Ye gods! The holidays are under way, and already the benefits of depositing the youth brigade at some reformatory or other are all too apparent. The start of the new school year gleams far in the distance, and I am beginning to sympathise with the Comrades runner who has already got a blister the size of a golf ball, and has another marathon and a half to go.
The good news, however, is that I am not short of inspiration in the Christmas present department. Rarely does a minute go by without the son and heir adding another item to a list that is already yards long, and if he were to score everything that he's helpfully pointed out then poor old Santa would have to trade in the trusty old sleigh for a mighty pantechnicon, which could cause a wildcat strike in the reindeer department, and then we'd all be in real trouble.
Talking of trouble, big T seems to have decided to take up residence at my house of late, and may well at this very moment be loafing outside on a sun lounger with a glass of something cold and a large cheroot. Much to everybody's enormous surprise, the builders have not quite finished the renovations that had to be done in time for the arrival of the Memsahib on pain of cruel and unusual application of medieval ironmongery to the tender parts. Discretion being the better part of V, they scarpered the moment she showed up for the weekend, otherwise we may well have had a chance to sample that well known Cape Malay delicacy of spit-roasted craftsman, washed down with freshly squeezed artisan.
Old Ma Nature has been getting in on the act, with mighty fires raging on the mountain above us. When the situation was critical, with the fire threatening to hop over the road and engulf the place, we had to make a snap decision. Stay and fight, said the good angel on the left shoulder, pointing out the progress that could be made with hosepipes and beaters and a patented flameproof suit made of tin foil and a colander for a helmet. Stuff that for a game of soldiers, said El Diablo on the right shoulder, pointing out that a sharp exit could reasonably be explained to the dearly beloved as the safest thing for the infants, while reminding me sotto voce that we had a surf lesson booked and a reservation for lunch at a fine purveyor of seafood. No prizes for guessing who won that brief encounter.
But the real worry is looming next week, when I celebrate the last birthday I will ever have with a three in front of it. Time's winged chariot is not just at my back but climbing all over it, and I fear for the future. Much as I try to suppress it, there is bound to be some woeful behaviour coming up, and I can already catch myself eyeing motor bikes for the chance to invest in a large quantity of leather trousers.
This is the twilight zone, where no lapse of taste is unthinkable. It's the land of hair dye and leisure suits and having to handcuff myself on aeroplanes in case the temptation to give the trolley dolly's bottom a pinch becomes irresistible. These are dangerous times indeed.
