People fight over it, they steal it, they’re envious of others with more of it, they pity those without it, they throw it in the air, they work their entire lives for it, and it has the amazing ability to disappear faster than a small chocolate cake at a fat kid’s birthday party. Money. The root of all evil, the devil’s secret weapon, worshipped by some and hated by others.
This very evil thing has forced me from my break in the working world and into a new job, promotions. I’ve done the Blockbusters video store thing, the work experience thing where you get paid nothing to do hard work, but I’ve never done promotions. I’ve waved them off in many a shop with a flick of the wrist and an increased pace but I’ve now become one of them.
Last week I crawled out of bed at the crack of dawn and trekked a great distance to a shopping centre in another town only to be rudely shown the door by the manager of the store. “I don’t want any promoters in the store today.” A where’s the manager game and a signature later my first promotions gig had gotten a false start.
Jump forward a week and I was at COP 17, the UN’s climate change talks, handing out brochures and carrying boxes for the department of environmental affairs. Getting to experience walking through my own city, something I’ve never really done as a white South African, looking around the exhibits and working with some chilled people where just some highlights. I could get used to these kind of jobs.
The next day I was back in another town, in a small store, peddling samples of sunscreen and educating those who cared to listen on the UVAs and UVBs that were killing them. I began to get annoyed by the sound of my own voice as I offered sample after sample to innocent shoppers for the four hour stint. We proudly sold quite a few bottles and wrapped up with a swift signature by the store’s manager.
Although not the ideal job, I’m not one who enjoys promoting products I don’t really care about or use, it’s perfect for the extra year I’ll now have as a student. Damn you honours, damn you.
One might liken the nine or so months of UNISA’s accounting honours to being pillaged by ruthless criminals continuously in a fiery pit, and one would be spot on. However the frightful wait for results and the prayers for a miraculous pass still hang in the air like a bad odour. It’s been over a week since the final blow in the epic beating that the final exams distributed, and only now are my senses beginning to awaken with my creative mind stirring from its slumber.
Planking
