I received an sms this morning. I’m working a Sunday, the first in ten years! My locum is “having a small procedure done.”
Park at the bottom today; Don’t park at the top, there’ll be no-one there; Park near Nandos.
It’s from Bridget McGregor, my personal seventy-some year-old car guard; Feisty, never been married. “What?! I’ve got no time for men! Like them as friends, but I’m not taking any of their nonsense!” Actually, she didn’t really sms me herself – she got someone else to. Tommy would say “She’s got no technologe.” Hey, but she USED technology – and that helped me!
She let slip the first hint the other day that she might like girls, but has probably never acted on the impulse, being very ‘traditionally-minded’; I lent her a bird book as she was going on a trip to Kruger Park in a mini-bus for a week on a Pensioners Casino Special; When I gave her the book she said with a grin that she would be “keeping an eye out more for the two-legged kind” (she meant non-feathered). I just said “Aha! Me too!”.
She took over from my previous personal car guard fellow-ex-Harrismithian Jan Kleynhans. Grog is Jan’s downfall; makes him wobble quite badly every now and then. He took over from Abdul Karim from the Congo. Abdul is still around, he’s now Bridget’s supervisor, but Jan has emigrated. To the Southern Cape to be with his daughter.
Why am I writing this again?
Oh, it’s very quiet on a Sunday morning in a mall that is more building site than shopping experience.
edit: Not too long after this Jan was back. Uitgeskop by his daughter.