Looking down at myself in the shower recently I wondered why it is that errors of perspective are limited to my stomach and feet.Knowing that my wife, the fitness junkie, would try to explain it with a lengthy treatise on the benefits of exercise to body, mind and eyes, I decided to recommit myself to an outdoor pursuit for the Christmas and New Year break. Tiger Woods’ headline grabbing love-life troubles and the excitement in the valley surrounding the SA Golf Open were incentive enough to give attention to my sadly underutilised driver. So I headed off to Val de Vie, hoping to catch glimpse of Richard Sterne (or at least his beautiful new wife who was pictured in the December edition of The Month). The driving range was deserted, save for someone walking a horse. As I couldn’t find anyone to hire a bucket of balls from, I took the handful I keep for mulligans and, after a short warm up, hit all three straight and true, at right angles to my intended direction. The horse walker changed into a rider and in no time bore down on me shouting “Fore. Luck sakes, man!” or something similar. “This is a polo field, bugger off!” I did.
The Magic of Bubbles created quite a stir in the family. In-laws, Jenny and Charles rushed down from ‘Josie’ to share in the (locals only?) Friday night introduction to this year’s incarnation. She has J-Lo’s posterior and he has the ears of a certain prince. “Should we take the nanny, Mable?” I asked, “The theme is white with a touch of black.” The junkie shuddered as she often does when I open my mouth in public and fastened a black scarf around her waist. “There,” she said, “white with a tush of black.” Later I heard the word ‘ass’ and assumed she was referring to her own.
The financial consequences of buying scalped World Cup tickets hit me with a thud while tucking in to a second helping of Christmas pud. Fortunately our lavish festivities were hosted by our equally lavish neighbours and I was able to pocket a large number of five rand coins towards the cost. It helped that the kids were all in the pool at the time that their bowls were set out, giving me ample time to dig carefully through the fruit mince and sherry without being discovered. The party was catered for by an ex-convict made good, who now cooks for the rich and famous. Making small talk I asked: “So did you ever think you’d leave prison as a chef?” He replied, “It wasn’t really a surprise, I’ve always been good with knives.”
-Jim Waite
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