Believe it or not, but 35 years and 35kg ago, I was super fit. During my time in “the army”, I could do four pull-ups, 10 push-ups, and at least five sit-ups. I also managed to complete the weekly compulsory 2.5km run with full kit in what felt like an hour.
As you may have guessed by now, I was not a recce. As a graduate of the personnel corps school, I fought the war against the imminent communist invasion with nothing but a pen from the comfort of my desk in Pretoria CBD.
But you know what they say about the might of the pen. And I did emerge a lean, mean drinking machine.
Why am I telling you this?
Well, all my military training suddenly re-emerged from my pickled subconscious the other night when someone, or somemany, tried to infiltrate our yard.
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Charles, my Ridgeback troepie, was sleeping on guard as usual on his couch in my study while I was watching the day’s football highlights. He must have heard the approaching danger, because after wiping the sleep from his eyes, he started barking ferociously.
Charles then oiled his gun with a few delicate licks and slowly stumbled down the stairs. The next moment, my car alarm went off and I knew that this was no training exercise.
I reacted instantly and decided that seeking the enemy while maintaining the element of surprise was the way to go. The only weapon I could lay my hands on was a stray butter knife. I found it impossible to leopard-crawl from window-to-window clutching my knife, so I tucked it in my mouth.
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Now, armed to the teeth, so to speak, I was ready for any assault. But Charles wasn’t completely sure if I was helping him protect our own, or whether I was doing a ritual midnight mating dance.
Next moment, the lights in the house come on and my wife is opening the gate for the security guards. She decided to call for backup.
So there I am, dressed in my PJs, flat on my boepie with a butter knife in my mouth – and two armed guards taking pictures. I doubt whether I will ever hear the end of this military exercise.
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