Carol’s Column

Pretoria hijackers have such a sense of humour

My car has been chronically sick and has spent the past few months in and out of a garage where it has been receiving attention for its various afflictions. Someone enterprising should start a motor car medical aid scheme. He or she would make a killing.

Last Thursday I retrieved my jalopy, yet again, and set off home. Listening to the Fugges rapping away and beating my hands in time to the sound, I heard a whistling squeak shrieking high above the music.

Dammit, I was already running late and there wasn't time to return to the garage so I opened the bonnet and peered inside. It looked like an engine, complete with battery, carburettor and the usual bits and pieces. Totally incomprehensible, so I did the obvious and used a girl's best friend, Q20, spraying it liberally over the engine.

There are two things no intelligent woman should be without. One is an electric blanket in winter. An electric blanket obliterates the need to have a partner in your life as it is far more satisfactory. It heats up immediately, keeps your feet warm and doesn't answer back.

The second absolute necessity is Q20, the wonder lubrication. It comes in a nifty aerosol can and is used for everything from silencing creaking doors to opening rusty locks, unsticking too-tight taps and so on. I glanced at my watch. Shortly, I was due back at the Carlton in town where I'd been asked to dinner and Jaques Brel.

It was to be a smart affair, so I bathed, dressed for the occasion, then fluffed out my coiffure and, as a finishing touch, sprayed it with some eco-aware, ozone-friendly hair spray that had not been tested on animals and didn't contain any chlorofluorocarbons.

Alack, in the rush, my hand missed the hairspray and instead clutched the Q20 which I'd inadvertently placed on the dressing table. Within seconds, I resembled a channel swimmer, dripping lubricant from every curl and pore.

It wasn't the appropriate look for a formal dinner, so I hurtled into the shower and scrubbed myself good and clean and fresh. Then eventually flew back into town and made the Three Ships, an exquisite Belgian meal and Jacques Brel an hour late. The restaurant was full, the ambience elegant and the young artists flown especially from Brussels to sing Brel, magical.

Seated between a commodity trader and a well-known publisher, the conversation was stimulating, the red wine soothing and, as I tasted the paté, I began to unwind.

Then the publisher moved a little closer and looked into my eyes. He smiled engagingly. "You know, it's quite the most remarkable thing, you smell just like my BMW," he said. Finally, still talking cars. Yesterday, a friend found herself and her 11-year-old son at a shopping mall in Pretoria. As she got out of her car, a young man bumped her casually and murmured, "It's under new management."

"The shopping centre?" she said in surprise.

"No, your car," he retorted and briefly flashed a knife.

She immediately handed over her keys and car and retreated with her son. Then she called the emergency number on her cellphone.

The story has a happy ending. The police arrived within minutes and although the thief escaped, the car was retrieved.

In Pretoria, it seems, hijackers have a sense of humour.

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