Hi – full of a cold so my blog story will be short and sweet this week, reckon I’ll crawl back into bed and stay there ‘til spring. This is when I really miss living somewhere hot and dry – taste the dust instead of the damp – the sun on my back instead of a minus ten wind gnawing at my neck.
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An English Boy’s Wanderings... continued.
(Partly rewritten so some of the below you may well have read before; the editing goes on and on and...)
... Two weeks later and we were gone; tearful goodbyes were said and with our Morris loaded to the gunnels with sandwiches, flasks and mother’s fags we headed straight for the rising sun. The mango trees, swimming pool and first love were now just memories. Our sun-bleached Morris Minor went bravely into the heat and onto a road we had never seen before. Mother sat with her fifty-box of Matinee cigarettes clutched to her bosom and an austere stare for everything beyond the windscreen. She had the quarter window fully open to suck out her smoke and fag ash. The back seat, piled up like some pawn shop counter, left just enough space for me.
‘What in God’s name have they done to the middle out of the road?’
‘It was built that way on purpose.’ My father did his best.
‘Without a middle?’ Mother retorted.
Dad nodded and I leaned between the two front seats for a better view. Two, single strips of tar macadam stretched away to the front like wobbly liquorice sticks in the heat haze.
‘Called a strip road. Built during the recession. Saved the government a fortune.’
‘And what happens when we meet a car coming the other way?’ She grabbed at her seat. ‘Like right now!’
The car bombed towards us, whipping up dust from the missing bit in the middle; a black Chevrolet, all chrome and leering headlamps – the car from Hell.
‘For God’s sake pull over before we all die!’
We closed to within a hundred yards of the Chevy before both cars gave up their respective ‘right hand strip’; with barely the length of an outstretched arm between us, we passed as stately ships in the night. The Chevy driver waved and grinned and mother retrieved her cigarette from its neat little burn in the carpet. For the next fifty miles no one spoke...
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Those strip roads were gr8t for judging one's driving skills ! The drop-off from tar to dirt was at times, nothing less than precipitous to say the least....Tyre companies made a fortune in those days, no doubt! Remember coming off a friend's motorbike once, trying to negotiate a portion of strip on the old Zimbabwe Ruins road! Burned my leg on the darn exhaust in the process..picked up the bike and carried on regardless...had an RAR dance to attend after all... My hot pants and stockings were a little worse for wear tho ;)) however...the telling of our horrendous escape from death, was good cover!
ReplyDeleteHot pants!!! You bein' a church goin' gal 'n all! Reckon on it bein' the Lord's punishment bein' sent down upon you.
ReplyDeleteps don't believe the falling-off-the-bike bit. Who was driving?
Joey's church going days were probably just to crack onto the alter boys
ReplyDeleteU cheeky sods...Only just spotted these back-handers u boys dealt me!Have to keep my eyes on this Blog a little more carefully, I see!
ReplyDelete@Jeffrey..I realise I have serious knock-knees that you may or may not have spotted at some stage in my youth,hence your shock and horror.. but Jip...Wore Hotpants!! Also owned a silver lame' catsuit that drove the boys wild ;O)
FYI- The "driver" was a " close friend" ok! :}
@G...No Altar boys..Attended an Afrikaans Church back then, so had to bunk out often! Have to do a back-ground check on you Mr Dowling..appear to know the schoolgirl me, rather too well! LOL
her breath came in hot pants...so she took them off...
ReplyDelete