Hey everyone, I tied my own laces

IDON'T know about you, but being an ordinary, mediocre human being is starting to become more and more difficult. It used to be that people were comfortable with their allotted stations in life. Perhaps it's just me, but the pressure to stand out and do extraordinary things is increasing to the point where I feel like a tennis ball inside a pressurised canister.

IDON'T know about you, but being an ordinary, mediocre human being is starting to become more and more difficult. It used to be that people were comfortable with their allotted stations in life. Perhaps it's just me, but the pressure to stand out and do extraordinary things is increasing to the point where I feel like a tennis ball inside a pressurised canister.

If it's not that Bill Gates giving away $28-billion of his wealth, then it's his mate Warren Buffet matching him and raising him with $31-billion of his own money. What a bunch of show-offs! It's not enough that you've made so much money you can give away dozens of billions, now you're attempting to single-handedly eradicate malaria? Did you stop to think what effect this has on the egos of those of us whose greatest achievement so far was to pop out the womb without strangling ourselves with the umbilical cord?

Then there's the annoying little twerp Justin Bieber. Barely into puberty and already a pin-up for 56-year-old paedophiles everywhere. What about those of us already in our 40s still waiting anxiously for that one sugar-mommy? I blame the internet for making access to information so easy one is bombarded with news of other people's successes on an hourly basis.

If it's not some 12-year-old Korean whizz-geek breaking a code that has befuddled mathematicians for 120 years, it's Usain Bolt effortlessly gliding into the record books. Don't get me started on our own Siyabulela Xuza, who, barely out of his teens, has made a mark on space exploration with his rocket fuel. Ditto, that annoying superbrain Mark Shuttleworth. How am I ever going to beat taking a vacation in outer space? When did the Maldives stop being enough? Oscar Pistorious is achieving amazing things daily - and he doesn't even have legs!

I know many of my peers, also wading waist-deep in Mediocrity River like me, are feeling the pressure. I cannot count the number of people around me making desperate attempts to break the shackles of the ho-humness of their everyday lives. People are climbing Kilimanjaro; bungee-jumping from any structure more than 10m off the ground; leaping from planes.

I have decided to deal with it in my own way. OK, maybe I didn't strictly invent it. I may have been pipped by successive ever-enterprising ministers of basic education. You know, "If the matric pass rate is appalling, lower the pass mark to 30%, sit back and watch that pass rate soar." I have christened the bar-lowering manoeuvre simply "The Angie". It is ingenious in its simplicity. It's like adding another hour to the Comrades qualification time, sitting back and bragging about the record entries. So I have gone about lowering the bar in my own life. Let me give you some examples.

Until recently I have not been able to remove the first Weetbix out of any row in the box without crumbling it to smithereens. If it's the bottom row in the box, it is nearly impossible to achieve without inflicting collateral damage on at least one of its neighbours.

I have recently gone on a drive to fine-tune my Weetbix biscuit-removal technique. It's taken me weeks of practice and many boxes of Weetbix. It is a far more delicate operation than some of you appreciate. That clumsy Bill Gates looks like he has about as much dexterity as a rhino. I bet he has to decimate three Weetbix biscuits just to get one out unbroken. Ndumiso 1, Bill Gates 0.

Another tiny victory target I set myself is peeling a soft-boiled egg without ending up with a wobbly, juicy mess on the saucer. You should have seen me on Tuesday in my kitchen, shelling a pair of soft-boils. I was the epitome of concentration; beads of perspiration on my brow. All that was missing was surgical garb, gloves and an assistant I could turn to and command, "Nurse, wipe my brow and hand me the scalpel."

Afterwards I stood there, admiring the two perfect testaments to my greatness. I was so chuffed I took a picture with my phone and sent it to Mrs N with the message, "Next stop, the Pulitzer, baby." She responded, "Yawn." Still I was so proud I performed an elaborate Afcon-type celebration in the kitchen.

This, dear reader, is my message to you. Lower your own bar and take your achievements in whatever size they come. Be like the dung beetle and hold your head high even though all you do is roll balls of sh*t all your life.