Some of my best friends are Gingers’…

I felt a ginger mist descend on me. I experienced ginger rage.

Now before you make any assumptions I would like to clarify that I am not a closet ginger. Nor am I a gingerphobe. Why, some of my best friends are gingers.

Okay, so what are the odds of this.

Last week-end I very annoyingly had to go into the ABSA bank next to Blue Route Mall on a Saturday morning with two irritable young children. It was pretty crowded and there were too few tellers and the whole bank was pretty grumpy. But, we all worked together and made a real effort to be as quick as we could so that the next person could get their business done.

All of us that is, except the Ginger at Teller 4.

Oh no. Not him. He had the whole day to spend there leaning up against the counter doing everything in slow motion, chatting away to the teller like she gave a shitsakes.

Six or seven people were served and he was still at his post trying hard to get the most out of his visit.

We all had a secret understanding. We all hated him. Not just for taking long, but for asking stupid questions and trying to stretch his visit out.

But mostly for not noticing what page we were all on and not giving a shit.

I secretly vaporised him twice while I was waiting and it still didn’t make me feel any better.

And when I left, he was still there.

Knob.

So then this morning, a week later, and I am again forced into the bank and again there is a long queue, and again we all have the shits, and lo and behold, there is a single, slow, sloth-like customer holding up the works. Again.

And guess what. It was at Teller 4 again. Again.

And here’s the thing. It was a ginger again. Not a semi questionable ginger. A full blooded, freckled ginger. Legs crossed leaning up against the counter. Yakkity yak take his time. No time issues, sloth sloth.

Again.

This was different ginger completely.

It was made worse by the fact that this guy had on those old hang-ten surfer slops that we used to wear in the mid-eighties with slightly grubby feet and plenty of ginger leg hairs.

I felt a ginger mist descend on me. I experienced ginger rage.

I mean what are the odds of that?

Frickin low, that’s what the odds should be. Or are they actually? Are there a lot more gingers about than we actually realise.

Now before you make any assumptions I would like to clarify that I am not a closet ginger. Nor am I a gingerphobe.  Why, some of my best friends are gingers.

I personally know a ginger who is quite a good bloke. He’s just like us.

We all know one good one.

But when I grow a few days growth and my wife squeals and says I have ginger on my chin she is wrong man. Dead Wrong.

Auburn! I have a mix of blond and auburn beard hairs. Nothing more.

And I have nothing against gingers, but…

But it is so treatable. I mean there are so many options available to them. They can shave, they can colour they can pluck and they can wax. They can do so much. And yet they don’t.

Instead they hang around at Teller 4 and sloth.