confusedshit says...

After this past week I am totally convinced that some rabble-rousing deity-slash-imp type thing is having a laugh at my expense by planting tricky weirdos in my path to test my mettle.  Dear Lord, let there be a blinking book deal from this blog to make it all worthwhile.  I just don’t think it’s normal for one person to have run-ins with so many wackos.  Bloody hell, I’m sorry if I was an idiot in a former life but when does the Karmic debt end?

True, someone must be looking out for me to some degree because I haven’t bumped into Wheelchair-Boy (see post of 11/12/10 - if leggings could talk) in months. Lucky me. I did drive past him in town a little while back. He was in hot pursuit (whirr, whirr) of a woman wearing those wet-look black leggings.  That’ll teach her.

My eldest niece, her Swedish fiancé, his sister (also Swedish) and his cousin (yes, also Swedish) were in town this week.  If there is one group of people I think Capetonians should kowtow to, it’s tourists.  Most people would agree that it’s within our fiscal interests to ensure a fun-filled, smooth-sailing holiday experience for visitors to our country.

Being nice to tourists is elementary.  Be polite. Be obliging. Smile. Be pleasant. Smile again. Be polite. Be obliging etc.  Truly, even a toddler could nail it. Unfortunately for me I live near (near, you hear me, not IN) a town I’ve dubbed “Complaintsville”.  (I had to stop calling it Deliveranceville because not every one can hear the banjos).

The Friendly Swede’s holiday rental was on one of those roads where some residents don’t have their own parking spaces, so they have to park on the street.  Not that unusual for cities anywhere in the world, right? You simply find the nearest parking to where you’re staying without parking in front of anyone’s driveway and you’re good to go.  Not in Complaintsville.

Someone had parked in front of their house, so Friendly Family and Friendly Swedes found parking elsewhere.  Lucky for them it was under a nice little pine tree that offered some shade. When they came down to their car later in the day, they were parked-in on either side, with literally 1cm to spare.  The note on their windshield read, “call me when you want to move your car” (serial-killer type handwriting).

When the writer of the note (lets call him DIPPY – acronym for Dickheaded-Ignoramus-Petty-Pathetic-Y-front-wearer) came down to meet us, his opening line was, “I haven’t slashed your tyres, but…”. He then launched into a bitter tirade against people who make a beeline for his tree.

We were all standing around looking bewildered (especially the Swedes, who’d had no coaching on how to handle parking-space wankers) so I asked DIPPY, (merely to clarify) who owned the double garages directly behind his car? ‘I do’, DIPPY says.  Mystified, I asked him why he needed the space under the tree when he has garages? Becaaause, DIPPY wants to park directly in front of his house to bring his groceries up. If DIPPY parked in his own double garage he’d be required to walk a whole extra 4 paces.  Duh!  DIPPY wants his garage space, the space in front of his garage, the tree to the left of the garages and the road in front of the tree.  The PUBLIC ROAD in front of the tree.  HuuuHHH??? I thought of offering him cake at this point.

Mortified by his rudeness to the out of towners, I explained (patiently) that he does not own the curb and that (less patiently) he does not own the tree and how (really impatient now) he definitely does not own the fucking road in front of the tree.  Indignant, DIPPY asked me if I watered and pruned the tree. I had to concede that I didn’t, but added that I’m sure Council would be overjoyed to learn that he’d assumed responsibility for the welfare of the pine, but that sadly, he still DOESN’T OWN THE BLOODY TREE or the BLOODY ROAD in front of it.   

I suggested that if he really felt that he owned the tree, curb and road, he should put up a sign.  Something like CURB, TREE AND ROAD BELONGS TO ME NOT YOU, or PARK HERE IF YOU DARE or even MY TREE might do the trick.

DIPPY finally moved his car when I told him in my best Judge Judy type voice that what he had done was illegal (mmm, will actually have to double-check that) and that I was going to get the Traffic Authorities post-haste to tow his car away.  

In closing, DIPPY must be a very special kind of stupid.  Who parks-in a big SUV with a tow bar and a bullbar?  Had we been tyre slashing, rebel kind of folk, we might have just revved up the ol’ SUV’s engine and muscled our way out of there.  Looking back, I wish we’d had the guts to.

(BTW, GAG was in class again today. During the floor exercises she shouted out CHANGE THE MUSIC, ITS MAKING ME ANXIOUS. And, a violent scuffle broke out in the back row over who gets to put their mat where. Suggestions on how to deal with belligerent adults are welcome.)

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gym class hero's part 2...

This week held quite a few potential blog topics.  Karl Lagerfeld was reported saying that he thought Adele was “a little too fat”. Now I don’t know about you, but I’m not sure that the opinion of a man who carries around a woman’s fan can be trusted.  Perhaps he needs it to hide those ‘a little too fat’ lips of his.  

TooFastTooFurious asked me this morning if dogs lay their own babies.  There was too much to correct so I just said, ‘yes’. Then I got thinking about how he was a little bit right because dogs have puppies when they’re lying down, but birds lay eggs when they’re sitting, not laying, and neither dogs or birds actually get laid. Honestly, I think they just make up the English language as they go along. 

Anyhow, I had to stick to a blogging plan and as last weeks post sparked lots (OK, maybe three people) of discussion, I thought we could continue with those gym-weirdo’s out there.  Case in point, a chap phoned in to Gareth Cliff to say he was really annoyed that when he wants to use a machine the person using it says “Sorry man, I’m still on my first set.” 

For Gym Class Hero’s Part 2, I thought its time I introduced Gray-and-Grumpy.  For ease of typing, we’ll just call her GAG.  GAG has wild, curly, grey hair - which might be why she isn’t altogether pleasant (relatable really, this often being the cause of my own bad moods).

GAG is an artist. This means she sometimes get paid for the work she does and sometimes she doesn’t. This might be the other reason why she’s grumpy. I don’t think she sold very much at her last exhibition because she kept nagging me to come but as I’m not really a purveyor of art, I didn’t go. Also, I get the feeling that she can be a bit of a bully and that I may well be talked into buying a painting of a something like a giant vagina. I also get the feeling that she’s the kind of artist who would include real hair samples in her painting and I truly can’t go there. I’m just not that arty.

From the outset I’ve been a bit frightened of her. On my very first class she arrived late and said in a loud voice, “WHY MUST THE AIRCON BE ON. IT’S SO UNHEALTHY”.  I would have thought that aircons in gyms were pretty self-explanatory and though I’m personally not a huge fan of aircon (ehem, excuse the pun) ninety percent of gym goers like to delay their sweat somewhat. Some hate to sweat at all, and that would be the class I teach.  Fortunately for me, GymClassHero1 took charge and, shooting GAG a viscous stare, simply said ‘we want it on, leave it alone’.  One point GymClassHero1. Nil points GAG.

The next time she came to class she shouted at the top of her voice (which ironically is a very loud voice) “THE MUSIC IS TOO LOUD, TURN IT DOWN”. I didn’t hear a ‘please’ in there and assumed it was an instruction and not a request. Rolling my eyes inwardly I started making my way to the music maker - to obey the painter of vaginas.  Lucky for me, GymClassHero2 says dangerously to GAG ‘No! We like it loud’ and then (equally dangerously

to me) ‘leave it’. One point GymClassHero2. Nil points GAG.

This week, exactly 8 counts into the warm-up, GAG blurts out something. Loudly.  Seriously, I’m starting to think that this woman has tourette syndrome or something. Fool I am, I thought she was asking me a question so I said, ‘pardon?’

‘WHAT AWFUL MUSIC, she said. Ideally, I would have developed a thick and leathery hide for GAG by now, but I havn’t.  I have to wonder what reaction she was hoping for? Perhaps she was expecting me to stop the class and go through my library of 1778 songs right there and then, to make a selection she approved of.

To put it all into perspective, what exactly was this evil music I had chosen?  Was it The Prodigy? Was it ACDC? Was it Black Sabbath? Was it KISS?  No, it was Martin Solveig and Dragonette. I’ve played it backwards and forwards and listened for the voice of Satan and still can’t quite hear it.

I too like a little Steeleye Span but I’m not sure they’re quite right for a gym class.  I’ve searched and searched (unsuccessfully) to find a Bob Dylan song that has 125 BPM to play for GAG.  Perhaps I should just play ol’ Bob as is, regardless of tempo, let loose my unkempt hair and float around (un-ashamedly farting at regular intervals like a lentil-eating, weed smoking artist) and see if my heart-rate reaches its desired target?  GAG has told me that she dislikes the yoga instructor (too?) and I have to wonder, is a gym the right place for GAG?

As punishment, I’m making a mix of the loudest punk bands I know, mixed in with a bit of EMINEM and will play it at the next class.  Just so that GAG can appreciate how very tame I have been up till now.

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book your spot today...

WARNNG: Sailor-style swearing ahead…

One of the lesser-promoted facts about me is that I teach aerobics (which for those born after 1990 is the 80’s name for a body-conditioning class). This piece of information is normally met with thinly veiled disbelief (I can tell by the way that their eyes go all narrow) because lets just say that if I was in a line-up, you wouldn’t exactly say ‘Why yes, that one’s definitely the fitness instructor’. 

People say all kinds of weird stuff in gym change rooms and gym instructors are often cornered when there’s no escape (what with being naked and all).  I was once asked why, if I am so fit and a regular gym goer, don’t I look much better than I do? 

It was tricky to come up with a constructive answer when the prevailing retort in my mind was ‘Piss Off’.  I considered making something up about over-imbibing on weekends (which isn’t entirely true and isn’t entirely a lie either) and just ended up saying , in what I hoped was a mysterious voice, “it’s due to the medication”. Thank God she didn’t pry further but she still looks at me funny.

And so it was that I found myself this week once again in a state of half-undress, fielding gym class concerns. 

Gym Class Lady: You know, some people are so rude.

Fake Me: Well yes, they certainly can be.

Real Me: Oh shit, I know what’s coming. Ear-fuck imminent.

Gym Class Lady: Yes, you know every week I stand in the same place and today, someone just came and stood in my spot.

Fake Me: Really? They did?

Real Me: It’s not your spot. 

Gym Class Lady: Yes, some woman who hasn’t come to the class in months just squeezes herself between MY spot and the wall.

Fake ME: Oh Dear.

Real Me: Between your spot and the wall would technically speaking make it NOT your spot. And if she hasn’t been for months she therefore DOESN’T KNOW that it’s ‘your’ spot. And also, it’s not your spot.

Gym Class Lady: It wasn’t as if I hadn’t booked my spot either.  I’d put my mat down there and everything.

Fake Me: Ah, I see

Real Me:  Okay, let’s clarify this for once and for all. Just the same as Germans can’t book sun-loungers with their beach towels, you can’t book a spot in a gym class with a mat.  The only thing that ensures your spot is you standing there.  And also, it’s not your spot.

Gym Class Lady: You know, I would never do something like that. I could never be that rude.

Fake Me: No no, I know you couldn’t.

Real Me: Are you shitting me? You’re being rude right now. Do I look like I give a flying feather about your stolen spot? Which, by the way, is NOT your fucking spot?

Gym Class Lady: I was so irritated that I just decided not to do the class

Fake Me: That’s a shame.

Real Me: Seriously?  You you’re blaming her for not finding another spot but you won’t move your spot? And also, ITS NOT YOUR FUCKING SPOT!

Gym Class Lady:  You know, I don’t really care.  People must just do what they feel is right. I’m the kind of person who doesn’t let others get me down.

Fake Me: Good for you!

Real Me: I can tell. Totally. So why are you chewing my ear off while I’m naked in the changeroom when I don’t give a toss about your lost spot because: IT’S. NOT. YOUR. FUCKING. SPOT.

I’m really going to have to work on my disinterested face.

NOTE OF WARNING!  Unless you plan on an early death, do NOT under any circumstances, get into a discussion at the gym about aircon VS opening the windows.  Seriously. You’ve been warned.

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old school...

My neighbour and I swap magazines. I’m not really sure why magazine swap is legal but music swap isn’t, considering that one magazine costs around thirty bux and a song only costs 7 US cents therefore the loss on magazines is bigger?  But this is just where the small mysteries in life start, innit?

Normally we swap tabliody mags like ‘Heat’ and ‘People’ – fiercely intellectual stuff. Secretly, we’re just keen to swap them so that we can get them out of the house. They serve as a reminder of our shame at having bought them in the first place. Er, before you get preachy, I know you read them too because they’re always the most-read mags in waiting rooms.

This weeks sharing was un-tabloids.  I’m always up for a bit of Tatler because I get to WTF at how the other half live and can pretend, for a moment, that I can relate to articles like “Wise Up, Rich Kids!” Whenever I read Tatler the word ‘who’ forms in my mind, followed by variations of: buys this shit, is interested in this shit, knows who this shit is and mostly, can afford this shit?  (Sorry, Nicole Farhi, but I just don’t see how a white cotton shirt can be worth 250 pounds - unless of course it was both woven and stitched with your teeth).

I did read one relatable article though called, Our Man in the Sixth Form.  Before getting stuck into the meat of it, my immediate reaction was ‘gee, wouldn’t that be fun – to go back to school for a day’.  This was followed even more immediately by my secondary reaction: are you blinking bonkers! Memories of my school years came flooding back, like those dreams where you arrive at school with no knickers on and your skirt’s hemline is getting shorter and shorter. 

It got me thinking (and not for the first time, mind you) who exactly enjoyed their schooling?

OK, I’ll tell you who.  The girl I sat next to in Grade 3.  Let's call her 'Brown-Noser'. The teacher asked – sneakily I thought – what half of three is.  Of course, we all know that there is no half of three. There’s two and one and one and two but definitely no half of three.  Least that’s what most of us figured because everyone, except Brown-Noser, didn’t put our hands up. I couldn’t contain my shock when Brown-Noser said ‘one and a half’ (still baffles me to this day) and I still wonder how the fuck she knew that.

Pretty much the whole of my primary schooling went along these lines (mathematically speaking) and when I got to senior primary it only got worse. Enter 'Suck-Up'. Cutest girl you ever saw, curly dark hair, big brown eyes, dimples (I shit you not. Dimples.) AND she was seriously smart.  Teachers pet for sure. There may even have been apples involved.

When the time came for her English oral, she actually made a joke in her oral.  I mean what kind of freaky kid knows at age 11 that you should break the ice with a joke?  Of course, you’re wondering what her oral was about, right?  Her hobby: pressing bloody flowers. Of course it was. Need I say more.

It was really in Grade 6 that the panic reached fever pitch regarding number-work (the half-of-three business was just the start). Can someone kindly explain the importance of math speed tests?  I mean unless you’re planning on being one of those coke-snorting stock exchange-quick-with-numbers-types, when will you ever need to add numbers at speed? (note to self: send kids to school with cocaine to help their maths). My parents were totally bewildered when I kept saying how I hate, hate, hated maths.  ‘But you’ve got A+ the whole year!’ they exclaimed.  Well I could hardly tell them that I’d copied my best friends entire body of arithmetic work (thanks, Alex) the whole year, now could I?

I will not even begin to stray into the realms of social angst of school years,  except to say that it is exceptionally tiring to try and suck in your bum and pull in your stomach for an entire five years of high school. So no, Peter Dench of Tatler, well done for giving it a whirl but I will not be trying out school again. I’m afraid that no-knickers dream will finally come true.

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bow off...

Dennis (today's guest blogger) first shot to fame in our household in one of the lesser well-known  YouTube videos "It's my 30th Birthday" (view at:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XMqkIgTShPA&feature=player_embedded).  


I didn't know at the time of viewing that we would actually get to know him and when we finally met in Argentina, he kept us so entertained that we skipped our trip to Evita's grave and instead imbibed in copious amounts of Patagonia beer.  He's a worldly-wise, brilliant writer with a mind is as quick as his tongue.  I regret not having played his suggested game when I was in Japan...

Ask someone to impersonate a Japanese person and there will likely be a combination of pretending to take a photo with a gasp of awe, holding their hands together and saying “konnichiwa” or bowing deeply with an “arigato” at the peak. While these might be ignorant generalisations, as most stereotypes are, they are not entirely removed from the truth.

Over 125 million people inhabit the four main islands of Japan enjoying a safe and peaceful community, arguably the safest in the world. A key ingredient to this successful society is the respect that the Japanese show for each other. This society has been moulded through the simple concept of showing respect for others. One of the most impactful ways to show respect to others is via a bow. The lower the better.

In my days as a high school teacher, every class was inevitably ignited with the students standing up, a predetermined spokesperson yelling “rei”, in an unenthusiastic monotone, leading to the class to uniformly fold their body into a 90-degree bow while blurting “arigato Dennis Sensei”. Meet a friend of a friend and you will be confronted by a “yoroshiku” followed by a casual bow. Buy a bus ticket at the station and a bow will follow your change. Give way to a pedestrian crossing the road and you will be rewarded with a bow. Bows represent respect and respect shapes Japanese society. They are so important that they actually learn how to bow properly at school in large practice sessions.

This can be daunting to a foreigner who has never bowed before. Do I look up as I bow? How far down should I go? Hands at the side? Timing? But there is no need to worry. This needn’t be a point of fear but a chance to enjoy the difference in culture. Introducing the revolutionary game, Ultimate Bow Off!

This game works particularly well in restaurants because commonly as you square up your bill and exit, all staff members will stop and bow as a sign of gratitude. It is nice to receive this bow to top off a nice sushi meal or a hot bowl of ramen. But why not enjoy this even further by throwing in a game?

Now, as I mentioned, Japan is all about respect. Respect for your elders, your superiors or your customers. Therefore, it is a sign of respect to have the last bow. You leave a restaurant and receive the standard good-bye bow. It works. The staff are happy, they showed their respect for your business, you are happy to receive the respectful gesture. Enter the chrome double-ended spanner into the works. What if you bow back and say “arigato”? This plunges the whole system into chaos. They thought their work had finished. You ate, you paid, they bowed, you left. Done. But now, they are required to meet the customer respect requirements and bow back. They do. It’s solved. They had to double their bowing performance, not a big deal, back to caring for the other patrons.

Now, imagine the crazy idea of replying to their second bow with a second rebound bow. Therefore, tripling the work of the bowing staff. They once again reply. You match their third bow. You have entered into a bow battle. They can’t let you have the last bow, that would be terribly rude! We’ve now slipped into the extreme sport of ultimate bow off.

Who knows when this will end? You continue to match their bows. Remember that there is very often not just one staff member involved, but the chef, the waiters and the cashier. Each one of your reply bows multiplies the bow volume by four or five. After a bow rally of around five returns, other customers have noticed this battle and stop their slurping for a second to observe. This places even more pressure on the staff bowing away frantically.

As time goes on you may lose the chef, he will admit defeat and subtly side step out of the conflict hoping that no one notices. However, the cashier is like a front line soldier in the midst of battle. He can’t just drop his gun, smile and say “can we stop this now?”. He has to keep on bowing away. Some will do so with the same bravery of a frontline soldier invading enemy ground, not letting the abnormality of the situation affect their perfect bowing style, perfected at school.

Some will see the funny side of it and bow with a cheeky smirk gradually letting each bow slip closer to the border of casualty seen amongst friends. The more ‘rebelious’ staff members will immediately catch on and cease to participate in such a game. Extremely rude if you ask me.  Whichever viewpoint you come from, Ultimate bow off is here and destined to change the face of this rigid formality forever.

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call of the wild... or ... the little trumper boy

The chap I'm about to introduce to you was probably writing in the womb.  I would happily trade my writing skills for his, but fear that along with it would come his devilishly dark, wicked way of seeing the world.  But when he's not devilishly dark he's witty and hilarious and also a member of the "WTF? Club of Parenthood".  Sean didn't have a photo to give me which makes me think he might also be a spy. A spy with a sense of humour - now there's a first. He's a parent of two and master of none - at least that's what he says...

I am reading my daughter a bed time story about forest faeries when this naked arse backs into her room and let’s rip before zooming off again. And it is not a pip squeak either. It’s a back-arching, leg-lifting rotter of a fart, all poise, elegance, and dare I say it, grace.

My son, I am not ashamed to admit, is no ordinary farter. He’s been trained. He knows all about things like angles, stance and delivery (and of course, that holy grail of showmen, timing). In short, he is a professional, and while it is true he possess an innate ability (inherited, paternal grandfathers side), I won’t sell him short with flippancy. What you experience when you hear Luc fart is hours of spontaneous practice. Just the other day we bought him a guitar and already it is gathering dust. Should have looked at the wind instruments. But even then, I doubt he would have played a bugle for long. He favours acoustic over electric and know he would have shunned any form of musical technology that strays from the raw power of his own bum cheeks.

Agreed, the appreciation of his talents is limited to a man’s world (like the drunken, back-slapping brotherhood of males around a late night camp fire), but this is not a bad thing. Is there not a certain mystique that bonds the farter with his listeners? A secret handshake, a sheepish look, a “God, my eyes are watering!” cry for help that separates the common house-farter from the true professional?

This is not a clarion call for farting to become mainstream, for farting is subversive by nature and always will be. Far better it remains an underground movement, a leftfield force ready to be unleashed in classrooms, trains, and for the truly daring, weddings.

Poems have been written about love, love lost and mornings which have broken. Alas, there is no ode to the true pleasure of working man: that first fart of the day.

Those in the know will understand . . . that morning stretch as you sleepily make your way to the bathroom . . . the first shift in your abdomen, (usually while making a pee) that alerts you to the fact that something special is about to happen . . . a change in stance and some fancy footwork, maybe? Perhaps a knee is slightly raised. We all have our special techniques. You can feel that trapped air shouldering its way, bit by bit, through your pipes, determined to exit. Nothing will stop it. It is a blast forged in the pits of hell.

Kisses may come from heaven, but a fart is the devils work.

And already, before its even over, you can hear her screams of disgust, “You f@#king   pig!”

Ah yes, morning has broken!

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Mug shot.... A story from the Argentinian Edge

Because it's the season to be jolly, and jolly funny, I've hustled together some of my favorite funny people to appear as guest bloggers.  Just my little way of spreading the Christmas Cheer. 

Chanelle is a would-be-country bumkin who, straight out of school, moved to the big city. As Cape Town became too small, she moved to another big city and currently lives in Buenos Aires.  When she's not making jokes, she's making people laugh and when she's not doing, that she's sleeping.

Introducing the fiercely funny Chanelle Le Roux with her tips on how to survive Big City Living...

Some might say it is luck that has resulted in me ´free from mug´ after 5 years of taking public transport and walking to work.  I myself put it down to some well thought out tips in order to scare off potential 9 to 5 muggers. So here it is:  10 top-to-toe tips on how to avoid the mug.

The ponytail – unless you are a gymnast who just can’t live without one - don’t do it! The ponytail is the handle to harassment. It is a lot easier to grab and pull a bopping ponytail than it is lose hair. On that note don’t be scared to wash your hair infrequently to get that grunge look. People tend not to approach dirty looking folk.

Make down – ease off on the make up when you are walking to and from work. This will make you look tired and if you are anything like me when you are tired, muggers will avoid coming even 5 metres close to you. Bags under your eyes are a great way to make people think you just might be on drugs and if you are, people will generally steer clear of you.

Under the hood – hoodys are a great way to scare off potential muggers. Not only do you feel as hard core as a gangster but you could look like one and if you look like one you might act like one and if you act like one the mugger might think you have some kind of gangster weapon you could bust out if he comes close.

The shoes – if you’re working at a fancy corporation where heels are required then you can probably afford a car anyway, but if you don’t, it’s all about the All Stars kicks. Semi-gangster shoes make you look the part of someone not to be fucked with AND they are easy to run in. If a mugger is surveying his potential mugees he will more than likely go for the Helen in heels who can’t run fast in her Jimmy Choos rather than the All Star Alison who can run away if need be.

Other goes-without-saying ‘get-up´; avoid girly handbags that are easy to rip off your shoulder. Rather wear a backpack and while you’re at it, throw some ‘gun range member’ patches on it.

The Limp – I was going to say the walk but the limp is more fitting. Seeing as you are not on a catwalk but rather more than likely on dirty city streets, it isn’t necessary to maintain a sexy strut on your way to work. Limp! Even if you feel ridiculous, do it!  I have perfected the limp over the years but in order to get you started remember: the limp is not 'I’ve just stubbed my toe'  limp but rather the ‘I’ve got something heavier in my left pocket than in my right pocket¨  limp. It is a difficult thing to master but when muggers see it they know that they may not be dealing with the defenceless beauty pageant contestant. Limp with confidence, don’t saunter and don’t look at the ground either. A tough looking hunch works well with the limp.

Drop some 50-cent – not the money because that is what you are trying to keep away from the mugger, but rather - the rapper. Listen to rap or rock for that matter.  It a good way to make you feel like you are angry with the world and if you can channel that into the vibe you put out then that’s just what the muggers will steer clear of. Don’t be scared to adopt a bitchy look on your face.

Props – a mugger is more than likely to stay away from someone

like Mary Poppins' who has an umbrella in her hand ready to use in the event that someone attacks her (don’t let her fool you, it’s not just used for flying). If you have something in your hand that you could potentially use as a weapon, muggers tend to stay away from you. If you don’t have anything and feel that someone is approaching you, fiddle in your pockets. They might think you are about to whip out some mad mace.

Get chatty  - no need to befriend your potential mugger but if you feel that you are being followed or about to be mugged make a hard 180, look right at your mugger and say something. Anything. Comment on the weather will usually do just fine. If you acknowledge the mugger he knows he has been seen and that makes it easier for you to identify him in a line up if he ever got caught.

Unleashing the loco – this is my favourite (mainly because my natural nature is ‘not all there’). It really does work. Whenever I have felt a mugger is not far behind and ready to attack I unleash the weirdest sounds combined with any kind of abnormal movement my body can make. I can guarantee you that if the mugee looks an ounce of crazy the mugger will stay away. It wouldn’t hurt to make the odd twitch while you walk too.

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