Some believe bad things happen in uninterrupted threes. Not me. But when three nasty incidents hit me in one morning, I became a believer. I set out to watch Proteas’ Test cricket.
But when anti-Castle man Hashim was skittled for three, and being the coward I am, I switched off. I vented my frustration at the mower and proceeded to cut grass that hid lion.
The mower picked up on my mood and loosened the nut holding the blade that became a missile. It nicked my naked foot, leaving bright red blobs in its wake.
With dripping foot I continued cutting the pavement grass covered with yellow flowers. Rules of our complex say no weeds on outside lawns, so I set about cutting them down.
Suddenly, a rowdy commotion at the main gate. A mixture of shouting, sirens and heavy engines filled the air. The gates opened and in rumbled two huge fire engines the size of two rugby fields, followed by a paramedics’ vehicle.
The one turned the corner where I was standing, the other up our garage driveway. The paramedics’ van was wedged between the two, red lights still blazing. A frightening sight, especially when realising all the vehicles were surrounding me.
Then a voice from the driver’s cabin shouted down at little old me. “Are you Number Two?” “Yes,” I whimpered. “What?” “Yes!” I upped the decibels. “Well, you’re on fire!” The little ditty we used to sing as youngsters came to me. “Fire! Fire! Your pants on fire”. I subconsciously checked my bum. “Not you! Your house. Got a call to say there’s fire here. Open up.”
With heart in my mouth and pants ready for a water deluge, I rushed with the remote to open the garage doors. Just then a familiar voice asked what sounded like a stupid question.
“Are you guys sure it’s this complex?” It came from Betsy our neighbour who always questions things. The fire was in the complex next door. Hopefully those were my three for the year. Wrong.
Two more followed: heart by-pass and gall-bladder removal. Surely, the end must be in sight?