Wheildon

james again

one thing that can be said for living in a small village is that there was never a dull moment.  i was sitting in my office in the main street trying to explain to a visitor that chickens, ducks, horses and cattle were part of country life.  the information was received with horror and the visitor seriously wondered whether she should leave forthwith for the city, where animal noises could be controlled by the volume button on a remote.

while the city slicker pondered city versus country, a battered golf roared up the main road and parked directly opposite my office window outside the village supermarket called “ons winkel”.  the car and driver i recognised immediately.  a young woman leapt out, clutching a handbag, at the same time instructing her passenger to sit still and wait while she bought some milk.

no sooner had the driver disappeared into the store than a blonde head appeared out of the passenger window.  then, like a cat burglar, a young boy, no more than two years old, eased his body up and out of the window, hanging onto the roof of the golf for support.  having successfully accomplished this feat without falling on his head, the youngster looked around for something to do.  nobody was taking any notice of him so he resorted to something a little more creative.

the young fellow pulled down his pants and prepared himself to see how far he could wee into the street.  with back arched in a classical stance, he let rip with a mighty thrust of his pelvis for maximum distance.  the woman in my office was shattered beyond speech.  never mind chickens and ducks; she rushed off holding a copy of country life to her eyes to prevent witnessing the disintegration of moral standards in the overberg.  to make matters worse, the till assistants from the store were clapping and shouting encouragement to the youngster.  spurred on by their obvious delight, the little fellow waggled his appendage about, making some remarkable figures of eight.  just as he was running out of steam, his mother emerged, red-faced and embarrassed, to some laughter and congratulatory remarks about how talented her son was.  the latter had in the meantime dived back into the car and was nowhere to be seen, the floor in the back of the golf being about the safest place of refuge.

the golf and its occupants drove off at speed.  i closed the office door and walked home to find ginny describing her ordeal to a friend over a cup of tea, and the sound of james singing in his bedroom.

the door to which seemed to be securely locked.