Rejoice, for it is the end of Abuse Linda Week

Please do what I say. Find your keyboard settings. Change the command SHIFT+1 so that instead of printing an exclamation mark make it do a flower, or a kitten - or better still, make it do nothing at all. It will make the world a better place - prevent wars, hinder divorces. More children will live and fewer guns will be manufactured. Just do it.

One day I will write a Lazy Guide to journalism. And when I do, there will be one very short chapter on exclamation marks. Don't use them. Not 'Don't use them!' Just - don't use them. It makes a writer sound insane, or religious, or both. Calm down, put the pen down, take a deep breath, bugger off and stop bothering me.

Don't use it

Why all this, you might ask? Well, unbeknownst to me, this week just gone was apparently African "Abuse Linda Week". Celebrations peaked yesterday, when I received 400 words of grade A verbal abuse in my inbox from a disgruntled Kenyan who hasn't been paid yet for an article he wrote for me (coincidentally also measuring 400 words) back in May, only to be handed a fresh ladle of abuse at a nightclub in the evening.

On the first incident: Ok, so May is a while back. And we should have sorted it out before we did. And I can't say how sick I am of asking people in my office to check up on things, only to have to ask them to do it again a few days later. Only to find they've gone on holiday.

But nothing merits language such as this:

"Now iam really getting tired of this because you are giving me unconfirmed reports.Someone from the bank just called me and informed me there is no money since i had told him to check instead of me rushing there.I went and confirmed and there is NO MONEY.I was hoping to even go there tomorrow but already there is no TRUTH....But you have decided to make it my nightmare day in day out!You are telling me of things you are not sure of.One thing for sure i cannot look at your magazine anywhere again.Never." &cetera &cetera ad nauseum...

In the above, there is only one exclamation mark, although this is remedied further down the email.

Then, in the evening, I felt like soothing my shot nerves by going out on the town with Miracle-Gro and listen to a friend of ours DJ at a place called Roosevelt on Bree St. All was well until Gro got chatting to one of the owners of the place, who incidentally must have a very small manhood, since he proceeded to first insult Gro then myself in such a way as to render beyond doubt his complete lack of balls - or brain for that matter.

Recounting the whole episode would be tedious. But highlights included me getting told I was "shallow" for saying it was a pity that the excellent DJs didn't get more of a crowd. As an editor, he said, I must learn not to have expectations. Oh, and next time I should take this off. (As he unzips my light jacket) And do this... (as he tries to lift up my top).

I told him to take his club for "creative and environmentally conscious people" and drive it up his arse sideways. At least, I told him that in my head several times in my car on the way home.

So - in return I'm thinking about proclaiming next week the "Linda abuses Africa week". It's only fair.

Where's my spam?

Ever since Deborah started, my work down here has taken on a new routine. Instead of doing absolutely everything myself, I now spend most of my time thinking up things for her to do, then telling her to do them. The rest of the time I spend swearing at my email account for giving me spam while keeping back the good emails.

At least it was, until today. Today Deborah is off and I've got nobody to tell what to do. What is more, my email has gone topsy turvy and will now give me all the good emails, but not the spam.

This should not be a problem.

But out of old habit, I keep clicking on 'send and receive', scanning the progress box jealously for spam emails. Old habits, and all that.

Otherwise, things are going pretty well. Deborah is getting better and better at doing everything I get paid to do. It's my ultimate goal to render myself competely surplus to requirements, then give myself a fat redundancy deal. If only...

My freelance is taking off again, since Boss in London has agreed that I can write for the Mail and Guardian down here. They pay next to nothing, but I have always been a fan of Guardian (the M&G is an arm's length subsidiary) editorial policy which is basically to let their writers get on with it. I've never had more than, say, 5 changes in any one piece I've written for the G. It's great for my feelings of self-worth. I now feel about 1 rand 50 per word more valuable than I did a week ago.

In about 3.5 weeks I'm off to Europe. I'm looking forward to all of it, especially since it's the coldest and rainiest winter in Cape Town for [enter arbitrary digit here] years. Even if I have to swim through the streets of London, dodging Al-Qaeda sleeper cells as I go, at least the water should be warmer than the icy rivulets threatening to sweep me off the slopes of Table Mountain. London floods would be a seaside holiday in comparison.

This is in South Africa, not Switzerland. Sersiously.