Wheildon

our cottage was no more than 25 metres from the village tennis courts, where many happy times were spent over the years.  charging around those courts doing battle was an integral part of village life.  tennis in greyton was wonderful.

the village was made up of colourful characters, to say the least, and tennis brought out the best and worst in all of us.  bad line calls sparked barneys that had us in fits of laughter.  one or two players simply could not handle a ball being called “out!” and lost all sense of reason if challenged.

one glorious greyton afternoon, i was in the middle of a tight doubles set when the door of a nearby house flew open and out ran a half-clad man yelling for help.  hot on his heels came an irate woman, chasing him with a bucket of water.  our neighbours next–but-one were weekenders from cape town.  they were quietly sitting in their garden, reading newspapers and enjoying the warm afternoon sun.  we stopped our game to watch spellbound as the fleeing man, sporting a massive beer boop, saw our neighbour’s open front door and the possibility of sanctuary.  newspapers flew in every direction as he scrambled over them, up the front steps and into their home.  close behind him, sploshing water everywhere and screaming death and destruction, was his partner.  she did not hesitate for a second and charged up the steps after him.  both disappeared through the house and out of the back door into the garden.  the neighbours clutched their children and huddled in a group, shocked at this sudden turn of events.  just then, the pair rounded the corner and barged through the family on their way to the front gate and out into the street.

judging by the language and general appearance of the two fleeing figures, it was fairly obvious that they had partaken of some strong muti, and then fallen out over some disagreement.  the fleeing man was gasping for breath and slowing visibly.  his pursuer, having lost the contents of her bucket in the chase, caught up with him and walloped him over the head with the empty bucket.  the language increased in volume, as did their verbal abuse.  our neighbours ushered their children inside smartly, and slammed the front door.  apparently the feuding couple had sorted out their differences with the aid of the bucket.  silence reigned.

back on the court, the pantomime over, we found ourselves wondering whether it was prudent or not to offer assistance.  this was decided against, as none of us wanted to be attacked with an enamel bucket.

the tennis was resumed amid much banter, after which i walked home.  ginny had just gone to the local shop for we were expecting visitors for a braai that evening.  the fire was roaring happily and i turned my mind to quenching my thirst.  i opened the fridge and selected a bottle of juice with a lovely picture of a peach printed on the label.  i whipped off the cap and downed the contents without stopping.

approximately two seconds later, my brains blew, my vision blurred and the lights went out.  i vaguely remember dragging myself upstairs and crawling to my bed.  i took no part in the braai and awoke the next day to a tongue-lashing about manners from ginny.  in my defence i pointed out that printing beautiful pictures of peaches on the side of bottles was very misleading.  “6% alcohol” i later discovered on the label, in small print.  with hindsight, “brutal fruit” was a bloody accurate description of the contents.

our visitors had left after the braai, concerned about my sudden collapse but not knowing what had knocked me out.

i had no idea that fruit could be so lethal.  alcohol and i do not mix.