Waiting for Cyril Ramaphosa the other night was almost worth the slight delay.
He was only about seven minutes later than his scheduled TV appearance at 8 pm. His punctuality is improving. Meanwhile on eNCA Sally Burdett and her co-presenter Shahan Ramkissoon chitter-chattered to fill in time.
“What can we expect?” she asked Ramkissoon rhetorically.
At that point I wasn’t the slightest bit interested in what she or he thought we could expect. We were about to hear what we would get straight from the presidential horse’s mouth, for crying out loud, and had no need to be invited, by Sally again, to “look what happened at Ballito Rage”.
Then Shahan asked: “Why are we here, we keep asking?”
To listen to the president, that’s why Mr Ramkissoon. Apparently he would appear “any time now”.
Then suddenly he did. And what a relief it was. We are naturally sorry for all the good people of Port Elizabeth and the Garden Route, but here in the Cape we may still bathe in the sea over Christmas and the New Year, hike on the mountain, and take our dogs walkies in the forest. Also, we can still buy booze, albeit not on Fridays and Saturdays, we can still eat out, and we can still travel between Cape Town and Hermanus without requiring special permission.
“Quite drastic measures,” decided Burdett, after the president had blessed us and the country. I can live with them, Sally.
In the wake of Covid’s springing back with lethal intent, just like that supposedly-dead attacker suddenly lunged at a blind Audrey Hepburn in Wait Until Dark, who knows what the “Command Council” might have reimposed on us this time.
Talking of wakes, that’s one thing you can’t have if you are unlucky enough to need one.
So Cyril left me feeling well disposed towards him. I didn’t mind being softened up as one of his “fellow South Africans”, nor being unnecessarily warned yet again to wear my mask (as in jou ma se mask), though I am still confused about the exact moment I should remove it when I go swimming.
Douglas Murray, a writer in the British Spectator magazine, reported how he had checked into a beach resort outside New York where clothing was “optional” and the nudies walked round kaalgat but for their masks. He had to identify them by some other means.
I have difficulty recognising masked friends even with their clothes on.
My wife and I take every precaution, but I woke in the middle of the night a few days ago with a rasping dry cough and a sore throat. Is this it? I wondered. “Tickets!” as my brother is fond of saying, which it would be for him as his health is seriously compromised. I drank some milk to ease my throat, which it didn’t, and coughed like a cowboy on steroids.
Somehow I got back to sleep, and next morning the condition had completely disappeared. Either it was a false alarm, or I had gone through the quickest dose of Covid-19 in world history.
I had been taking some drops prescribed by a homeopath in Hermanus, a wonderful lady of 92, and she says not one of her customers has contracted the virus. So when the vaccine eventually comes along, I may give it a miss. But I certainly wouldn’t dismiss it as something satanic.
I’ll leave such judgments to a Constitutional mind higher than my own.
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