Hi ho, hi ho, it's off to the coast we go......
By James Clarke

Psychologist Dr Niki Swart, speaking some time back at a civil defence conference, said that in a disaster situation, 70 percent of people become confused and panicky, while 10 percent scream and cry, and the rest become distanced.

I have personal experience of this. It happens every time we go on holiday en famille - and this year we have, once again, decided that our tribe will migrate to the coast next month.

It is not that we want to avoid dishing out Christmas boxes to those 300 or so dustbin men who arrive in Impis shouting: "Happeeeeee!" and armed with authentic-looking letters from the municipality.

Although, to be honest, that is partly the reason.

It is also to avoid hearing: "Jingle bells, jingle bells" every time I go the shops.

But I have long realised how right Dr Swart was. My family, when setting out on a long journey, manifests the first two syndromes - confusion/panic and screaming/crying. I tend to be like the 20 percent and become distanced.

We usually go down to the sea in convoy, taking hours because there are so many females, and females have bladders the size of eyedrop bulbs which necessitates stopping every 20 minutes. And then the younger ones want crisps and soft drinks so that they can mash the chips into the back seat and set the cans, once almost emptied, rolling under the front seats going downhill and rolling back going uphill.

Nowadays we rendezvous at dawn at the house of either one of my daughters where we reverse over suitcases, burst plastic bags and find that women are bringing food supplies as if the South Coast is served only by a trading store that sells blankets and paraffin.

"How can you have bought all this stuff?"

"It just looks a lot. In any event, you should just see how much we left behind on the supermarket shelves."

The scene is reminiscent of a dockside as an ocean liner prepares for the Far East.

"Who are all these people?" I cry. But really, I know, because I recognise many of their faces.

Meanwhile every burglar south of Harare can see he has two clear weeks to clean out the house. "I just hope," said my son-in-law, "they'll have time to clean out the garage too."

On one occasion when my granddaughter was small, she spied a packed taxi pulling up and called to the people getting out: "You see this house? Well, Jesus is looking after it because we're going on holiday."

The drive is filled with people shouting helpful things like: "Aren't you folks ready yet for Pete's sake?"

"Oh no," I say to my wife, "you are not bringing THREE suitcases?"

"I am."

"Who said?"

"I did."

"Oh well, that's all right then."

The scene changes to that of the Grand Staircase on the Titanic. I slide into the phase Niki Swart describes as "helplessly withdrawn".

Inevitably, irrepressibly, the convoy moves out, forsaking the agreeable Highveld climate and heading southeast towards the rains and the sticky humidity that lies ahead.

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I was on about howlers the other day and a reader (teacher) said teachers take a huge risk in asking pupils to write down what they think of teachers .....

"She looks very old," wrote a child of her 25-year-old teacher.

Another wrote: "My teacher is at school to teach us how to spull."

An admiring pupil said: "My teacher is clever. She is good at sharpening pencils."

Another was even more satisfied: "I am clever because my teacharer teachars me."