Carol’s Column

Behold, the silly season is upon us ...

The silly season is definitely upon us. For starters, there was the election - now who would not say that was a silly way to start the new season? Although there has been much muttering about small polls around 40 or 50% in some places if you look at other countries, our percentage of voters who trotted off to do their thing was fairly impressive.

What is more, we even had our own Gore/Bushgate in the Eastern Cape with two candidates getting exactly the same number of votes.

In true ubuntu style, it was resolved in an agreed upon and sensible way with a flip of a coin.

And on the N2 highway to Cape Town International airport, I had my own silly season when my trusted steed exploded so to speak and died. Investigation showed a large puddle of oil and a heated engine. Further investigation beneath the car showed that there was a cracked sump (for those who do not know, the sump is the place in which the car's engine oil resides).

Now there are more salubrious places in which to break down in Cape Town. On either side of me were informal settlements which would not necessarily worry me other than the fact that this road is known for attacks on motorists, shootings, stone throwings et al.

The car had stopped beside an SOS phone, however the connecting line had been liberated and was out of order. This was one of the few times I was grateful for my cell phone. I immediately phoned the AA and explained my position, then phoned my spouse who dashed out sans a tow rope to keep me company.

It was a beautiful day, there were sea gulls soaring, and local residents cycled past, stopping and asking if there was anything they could do.

A few more calls to the AA ensured they were on their way. However, two and a half hours later, they still had not arrived. At which stage an independent chap and his truck came past, stopped, linked us up and towed us to our local garage. Diagnosis is that the engine seized because the oil had escaped from the cracked sump. The mystery of the thing is that the gauges registered normal until the finale.

From Father Christmas I have acquired a reconditioned engine which is being installed as I write. Meanwhile, I am riding my bicycle, the Pink Panther, to work - a distinctly silly thing to do in any season. So far, I have been almost flattened by a Merc, three taxis, one tour bus and several lesser vehicles.

And talking silly season have you noticed how many Father Christmases there are around? Where do they come from? What do they do?

Yesterday I counted 27 in one shopping centre alone.

"They make excellent security guards," confided a manager. "They are the ideal undercover guards. You cannot imagine the shop theft at this time of the year."

Actually, I can.

"And you cannot imagine how much pick-pocketing there is at this time of the year."

Actually, I can.

"A shopping centre is the ideal spot for a thief especially when it is crowded with excited shoppers with lots of packages: People put their bags down to choose other things and before they know it, they have been stolen."

"Wouldn't a Father Christmas suit be an ideal cover for a thief," I wondered aloud. "Nobody would suspect that the jolly figure in the traditional red costume with white wig and beard would be a robber?"

"We do regular Father Christmas checks," I was told.

So if you see one Father Christmas being apprehended by another Father Christmas, do not be unduly alarmed. It is the silly season after all and this is South Africa.

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