This morning (day 8 of South Africa’s 21-day lockdown) I got into my car at 06:00 and went to the ATM. I had to draw and deposit cash which is a typical monthly exercise for me. But normally I wouldn’t be rising with the heathen to do so.

06:00 on the 3rd of April in the Western Cape means it is still dark out.

But you can’t be too careful. There could be blood-crazed infectants anywhere. So I rose early and took along my trusty walking stick (a knobkierrie disguised as a harmless non-traditional-weapon, stick) just in case I head to beat any sickened members of society about the head, and back from the toiler paper section of the ATM queue. God alone knows how one begins to confuse toilet paper and ATM’s in one’s mind, but in these uncertain times who knows where the next outbreak of crazy is going to erupt. You can’t be too careful. Anyway, just to be sure I also took along a pellet gun, just in case I get trapped outside of my house by the flesh-eating infestoids and am resigned to hunting pigeons till South Africa’s version of the Marines arrives to liberate me.

Interesting side note, I have met all 3,462 of the 300 koevoet members who served in the Bush War. Maybe it’s one of them who finds me in a porcupine den, exchanging vows with a pregnant goat. Hey, if it’s good enough for Mustaffa down the road…

Anyway, this whole business of putting on gloves and a face mask and then going banking has become quite tedious and banal. There was a time when real men used to fire real bullets at you when you did that, and you got to race real cars down real streets amongst real people, trying to get the cops to wipe out as many innocents as possible. Now everyone just looks at you with hatred and says, “2 metres buddy”, like I don’t know my height.

Then I realised they were talking about personal space and not commenting on my intimidating physique or the paraphernalia of war I was wielding threateningly about my personage. Where are the times when people were more afraid of my pellet gun and poking stick than they are of my proboscis…?

Ah, the good old days.

Pining for the Fords