Where to next, Oracle? My cat's fathomless green eyes consider me for a minute before she lifts a disdainful back leg and continues her ablutions.
The past 12 months have been tough for many as travel plans fall in the household budget wars and
The ringing phone cuts into my reverie. My aged parents - new to Joburg, barely five years in the Big Smoke - need a lift to the Metro Centre in Braamfontein to query their home evaluation bill.
"We know you've had some experience driving Down Town."
Dad makes it sound like Kabul.
That may be, I grumble, but I get lost in my own suburb. Often.
As destinations go, Braamfontein hardly compares with Brussels , but hey, one day, I'll too be old.
I soften. Of course, since I forgot to have children, there are few guarantees of anyone driving me about in my dotage, but what the hell
In anticipation of a long morning, I pack the padkos - a fortifying flask of coffee and sandwiches.
My father affixes his GPS to my dashboard and we're off.
I should say from the get-go that I've never much cared for that know-it-all "Cyber-Ma'am" issuing directions with all the emotional warmth of... well, a GPS navigational system. I hate her smug topographical omniscience, her bossy intonation, the way she sounds more school-marmishly strident as you ignore her commands to turn right into a left-only lane.
Cyber-Ma'am never admits she's wrong, even though she usually is.
Naturally, Cyber-Ma'am has no idea where the Joburg Metro Centre is, taking us first to the Salvation Army, then the YMCA headquarters and then to a huge hole in the road surrounded by workmen, before sulkily falling silent.
Lost in Vienna once, I recognised a street name: "Turn here," I told my husband. "It's Einbahn."
He shook his head sadly. Turned out Einbahn means "one way", but at least that time, prostate problems and a pressing urge to pee weren't part of the picture.
Change of plan: pit stop at the Protea Hotel Parktonian in De Korte Street. Deftly I turn into the wrong parking lot, reverse my new car into a wall and slop the contents of my fortifying flask down my silk pants. Hot damn!
But the garage attendant turns out to be an angel in overalls, leading my father off to a loo and giving us far clearer directions than anything Cyber-Ma'am had managed. "Turn left into Rissik Street, park on the right after the second robot."
True to angelic form, he vanishes before I can get his name.
And lo, we find the 1960s building towering over Braamfontein from the top of Rissik Street - no small feat, considering the given address is 158 Loveday. There may well be another entrance but, if so, it's well hidden.
We pick our way past pebbled paths with artfully rusted statues and the concrete casket of 1986 memorabilia for the Joburg denizens of 2086 to chortle over. ("Hey Gavie, check out this primitive processing abacus with cup holder!")
Once through the imposing portals, a sense of calm prevails.
"Very civilised indeed," says my mother, looking around approvingly. "There's a plethora of lavatories."
There were, indeed, clean amenities on every level, but the real surprise lay on the fourth floor - Rate Policies and Tariffs - where we were greeted like welcome guests.
I was shown to a couch to eat my sarmies while administrative assistant Suzette Otto dealt with my parents' inquiries as though nothing was any trouble at all. The entire staff could not have been sweeter if they'd been dipped in jam, dusted with icing sugar and lightly baked.
On the walls, posters created by personnel reminded everyone in bold fonts to: "Choose Your Attitude! Make Their Day!" And so on.
How cool is this? A universe with self-realised civil servants who actually love their work. Love. Their. Work. Bring it on!
All that red tape, bureaucracy and endless filling in of forms? They've made it FUN!
These officials are living the dream. Walking the talk, making YOUR day. Gimme Five!
What other municipality in the world has managed to pull that off?
Braamfontein's Metro Centre rocks. If you can find it...