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A DAY AT THE COURT

[Storie also in Afrikaans @ https://pgjonker.co.za/?p=41]

A DAY AT THE COURT

I recently had the privilege (?) to visit the court.  Bellvile Magistrates’ Court.   And no, I was not the Accused or the Defendant in any matter.  I was there strictly as a bona fide attendant to honourable proceedings, as is indicated for an upstanding citizen.

From early in the morning a queue forms outside the single entrance.  First you need to go through the security scanner.  All AK47’s, knifes, daggers and objects of similar ilk need to be handed in to the folks in charge of security.

Not everyone, though, follows this rather cumbersome process of getting into the building.  Attorneys, for instances, just visibly display their robes (well, you can’t really hide it, can you) and walk right up to the front of the queue.  Their clients follow suit, and everybody seems to consider this acceptable.

I did consider this course of action, and would have been able to do so without any problems.  However, it felt rather embarrassing to sommer skip the queue.  So I fell in at the back of the queue in the conventional way.

There are lots of people.  There are also lots of vehicles, and many of them of the type you will find on the “Pimp my Ride” programmes on TV.  But these are the before-versions driving around.  Clapped out cars with torn seats and mag wheels.  Custom made chrome grills.  Zooped up cars, wrinkled cars, lower suspensions, spoilers, fur on the dashboard, you name it.  Some vehicles display a combination of, or even all of, the above. 

Across the road I notice five gentlemen.  Groot Menere, you understand what I’m saying, nuh?  Dressed in very neat denims, jackets with brand names, headgear.  No, not baseball caps.  Larny hats, ek sê.   Golden rings, bracelets, golden chains.  They lazily check out the queue this side of the road, rather defiant.  They’re clearly not the type to be stared down. 

The pute-pe-pute-pe-pute of a Harley-Davidson becomes audible in the distance.  The sound becomes louder, and the Harley turns up in the road.  The Harley aims in the direction of the Groot Menere.  They respectfully stand aside for the Harley to be driven up the side walk unceremoniously.  Mr Harley parks his Davidson.  He slowly dismounts, does not take off his helmet, and also scrutinises the queue.  Then he starts walking across the road to join the queue.  It looks like someone form a Wild West movie the way he walks.  Must be the width of the motorbike’s seat that widened his gait.  The Groot Menere checks out his bike.  Respectfully. 

Then they also walk across the road to join the queue.  However, they do not join the queue at the back.  They fall in at the front.  Someone should actually take them to task about this rather rude approach to an otherwise orderly queue.  However, nobody protests.  Neither do I, but I’m not in a hurry, mos. 

I then get informed that the matter for which I am there has been postponed, so I decide to run an errand to the office of Home Affairs just across the street.  I have an ID document that needs to be picked up.  At Home Affairs I am in front of the queue.  There is no queue.  I feel slightly embarrassed.  I mean, going to Home Affairs and not having to join a queue seems contrary to standard procedure.

I announce myself to the gentleman behind the counter.  He types something on his PC and the next thing I get a sms informing me that my ID document is ready for collection at Home Affairs.  How cool is that, huh?  Exactly one-and-a-half minute later I walk out of Home Affairs’ office with my new ID. 

Back at the Magistrates’ Office I join the queue again.  Eventually I do get inside the building.  I go visit the Gents.  Vonkiespat and Ugly Pops had been there before me, the graffiti tells me. 

Outside a nervous looking gentleman asks me for directions.  He shows me a crumpled document which indicates that he needs to explain to the magistrate why he should not be committed to jail for contempt of court.

I’m telling you, there’s always someone who is worse off than yourself.

PGJ…

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