The world has been engulfed by Trump turmoil. All creatures great and small have been affected, from the penguins on the remote island that have been hit with a 10% tariff if they dare to export their cuteness, to the billionaires who have seen billions lopped off the value of their companies on the stock markets.
Such is the sheer volume of the terrifying, pain-inducing and ludicrous outpourings from the White House that the news websites must surely be thinking of awarding Trump a separate category in the list on their home pages. News, Trump, Politics, Opinion, Sport … Or perhaps Agent Orange would be more appropriate.
Of course, it is us who will suffer the most from this financial disaster — price increases and job losses the most obvious traumas. In these circumstances it would be selfish to dwell on our rapidly worsening problems in the media business. But it is true that for a long time now the idea of job security has been a pleasure from the past.
And as the situation steadily worsens when I wake up from a troubled sleep at 3am with the first thought on my mind being: “I must reinvent myself.” This is really a ridiculous concept because this year I reach the age where I should expect to be presented with the fake gold watch and ushered to the exit door.
The only reinventing I should be doing is deciding whether I want to become an old Greek guy who sits at a table outside one of those idyllic cafes on one of the islands sipping small cups of potent coffee, alongside a glass of even more potent ouzo and nibbling on a plate of olives. The chairs are painted blue and the blindingly white wall is host to a carefully trained bougainvillea covered in magenta flowers.
Or I could reinvent myself as an old geezer sitting on the stoep of one of those quaint old houses in Churchhaven — I think there are still a few that haven’t been renovated by rich business people — gazing over the gentle waters of the Langebaan Lagoon while sipping on a gin and tonic.
I’d better snap out of this train of thought because I will have to keep working until I drop. And if it is not as a journalist then it has to be something else.
Having a side hustle is halfway to a complete reinvention, and I have had a couple of those. A love of plants and gardening was instilled in me by my mother through many hours of slave labour in her garden. Some friends saw that I had some knowledge and skills and asked me to help with their gardens.
Eventually I took the plunge and left journalism to start a landscaping business. Miraculously I found that I could make enough money to support my modest lifestyle, but I lacked the ruthless instincts of a real business person and couldn’t make the step up to earn real money. I had green fingers but couldn’t turn them into greenbacks.
So when I became a father I went back to a salaried job in journalism. With the benefit of hindsight it was not a good idea to call the business Garden Boy. At the time it seemed like a cheeky reference to one of the more ridiculous terms from the recent apartheid past.
As an acquaintance, who had a very important government job and knew many of Joburg’s wealthier citizens, said: “You don’t expect Patrice Motsepe to give you a job with a name like that, do you?”
More recently I turned another one of my hobbies into a side hustle. This time it was my love of scouring second hand shops for what some people might call old junk but others see as treasure. And this occupation has many names as well: the slightly insulting “smous”, the plain old “collectibles trader” and the more fancy “antiques dealer”.
I had a stall once a month at a carboot sale in Benoni. It was fascinating to become a part of this world of eccentric traders and obsessive collectors. I discovered I had shrewd instincts about what people wanted (old bottles, wooden tool boxes, vintage tools, bits of wrought iron, pot plants) and some previously undiscovered skills as a salesperson.
“You’ve just got a lot of shit, and people are buying it,” said the envious guy with the stall next to me.
I spent my spare time scouring charity shops, auctions and fetes for stuff to resell. The thrill of the hunt was addictive and to unearth a rare item for a bargain price was exhilarating.
Probably my greatest moment was finding a signed, numbered print by the South African poet and artist, Wopko Jensma. It was on the floor of a dingy charity shop in Rosettenville and I paid R30.
Another great find was a seat from a Johannesburg tram sitting forlornly in the garden of a Bedfordview home for older people. The seat could be flipped over so when the tram turned for home on its journey the seat always faced forward. Then there was the vintage South African Railways wooden workbench with the original solid metal vice.
With a bit of hard work these side hustles could be revived and provide some much-needed income. But perhaps I should tap into my extensive collection of vinyl records and become a DJ. I do know some older gentlemen who have made a success of this, and as the Reba McEntire/Destiny’s Child (take your pick) song says, “I’m a survivor.”
