Gig, the third of three FOUR (you've been warned!) parts

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Some people are threatening to withhold precious votes if I don't finish this damn story already!

That smacks of pure blogmail, if you ask me, but fine... I'll try and finish the saga.

In the event that you are here for the first time (you poor thing! Take it from me: get out while you can!), or you are just really forgetful, please read this and this.

And no, I don't normally drag out the torture by forcing people to read older posts. You know, I'm trying my best to ATTRACT readers here, not repel them! Even though the masochists who hang out here on a regular basis will probably try and tell you otherwise.

Anyway, here goes. Will this third installment finally lead us all to a blissful ending..?

Your guess is as good as mine! No. But we're close!

Like I started to say in the last post, rugby in South Africa is SACRED, so I suspected that writing about it would be a monumental responsibility.

But really, I had no idea...

You see, out of a nation filled with rugby worshippers, I must've been the only non-believer. I know there must've been others like me out there, but I certainly felt like the only one who - brace yerselves - COULDN'T CARE LESS about rugby.

(Sorry, Dee!)

Sometimes, on a Saturday afternoon in autumn and winter (the height of rugby season in South Africa), while everyone was inside glued to the television to watch the game or even attending the game at the big stadium, I wandered through the near deserted streets of Pretoria and Johannesburg. During those afternoons, I often felt like the last human being on earth; the sole survivor of the Apocalypse.

Thing is, my ignorance and apathy didn't end with rugby.

If you've been reading this blog for a while, and if you've been paying attention (hey, a girl can fantasize!), you'll know that I'm not the sportiest of people.

Yeah, major understatement.

I have my reasons. Some of them might even be very good and valid. Like the medical reason of having in my possession two freakishly flat, freakishly large feet.

And both of them just so happen to be left. Which makes me about as graceful as a bull in a china shop.

When all the china and decor are red.

I've always been athletically challenged, but nobody could simply take my word for it. Oh, no, we all had to find out the hard, painful way.

So after repeated failed attempts in elementary school to get me to at least TRY and stick my hands out and not just stand there, frozen, arms hanging limply, uselessly by my side while the different balls of various sports activities flew at me from all directions only to end up bouncing against my enormous moon-round head (can you imagine how a medicine ball feels when it hits you in the forehead?), my parents and Phys. Ed. teachers concurred that it would be best for all involved (but especially for what little was left of my brain at that point) if I try other activities, especially those activities that didn't require ANY hand-eye coordination or even just basic motorskills.

Phew! That was a mother of a sentence.

And that's more or less how I ended up at a high school for the performing arts, where the only students who had to worry about balance and coordination were the dancers and the mimes.

Okay, the musicians too, probably, but still. At the age of fourteen I had finally been freed of the burden of athletics, because in my school, there was simply no time left for it after academics and rehearsals.

And thus I lived happily and sports-free throughout high school and even college.

Until that day when I found myself unemployed with only one available journalism job option: Sports reporter at a community newspaper.

I was overcome with the sudden urge to join the army instead of taking that job. Or to slowly gnaw off my own wrists rather than attending that job interview.

But I also knew that I had no choice. Times were tough, jobs were scarce, and I needed a job in journalism and I needed one right then if I still wanted any chance of graduating with the rest of my class.

So I agreed to interview for the position.

That phone call from my friend happened on a Friday afternoon, which meant that I only had until Monday morning to learn all I could possibly learn about sports.

ALL the different sports.

Even rugby.


emily said:

That's just cruel.

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is a South African girl living in South Africa. That doesn't sound very original, we know, but you might find it remotely interesting when you learn that she has only recently returned to South Africa for the first time after a nine year, one month and two week (non-stop!) stint in the United States where she accidentally became an outlawed alien (also known, especially in immigration circles, as an 'illegal immigrant.' We prefer the term 'outlawed alien' ourselves). During her reversed exile from her homeland, she kept herself occupied by winning this website (but only after shamelessly bribing the judges) and thus being unleashed on the web where she slowly, leisurely became the World's Laziest Blogger; by being a nanny and by attending sci-fi conventions in search of other aliens. In the US, she also made her sailing debut, her international acting debut, tried and failed to learn the piano, and never learned to cook. She is hopelessly addicted to coffee, dogs (especially Labrador Retrievers), how-to books (with a particular fondness for her copy of the Time/Life A - Z Medical Encyclopedia), and she tends to grossly overuse parentheses (we're not kidding) during her attempts at writing, which you may - if you really have masochistic tendencies - subject yourself to by reading the words to the right of this column. If you REALLY and truly STILL want to know more, you can read her C.V. here.
Or you can stalk her send her some love via e-mail at: redsaid[AT]gmail[DOT]com

The Wish List (Because yes, she really does need more how-to books. Honestly!)


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