Runners of the Comrades Marathon can spend hours discussing those last 3km. For purposes of name dropping and attaching unearned importance to myself, I will invoke Menzi Mvelase, the second black commercial pilot in SA, who gained prominence recently by executing a handbrake turn and U-turn in the sky after being called the k-word by a passenger. He's an avid Comrades runner and will describe in detail how, sometimes, the last 2km will require more willpower than the previous 88km.
It's that time of year when most of us are stumbling towards the finish line on weak legs, burning muscles and painful chests. I'm gasping for air and ready to collapse in a heap. My body gave up last week, culminating in a severe bout of bronchitis with a side order of tonsillitis. The brain is not doing any better.
I am in desperate need of a vacation. Why don't you just book one then, you ask. Oh, ye of scant comprehension! You see, my idea of a vacation is simple - I want to wake up whenever the eff I feel like it, or when my sides begin to hurt. That's 11am to noon. I want to walk around in my boxers, scratching my pebbles with an ice-cold beer in my free hand and sit on a balcony overlooking water, whether the Indian Ocean or Graskop Dam.
This is followed by a large, greasy breakfast, preferably heavy on pig flesh. That much eating should elicit a feeling that the TV series Boondocks popularised, called "itis". That's the uncontrollable urge to nap after a hectic consumption of rich food.
But back to my dream vacation. After a three-hour nap with intermittent forays to social media, humblebragging about my fabulous Instagram life, I like to get out and do something. Notice how, at no point, have I mentioned a meeting between my body and water with Dove soap. This is a critical element of the perfect vacation.
This should be followed by a heavy lunch between 4pm and 5pm. I know, I know - isn't lunch supposed to be around noon? Oh ye culturally challenged! In the townships and rural villages, there is a meal invented by us darker-hued folks during weddings, funerals, Easter and Christmas. It takes place between 3pm and 5pm. We still call it lunch, but I have personally dubbed it "lupper" (lunch + supper).
Because my body is so in tune with the rigours of lupper, I like to enjoy it during my vacations. And then more itis takes over my body and I take another one to two-hour nap. The rest of the evening is best spent using my liver as the last line of defence against the corrosive effects of Jack Daniel's, with a copy of Niq Mhlongo's short stories. This goes on until 2am. And then it's the following morning at which point it's reset, rinse and repeat process.
So if I'm so aware of the shape I like my vacations to take, what's the problem? Well, unfortunately, I was living my best life without a care in the world, lost GPS signal, took a wrong turn and woke up married with children. Yeah, yeah, yeah, children are a blessing and as I keep saying, they're our future, teach them blah blah blah. But just like some Tupperware is not microwave safe, children are not, in a manner of speaking, vacation friendly.
This is especially true in my current state. I really need rest, where I do my best African python impersonation after a meal. Just sitting there, digesting food for about a week. Before the Red Berets invaded our National Assembly, our legislators had become quite adept at this.
Unfortunately, our vacation plans involve travelling with the kids to Nairobi, with a detour to either Mombasa or Diani in early January. Packing is an arduous, three-day project treated with the delicacy of arranging coal and diesel at Eskom to avoid load-shedding.
I have overheard Mrs N ask the 14-year-old "Have you packed your boxers?" about 37 times between 9am and our 1pm departure to make our 3pm flight and her getting a "Yes, mama" response each time. And then, as we're approaching OR Tambo, hearing: "Oops! I forgot my boxers on the bed!"
With boys' nonexistent arse-wiping skills, this is a major crisis requiring scrambling to the airport Woolies to get some boxers. By this time our collective blood pressure is through the roof because the 11-year-old is complaining about a sore tummy after being told that eating a large pack of NikNaks alone is a terrible idea.
Last year we decided to do a week in Cape Town because, "the last time we went to Cape Town we were too young to appreciate it". That meant 5.30am wake up calls to get to the Table Mountain cableway queue sufficiently early to get a 10am ride. Now you're basking in the scorching sun for two hours, fielding moronic questions such as: "When are we getting on?"
Next is the "I'm thirsty" phase. You give them money for water and they return with R40 bottles of Powerade and R45 packets of Jelly Babies.
When you get back to your holiday cottage, the online Xbox games commence, with complaints about how quickly the Wi-Fi vouchers get depleted.
This is why I'm going on vacation to get over the family vacation in January...