Stuffing Ducks...

I'm currently embroiled in one of mankind's least pleasurable tasks: house-cleaning. Yesterday all was going according to plan—I was working just hard enough that my husband wouldn't notice how little I was doing when I accidentally bumped into “The Priceless Treasure Of My Youth”

The  crash which I tried to muffle with a scuffle of feet, a coughing fit and, embarrassingly, a bout of hysterical hiccups was met by a snorting scream emanating from our living room. Instantly and uncannily, the man knew precisely what had happened.

Terrified by the possibility that my blundering about had caused serious injury to “TPTOMY” he ran into the study. I was frozen to the spot. Never mind looking at the destruction I had wrought, I couldn’t even look at him.

"Oh my gosh! " I said. "I knocked your duck onto the floor and I think its head fell off. I can't look."

I had intended  to be more lyrical – with a few choice expletives thrown in for good measure. But the whimsical seemed to be what fell out of my mouth. The look on the man’s face suggested I had committed the ultimate sin.

He just stood there. With that look on his face.

That’s when it all started coming apart for me. I looked onto the floor and started laughing.

"Well, good news," I said. "That duck’s head is fine, but I think I knocked its butt off."

Apparently I wasn’t funny.

Never mind that the stupid duck was poorly mounted by an youthful and aspiring taxidermist, (my husband  - way back when. When he was young and flexible and wasn’t married to a Sinner such as I) and it isn't in prime plumage – I had damaged the damn thing.

Let me tell you something  here. Alpha males, especially White South African ones, are easily enraged. They have been bumped from their slot at the top of the food chain and are struggling to adapt to their new position.

In many instances, they can be calmed down with offers of raw meat and brandy. There is nothing a WAM likes more than a chunk of charred meat and a bottle of cheap liquor. If he has just eaten and is already drunk, he might show no interest in your offer. This is when he is at his most dangerous.

WAMs, like white sharks, are one of the most misunderstood animals on the planet.  They feel things like the separation of butt from body of their favourite bloody stuffed duck. It threatens them somewhere deep down inside of themselves. Down there where their Natural Hunter lurks…then they will go on the attack…

The best way to ward this off is to threaten him with charges of things like: Sweeeeeet!  I can see your Metro-sexual Man peeking through!  He will retreat faster than a vampire being sprayed with holy water.

That gives you a fairly good idea of what these white alpha males don't like. In the interests of fostering better relations (and relationships) let's take a look at some of the things they do like.

Sea views
These guys have such a yearning for sea views you could be forgiven for thinking that if some of them were a bit brighter, they could be related to dolphins. But with burglaries,rates and taxes and squatters on the increase, second homes at the coast are becoming, much like the South African passport: a crushing liability.

4x4s
Now that sjambokking the staff is frowned upon, they have to get their jollies elsewhere. Riding roughshod over the environment is the new urban aphrodisiac. Don't bother asking for a lift. There is never room because the back seat is for the Rottweilers. You would be missing the point if you mentioned that the dogs aren't even in the car.

Weather
You might think they would be used to it by now, but these guys spend much of their time talking about it. Being born in Africa with European genes plays havoc with their internal barometers. Deeply conflicted, they complain endlessly about the heat, the cold, the wet and the dry.

His Stuff
Not to be confused with His Tackle. Which is also priceless beyond compare and is given a name that can be trotted out at dinner parties: Excuse me, I am just off to shake The Mighty Anaconda. The kind of guy who says he is off to talk to a man about a dog clearly doesn’t rate His Tackle highly enough.

His Stuff, though, is all the things he has been collecting since the year Dot and that his mother couldn’t wait to give you when he finally moved out of her home and into yours when you got married. This will include Old Yearbooks, medals, several pairs of favourite socks hoarded since Grade 3, photos of his first girlfriend, the packet of his first condom and at least 42 pairs of underpants in ever-increasing stages of HOLE. And a bloody stuffed duck. His Stuff is not, under any circumstances, to be touched or moved. It shouldn’t even be breathed in the general direction of. Unless in emergency. Like when he is at the pub or on the golf course and there is a fire. In which case you should abandon all else and make sure those underpants etc  get rescued first. This is an imperative.

It’s right up there with not trashing TPTOMY.

Eating out
WAM’s go to restaurants even when there is food in the house. This is because entire generations of white mothers have failed to teach their daughters to cook. The daughters don't see this as a failure. They see it as a step towards the total emancipation of women: You won't cook and you want to be free? Fine. See ya. Have a nice life.
Hello, Mr Delivery?

Aaaaaaanyway…..
Understanding the likes of my particular WAM I knew, instantly, that trashing that duck was tantamount to suggesting he go and live in Soweto. Or Bloubok Rand. Or Springs.

And it didn’t help that I then said: I’ll get you another duck. This one is now, most definitively, dead.

Guess who’s cooking tonight?

Anyone for duck?