Anniversaries are supposed to be momentous occasions

There’s another wedding anniversary looming and I dare not forget it. Each time I had, there were some serious penance, like scrubbing out the brandsel from a huge potjie, and daily toilet duty.

Fortunately the last occasion worked out well. I had booked us into a five-star game lodge between Hel-op-Aarde and Paradise Lost.

It was such a delightful experience, what with game drives, high teas and private dinners my Heidi had subsequently employed a full-time pot scrubber and toilet flusher.

The private din-dins in our tent-like unit did the trick. After a two-hour dusty game drive, having felt and smelt every type of freshly dropped dung, we were ready to tap a hot bath and get into clothes free from pungent pongs.

What greeted us as we opened the screen door bowled us over. Lighted candles lined the floor from the entrance to the bathroom, ending at a foam bath.

On our duvet pink rose petals in the shape of a heart with two Belgium chocolates on the pillows. Okay, so I tripped over the candles getting to the toilet, and later painfully went on my hands and knees to blow them out.

Romance was in the air. But that had to wait because the drumbeats announced dinner time – exclusively in our unit. The table was laid and chilled bubbly served. We reckoned the fivecourse meal would take us to nine o’clock – so still time for a retro honeymoon.

Wrong.

The first course arrived twenty minutes later, with us already hoenderkop from the bubbly.

Another 45 minutes for the second. We had reached the giggling stage. With the fourth course, incredulous waiters found two heads deeply buried in the tablecloth.

Our last course in bed.

No romance with two sated lovers passing out under the duvet.

During the night I awoke with a start, feeling something moving between my feet. In the bush it means snake. I nudged Heidi and whispered the bad news. She giggled. “Silly man. It’s a hot-water bottle.” I collapsed in a paroxysm of laughter. With relief.

Anniversaries are supposed to be momentous occasions.

That one had been.

This year? Croatia calls. If I remember to book.

Cliff Buchler.

For more news your way, download The Citizen’s app for iOS and Android.