Wheildon

my favourite day of the week is friday.  it always has been.

in greyton, friday was collection day.  i loved gathering locks, plates, doors and windows — in fact, anything old and useable.  the locals from heuwelkroon and bosmanskloof knew that any of these items could be exchanged for cash.  all sorts of callers brought a variety of interesting articles.  sometimes wonderful finds popped up.

sadly, cash in hand, these callers often went straight across the street to join some like-minded lads to buy a ‘happy pack’ of soetwyn to cheer themselves up on a hot greyton day.  in fact it didn’t really matter what kind of day it was.  the same faces were always there.  it took some years to understand how the team worked.

each contributor to the ‘happy pack’ got what he paid for.  it worked thus: the most upright and sober of the group was charged with entering and securing the vintage ‘on special’.  after paying, all participants filed around the corner to sit in the sun and down the contents, depending on who paid what and by carefully watching a bobbing adam’s apple.  swallows were counted: two for fifty cents, or seven or eight for a greater cash investment.  round and round the ‘happy pack’ was passed until the five litres were finished.

one friday this little band of locals was sitting on the front stoep of ‘ons winkel’, passing their choice of the day around, when one of their mates appeared on the horizon.  very much the worse for wear, he approached like a ship in heavy seas.  his pants were hanging on for dear life, halfway down his backside.  they cheered him on and called him over for a sip to help him on his way.  as he tried to lift his foot up onto the stoep, his broeks gave up and fell down around his ankles.  the roar of amusement from his pals led him to believe that he was being apprehended from behind.  he could go neither forward nor backward, one foot up and one foot down.  his arms waving about, he tried to swat whoever it was behind him to release him.  try as he might, he was rooted to the spot.  shouting abuse at his ‘assailant’, he threatened murder or worse.  the onlookers were beside themselves with mirth, shouting encouragement.  eventually, it dawned on him that his trousers were the cause of his troubles and, to the cheers of the onlookers, he managed to pull them up without falling over.

a quick pull at the ‘happy pack’ and he set sail for home.

directions on how to get home and hoots of laughter followed him.  not watching where he was going, and muttering to himself, he walked straight into one of the few lamp posts in the main street.

the group of onlookers were busted.  they were overjoyed.  the telephone pole’s ancestors were sworn at, and the injured fellow demanded to know who had put the blerry ding there in the first place.  his mates suggested that the municipality was responsible for his discomfort and should suffer the consequences.

a reliable source reported that the lad in question was so intoxicated that he missed his house and was halfway to genadendal before a returning neighbour helped him to alter course.