Carol’s Column

When the phantom bomber tries to strike

THERE I was, a South African in distress, in the great city of London two weeks ago.

Besides the fact that London can be tremendously confusing to a hick from Johannesburg, what with its tubes, buses and millions of people, I was in agony.

I stalked the streets, clutching my lower abdomen along with 23 shopping bags. The temptation to shop is irresistible. Where else in the world can you buy brooches that squeak, earrings that light up and rainbow Finnish jerseys made in Taiwan?

Nevertheless, if I didn’t get help immediately, I knew something dreadful would happen.

And then I saw him, tall and devastatingly handsome, an officer of the law, a British bobby in dazzling navy, his helmet balancing jauntily on his curly blond hair.

“Officer, officer,” I cried, “I need help.”

“I’m all yours, Madam,” he said with a smile.

Dammit, why didn’t I shave my legs this morning, I thought to myself as I looked into his plumbago blue eyes.

“Please can you point me in the direction of South Africa House?” I said.

“Cor, they’re a rum bunch down there,” he grinned.

“Ja, well,” I muttered, “but I need them.”

He pointed me in a direction and said: “Just walk till you see a lot of coppers and pigeons.”

Suddenly I was there, at the edge of Trafalgar Square, with a herd of coppers, a million pigeons plopping all over the show and South Africa House, tall and proud, the flag waving against the grey sky.

I staggered to the door of my embassy. Saved. Thank goodness I’d made it.

The door was heavily barred. I peered into the gloom. Inside a small lobby sat a huge man reminiscent of Jaws in the James Bond movie.

I smiled. “Hello,” I said happily, for believe me, I was happy and relieved to be there, “I’m a South African.”

“Hello,” replied the giant. He was not friendly.

“I have a problem,” I whispered to him through the bars.

“Ja,” he said. I wouldn’t say his response was sympathetic.

“Can I come inside,” I asked.

“No.”

“Listen, I’m a South African in distress,” I repeated loudly. “You must help me.” I could see the flapping ears of the policemen in the background.

“So what’s your problem, lady?” said the ambassadorial representative at the gate.

“I need a toilet urgently,” I ground out between my teeth. “I’m dying.”

“You can’t have one of ours,” said the giant.

“But, why? I’m South African, why can’t I have a South African toilet.”

“Because you might blow it up, or you might burn it down,” he said, seriously.

“You’re joking,” I screeched. The British bobbies were looking most interested now. “All I want is to wee.”

“Well, you can’t wee here,” he said stoutly. “How do I know you haven’t got a bomb up your broekies, or worse?”

This was no joke. “Look, you can come with me, you can search me, but please, I’m desperate, a South African in need, you can’t turn me away.”

“Lady, you can’t do it here,” he said with a voice of steel. “Yus walk across the road to the tube station and you can use the toilet there.”

Spurned by my own embassy, I was distraught. I was also bursting.

“Ag, shame,” said one of the bobbies standing in close proximity. The South African vernacular had obviously rubbed off. “Come, I’ll show you where to go.” He insisted on carrying my parcels and escorting me to the underground water closet.

“There you go, luv,” he said with a smile, “enjoy.”

There are times when South Africans should stick together, so to speak. I believe this was one of them. I’m busy composing a letter of complaint to the Minister of Foreign Affairs.

“Dear Mr Botha,

“I do not carry bombs, or worse, in my broekies ...”

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