Taken for a ride

Welcome to South Africa. A place of sunny skies, boerewors and braais.
A proud sporting nation. Current holders of the Webb Ellis Trophy and hosts of next year's eagerly anticipated FIFA World Cup Soccer tournament.
A "rainbow" nation sporting many diverse cultures and 11 official languages.
And if certain Internet news reports are to be believed, "the world's murder capital."
The last one is a bit worrying I will admit. My wife and daughter in the country at the moment visiting relatives. Hello Attila.

I have not been back to the land of my birth in seven years. I am not really qualified to comment on the situation over there, but I do know one or two people who have been affected by crime.
Let me introduce you. There's dear mom. She was once held up at knifepoint. My brother John has had a gun stuck in his face two, maybe three times now. And my dad's car has been broken into more times than Lindsay Lohan has worn underwear on the red carpet.
About a week ago I learned that two of my Facebook "buddies" had been the victims of a car hijacking. Fortunately they're still alive to tell the tale.

Even I have a story to tell. There's a slight twist though.
Shortly before packing my bags for good in 2002 to come to the United Kingdom, I found myself on the wrong side of the "law." It was criminal.

********************************

I'm not what you would call technically and mechanically minded.
Sure, I can replace a light bulb every now and again. I once even managed to wire a plug in under three hours.
Trying to change the tyre on my Ford Sierra at some ungodly hour in the pouring rain was proving to be slightly more problematic. Especially in my inebriated state.
I had been perched on the side of the Ben Schoeman Highway for about ten minutes trying to make head or tail of the jack when I was blinded by approaching headlights.
The yellow van pulled up behind me on the verge and stopped.
Two police officers, a sergeant and a constable, got out.
Could this get any worse?

"Having some trouble?" the constable asked.
"Um...no," I lied rather unconvincingly.
What I should have done was kept schtum. But that's not my style. I'm always one for breaking the ice.
"I think I have a flat tyre," I said, hoping and praying that I wasn't slurring my words.
"Have you been drinking?" the constable asked.
"Um... One, maybe...um two," I slurred.

While the constable busied himself undoing the lugnuts, the sergeant, a heavyset man in his forties took down my particulars.
Maybe they would let me off with a caution. And maybe Tim Henman would win Wimbledon this year (2002 - Ed).
Little did I know that the cops were going to take me for a ride.
"When your vehicle is ready we'll drive you down to the station," the sergeant said matter-of-factly.
Alarm Bells. Really loud alarm bells.
"Oh."
I tried to look casually unconcerned but there was genuine panic in my voice.
"Why?"
"You've been drinking and driving," the policeman said. "I can smell you a mile away."
Shit.
"I can do the breathalyzer test right now if you don't believe me," he said flashing me a toothy grin. "Or we can go to the hospital to get a blood sample. That's all we need to use as DUI evidence when you appear in court."
Blood test? Court appearance? WTF!!!
The alarm bells were now replaced by an air raid siren.
"Or we can go down to the station," he said.

I was going to try and appeal to the sergeant's sense of compassion. I would plead my heart out.
I told him that I was on my way home after dropping my wife and daughter off at OR Tambo International.
I explained that my family were flying to England and that I would only be able to join them once my visa application had been approved by the British High Commission in Pretoria. I told him this could take weeks, months even.
I admitted that I had had one too many. I told him I was an idiot. I told him that I was a dickhead and a moron. I told him all these things and more but he was having none of it.
Drink driving is inexcusable. I don't even for a second condone my callous recklessness. But you have to remember that I was young and stupid back then. (As opposed to old and stupid now? - Ed)
I was willing to do anything short of providing sexual favours to get myself out of this mess. The last thing I wanted was to spend the rest of the night in an overcrowded police cell in Jo'burg somewhere.
But I was starting to fear the worst. I could see my sob story was not tugging at the sergeant's heartstrings. He basically blanked me and started talking to his partner.
Zulu is not my native tongue so I couldn't quite understand the gist of what was being said. All I knew was that I was in big trouble.

I had played the sympathy card and it had not come up trumps. Now I was being chauffeured to the station in my Ford Sierra while "Sarge" followed in his van.
I sat in stony faced silence having resigned myself to the fact that there was no way out.
Then it hit me suddenly like a shock. The money. The money!!!
I had forgotten about the wad of cash in my pocket. I can't tell you why I was walking around with R800 that day. It doesn't matter.
Was this my way out? I would soon find out, but first I would need to grow myself a pair.
"Um...officer," I began slowly. "Could I buy you...er, would you...Are you hungry?" I finally managed to ask.
My voice was shaking so much.
"Maybe I can...uh...buy you and the...uh... sergeant a bite to eat?" I offered.
The constable cottoned on to what I was attempting almost immediately.
"What kind of meal were you thinking?" he asked.
It was make or break time.
"Two hundred rand each? Enough for a juicy porterhouse steak with all the trimmings or..."
He pulled off the side of the road and stopped the car.
"Wait here. I need to talk to the sergeant."
I was biting my fingernails. In the rearview mirror I watched as the constable communicated my offer to his superior. Would the gamble pay-off?
"No," the constable said. "The sergeant says R200 is not enough."
Greedy fuckers.
They were playing poker with me. They wanted me to know that I needed to up the ante if I wanted that all-important "get out of jail" card.
Now even though R800 was a helluva chunk o' dough for me back then (about £62 in today's money), I thought it a small price to pay if it meant escaping the slammer. Fortunately the two crooked cops agreed and after handing over the cash, they drove off leaving me at the side of the road.

I can appreciate that not all South African policemen are corrupt and on the take. But the experience did leave a bitter taste in my mouth.
I like to think that my encounter with the sergeant and constable was a rare occurrence, a one-off. I certainly hope so.
If someone with the "street smarts" of an Amish carpenter could get away with bribing two of South Africa's boys in blue to evade prosecution, I wonder just how difficult it must be for a real hardened criminal to get away with murder.



PS I cleaned the bird cage out this morning. I don't know what Tara was chirping on about. Easy peasy.

I don't have the cojones for chemical castration

Highway robbery is alive and well in good old Blighty I'm sorry to say.
Twenty five pounds for a cab to Heathrow?!? Extortionate is not the word. Or is it? Now I'm really confused.
I wanted to take the bus to the airport but Tara was having none of it.
So once again poor old Daddy Warbucks had to haul out the wallet. I decided not to kick up a fuss as I wouldn't see my wife and daughter for the next three weeks. They flew to South Africa for their holiday yesterday.
I know what you want to know. Did I cry? Should I be chemically castrated?
Yes. Sort of.
My eyes grew misty and I could feel that damn lump in my throat as I waved them goodbye.
To stem the onslaught of possible further waterworks I bit my lip so hard it actually spurted blood. All that did was aggravate the situation. Tears were shed alright. But they were painful, self-induced tears.
I don't think I shamed myself at all. As a man I can still keep my head up high.

On the way back I made use of public transportation. And not just because I'm a tightarse. I don't think you've truly experienced London until you've taken in the sights and sounds of Feltham from the 285.
The bus trip took forever. I could also sense that some of the passengers were staring at me. Maybe it was because my lips had now swollen to four times their normal size.
By the time I finally got home I was bursting for a pee. I rushed upstairs and was about halfway through my, um, "piddle," when from the corner of my eye I noticed a post-it note stuck to the bathroom mirror.
After reading the gentle reminder from the wife urging me not to forget my "chores," I wiped the seat. I'm renowned for my toilet etiquette.

I found the little post-it note rather amusing. Endearing even. That is until I sauntered into the kitchen to check on the beer situation.
Yellow post-it notes plastered EVERYWHERE.
On the oven, the toaster, the overpriced stainless-steel thingamajig Tara uses when peeling and dicing potatoes. The microwave, the fridge-freezer, the washing machine, the George Foreman grill.
Do I need to go on? The kettle, the peppercorn grinder, the antibacterial dishwashing liquid. Even the ugly out-of-date clock on the wall.
@#%$! post-it notes everywhere.
Strewth.

I don't think I come across as such a simpleton. It hurts to think my wife might.
Tara, if you're reading this let me try and ease your mind.
Take care of our budgies. Check. Spend quality time with the cat. Check.
I don't have the attention span of a five-year-old.
The most difficult thing about it all is trying to figure out what I'm going to feed Tinkerbelle.
Do I throw caution to the wind and try the rabbit and lamb in jelly? Or should I stick with the tried and tested smoked turkey and salmon for her tea?
It's not rocket-science.
I can do this.

Home Alone

Some work colleagues think I am the luckiest man alive.
"Three weeks without the missus? No more nagging. Just rest and relaxation," is how they view the situation.
I don't quite see it that way. I will miss my wife and daughter. And not because I'm probably going to starve or end up ravaged by scurvy.
Tara and Carolyn are flying to South Africa today to visit "Attila", my pet name for the mother-in-law.
All the bags have been packed and now we're waiting for the taxi to take us to the airport.
My nine-year-old is very excited. She's also slightly apprehensive.
"The plane's not going to crash?" she asked just a few moments ago.
"No honey. Everything will be fine. Now stop worrying. Why don't you play your Wii?"
There's nothing quite like "an adventure of galactic proportions" to cure your child's aviophobia. Thanks Super Mario Galaxy.
Unfortunately it lasted all of only two seconds.
"But what if we do crash?"
"Carolyn. Stop thinking like that. Nothing is going to happen."
"If the plane crashes into the sea mom and I will be okay. We know how to swim."
Sigh!

Apart from one or two hiccups this morning, it's been a pretty stress-free day.
I was barely out of bed when Tara sprung a surprise on me. I was going to have to undertake additional work due to her leaving for the rainbow nation. She had a list and all. And she absolutely insisted on giving me a hands-on demonstration with all three tasks.
Who knew there was an exact science to feeding the cat? Or watering the plants?
And then there's our, er, I mean, her budgies, Blue II and Chimes.
My wife's sermon on budgerigar care was so epic in scope that I couldn't possibly commit all the many minutiae to memory.
"Clean out their cage at least once a week and remember to do it outside," my wife waffled on.
Then she repeated herself. Again.
"Don't clean the cage indoors. You DON'T want to make a mess in the house," she said.
I dunno, but I DO think that was a veiled threat of some sort.

We have about ten minutes before the cab is due to arrive. Carolyn's given up on the Nintendo and Tara's pacing up and down nervously. I'm frantically trying to finish this entry.
"I'm going to miss you daddy," my little cherub says before giving me a big hug.
"Awwww, I'm going to miss you too monkey-nut."
"Are you going to cry when you say goodbye to us at the airport?" she asks.
At last! A question even I can answer.
There are times when a dad, even one who has read all the Ian Fleming novels, just doesn't have all the answers.
Shrove Tuesday? I have no idea. I also can't explain to Carolyn why bananas are yellow or why her mother gets at angry at me. Kids ask the darndest things.

I do have an opinion about blokes who like to blubber though. That's easy.
Under no circumstances should a grown-man cry. Ever. Maybe it's my Neanderthal gene talking here, but crying is a sign of weakness.
My brother John disagrees. He wept after seeing James Cameron's Titanic. And he's not even ashamed to admit it. I think it's a ploy to earn brownie points with girls. Trying to convince them that he has a sensitive or even human side.
No, a man who openly flaunts his emotions should be chemically castrated and put on the sex-offenders register.
Of course I didn't tell Carolyn this.
"No honey. Daddy doesn't cry..."
I don't think I came across all that convincing. Even to myself. Self- doubt started creeping in.
Was I going to degrade my gender by breaking down like a little girl at the boarding gate?
I don't really have time to reflect on this as I've just heard the car pull up into our driveway.
Maybe I should stuff a couple of Kleenex facial tissues in my jacket pocket.
Just in case.