The daddy of black holes

I suffered a minor financial miscarriage recently, a situation which is compounded by my being trapped in Europe paying R350 for a bog-standard chicken burger, R200 for a pint of odd-tasting beer and sacks of money to fill the tank of the ridiculous Citroën I hired from Europcar in Paris.

I specifically didn’t want a Citroën. The French can’t make cars.

They make things like croissants and baguettes.

To be fair, if you think French women are elegant and desirable, you haven’t been to one of the pâtisseries in the 4th arrondissement.

But cars? Non, monsieur.

So I booked a massive Ssang Yong. But the woman behind the counter had just given my car to someone else and all she had left was this shitty little Citroën.

With a Gallic shrug, she tossed the keys to me and waved in the general direction of a parking garage down the road.

The accelerator is the size of a box of matches and whenever I meander across the road, an alarm goes off and a message tells me to stay in my lane.

I doubt any other car has been told to fu*k off with such regularity.

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Anyway. I was talking about my financial mishap brought about through no fault of my own.

It was thrust upon me, slashing my already meagre earnings in half.

This is what happens when you work for people.

They can stop giving you money at any time and blame it on the economy, the exchange rate, Panyaza Lesufi, the price of sardines or anything else they can think of to shift the focus away from their inability to run their business properly.

There are ways of making up for this unexpected shortfall in my income, all of which are illegal or unethical.

Being cursed with relatively durable moral fibre, I am drawn more to the illicit side of things.

However, Europe being the repository of all that is wrong in the world, competition is fierce and I don’t have time to start at the bottom.

I don’t have the fingers for pickpocketing or the patience for the long con.

Look, I’m not about to head for a street corner to play Doobie Brothers tunes on a rusty mouth organ, but the prospect is not entirely implausible down the line.

Especially if I stay in France for much longer.

Since I need to bring in money with the least amount of effort, I did what everyone does when they have a parent who is still alive.

A parent is beholden to give their children whatever they want or need because it was through their cavalier attitude towards birth control that we exist.

We were quite happy not being born until mom and dad’s hormones turned them into ravening beasts.

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When I was in Durban a few months ago, I was at my childhood home where my father, sister, two cats, 27 mongooses and the local troop of vervet monkeys live.

During lunch, while my sister was in the kitchen, I mentioned that it might be a good idea if I knew who the executor of his will was.

Shovelling a forkful of potato salad into his beard-encrusted mouth, he told me that he had no executor. Or will.

“I’ve put everything in your sister’s name,” he said cheerfully. “I own nothing. Not a thing.”

Had I been strapped to an electrocardiogram, it would have registered no heartbeat, no brain waves.

I was clinically dead for around nine seconds. He seemed puzzled why I wasn’t raising my glass and toasting his release from all earthly responsibilities, including the house, car, bank accounts and more.

“It seemed easier,” he shrugged, peeling a banana and handing it to a pregnant monkey waiting patiently on the table.

My sister returned and I changed the subject.

Had I gone down the rabbit hole in pursuit of answers as to why neither of them had thought it necessary to consult me about this unilateral and seemingly covert distribution of assets, patricide or sororicide seemed a very real possibility.

Painfully aware that I was now under my sister’s roof, I chain-drank my beers, thanked my father for lunch and left.

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Later, I e-mailed him to say his nonchalant revelation had left me somewhat dazed and confused.

He said I needn’t worry because he’d told my sister to give me some money – he mentioned a “more or less” figure – once he’d departed this mortal coil.

There’s nothing in writing and my sister is not a person who gives anything away lightly. Nor are we close.

So, with my recent financial setback and given the fact that he had already put everything he owned into my sister’s name, I thought it wouldn’t be too cheeky to ask if I might have my “more or less” inheritance now rather than later.

No can do, he said. They need this money for living expenses, he e-mailed back.

I flatlined again, this time for a solid minute.

My body couldn’t take much more of this. I didn’t understand.

Nothing is stopping the old shirker from going back to work. He’s only 96, for heaven’s sake. Liverpool’s John Tinniswood just turned 112.

My father and sister should be earning a living instead of spending my inheritance.

He once told me he might consider shuffling off at the age of 90. Which means I stand to get around R12.50.

Oh, well. It was never much of a plan to start with. Anyone want to buy a second-hand Citroën?