in someone else’s hotel – the salubrious Killarney – and in someone else’s room, like Ray Schoombie’s the flyhalf of a less important span that was only playing rugby. We were trying to scrounge floor space to kip on.
Schoeman and the delightful Fotherby were 100% legal and official and legitimately (if you believe that Slim and Pru knew about this) had a room and so we made merry in it. Perhaps too much. Because suddenly someone marched in and very rudely demanded that we shurrup and also that we leave. I stepped forward to help this rude gentleman right upon which he – a man of few words – explained the situation to me by unleashing a mighty klap on my left eardrum, shattering the peace. I immediately understood what he was on about and agreed to leave the premises forthwith. The klap had blocked my ear but cleared my vision and I now could see he was large and dressed like Shaka Zulu and carried a shield and a knobkierie.
All the way down the stairs this burly and persuasive gent’s lips were moving but I couldn’t hear a word he said. I was deaf as a post.
He was like:
I was like:
Don’t worry, compassionate people, I found a place to sleep (as in the photo on top). The next day my empathetic “friends” were singing to me as mentioned above.
Unsympathetic shits. Luckily I couldn’t hear them.
Vrystaat Confessions 