Helen Walne’s Human League

Being a freelance writer is not easy. You drink a lot of tea, wear pyjamas in the daytime, and while waiting for payments you are forced to eat the tongues of old shoes.

But right now, I’d rather have my job than that of Mamodupi Mohlala. As the head of the newly formed National Consumer Commission, Mohlala will act as our watchdog, responsible for giving the new Consumer Protection Act teeth. She will have to have the mandibles of a Rottweiler.

I’m a rubbish consumer. In restaurants, I’ve crunched my way uncomplainingly through more frozen lasagnas than Garfield could shake a paw at and have quietly picked pubic hairs out of my hollandaise sauce.

I’ve brought home – and not returned – enough litres of sour milk to start a yoghurt factory. I once paid half my salary at the till for a box of unpriced persimmons.

I could blame my parents. They taught me to not make a fuss, to be grateful for what I get and to smile at waiters, even when they pour mussel juice all over me. But I’m also aware that, like many South Africans, I just don’t know how to complain.

Eating out with my Belgian friend is like watching the first round of Idols. I wince when he raises his hand, signalling the start of his performance.

“Zeez chips are diskusting,” he announces, pushing his plate towards the trembling waiter. “Ent ze wine ees like bat’s pee-pee.”

Then he’ll spend the rest of the evening saying “mon dieu”, and won’t leave a tip. I generally sneak back into the restaurant, apologise to the waiter and press 20 bucks into his hand.

It’s the same with my British sister-in-law. “You are going to take it back, aren’t you?” she asks as I thrust my nose into yet another bottle of curdled milk.

“Naaah, it’s not that bad,” I reply. “You won’t even taste it in tea. Anyway, the café owners are Bangladeshi. Shame.”

She rolls her eyes and takes her coffee black.

However, things are set to change. We now have Ms Mohlala, and suddenly I feel a swagger when I’m shopping. I’m tempted to weigh boxes of Bran Flakes and count sheets of toilet paper.

I want the cashiers to greet me instead of muttering through their lip hair. I demand that my new swimming goggles don’t fill up with water.

And if that night cream doesn’t deliver on its promises – smooth my lines, reduce my wrinkles and make me look like lemongrass – I’m going to eat it, go into a coma, and then sue. Because after decades of feeling ripped off and peed off, we finally have a channel for our grievances.

First up are shops that don’t display prices. Mmmm, these grapes look nice, but how much are they? Let me take them to one of those scanning robots to find out. Mmmm, no scanning robot.

Okay, on a scale of one to 10, how much do I want these grapes? Eight – they’re listed as a free food on my eating plan. Do I bother to find the manager and hassle him with the details of deciduous fruits? Or do I call Mamodupi to vent my disgust? Cue evil, manic laughter.

Next up: all those eco-green-natural-organic-never-a-beaver-harmed products. Mmmmm, this cellulite cream says it’s a natural product made with extracts of Polish chestnuts and biodegradable lichen. Must be good for me. But wait. On the back, it lists about 15 petroleum derivatives and more E numbers than a Soho drug dealer.

Should I call the consumer hotline, or give Mamodupi a tinkle? Cue more evil, manic laughter.

Then there’s that word “fresh”. As a student, I worked in a deli. I know the drill. When someone asks whether the Cornish pasties have been baked today, you do a half-nod, half-shake of the head and say: “Of course.” I served Cornish pasties that were as fresh as a boxer’s armpits.

But now, with Mamodupi in our midst, we can poke the bread, stick in our fingers in every pie and declare poor comestibles a stale thing of the past.

I can see it now. In four months’ time, Mamodupi will be found shivering under her desk like an abused dachshund.

The phones will be ringing off the hook and packs of slathering consumers will be whining at the door, brandishing pots of rotten yoghurt and pies with fingers in them. Mamodupi will bare her teeth, and they will be worn down and full of weevils.

[email protected]; twitter: @walnehelen