Waxing lyrical

After a whirlwind of appointments, from make-up trials to hairdressers, ministers, menu planning and flower-arranging, this day was supposed to be the relaxing day. A chance to have a paraffin manicure and pedicure, unwind and chill out.

I had already met the beautician earlier in the week for a waxing session (something I’m quite sure neither of us enjoyed – me because it was an hour and a half of continual torture, her because I kicked her in the head – meaning I can add Afrikaner to the list of nationalities I have kicked in the head). I was hoping the mani-pedi would be much less stressful.

It was two hours long and I generally get bored after about twenty minutes, so I was glad that she started making conversation. She talked about going to the farm at the weekend. “I hit a warthog at the weekend with my car,” she said with her Afrikaans accent, to my ears sounding like she was torturing every vowel.
"Oh dear,” said I. “Poor warthog.”

“Ney,” she said, “it was fahne. Ah ate them.”

“You hate them?” I asked, knowing Afrikaners sometimes drop their aitches.

“Ah ate them,” she said. “Tasted very wild. Very gamey.”

“Oh,” I said.

“Then we went out for a ‘obby, killing rabbits.”

“Rabbits?”

“Yis. We drahve up nixt to them in the car, and we ‘it them with golf clubs.”

“Why do you do that?” I asked, as cruelty to animals isn’t one of my main occupations (other than when Monty Cat wakes me at 2 a.m.).

She clearly misunderstood my question, “Because they is too fast to shoot,” she clarified.

This is a woman whom three days ago I had entrusted my nether regions. And that was a sentence I never thought I’d write.

Conversation moved on to cultural differences between South Africa and the UK (one of which, I would suggest, is the reluctance of Londoners to brain bunnies by the side of the road). We talked about crime levels and root causes.

“Ah ate black people,” she said.

“You... eat... black people?” I queried, surprised, but after the bunny rabbit torture, I was beginning to wonder.

“Ney. I ate them. They are ga-ga.” (Pronounced... actually I don’t think you can pronounce ga-ga in English. Try clearing your throat whilst making a “ha” sound. Twice.”

“Ga-ga?” I queried.

“Yis,” she clarified. “Disgusting. Ah mean, I wouldn’t refuse to work with them or anything if they came in for a treatment, but I wouldn’t go to their ‘ouse for a braai.”

I was guessing at this point, she probably wouldn’t be fucking invited.

By the end of the two hours I felt that I’d had a relaxing beauty treatment sponsored by the BNP. Perhaps Nick Griffin could branch out?