Enchantment

2010-03-20 00:00

I SEE on the telly certain CNN reports about certain sexual indecencies in certain united states, and this time it’s all about the harassment of small small girls. Not by Roman Polanski this time, and not by Catholic priests; this time it’s by small small boys who do kiss such girls and touch them, and it’s got to stop. Well, dear readers, my chinas, I remember plenty small girls touching me when I was six or seven. And even though I wasn’t yet too good at the kissing bit and saw it more or less the same as spitting out grape pips, only the other way round, even so, I darem used to try and did my best. Foreplay, you might say, though there wasn’t much by way of aftplay. And what’s more, I don’t see such things changing a hell of a lot. I mean the last few Sundays I have observed from my upstairs window a small weedy boy about 90 cm high, name of Arnold after Schwarzenegger with whom his ma was in love at the time of his birth, observed him I say at his harassments behind the garages of the pastor of the FullgospelchurchofGaaard, where the rubbish bins stand, and he’s doing nothing new at all, to be sure, and all parties seem to be having a good time, as of old.

These garages are in a sort of service lane, you see, with lots of black bags full of dreck and a dog box full of fleas, also various drains, bog pipes and a sort of tube sticking out of the ground which pongs something cruel. The front of the pastor’s house is something beauteous, not only spick but also span. Clean, man, clean, and there stands a large noticeboard saying JESUS SAVES. Some nasty Jew wrote underneath with a big blue felt pen MOSES INVESTS, but the pastor was soon out armed with a bottle of meths, a sponge and Christian righteousness you betcha, nothing blasphemous goes on at this address, hey. Back of the garages is the place for sociology students. Arnie is looked after by his grandma Mrs Grimsby who provides him with a daily bag of sweets, half of which he uses for enticement of small small girls into the garbage lane, the other half he uses to make his teeth all black and sort of festering. He too pongs something cruel.

And lo, as I stand at this upstairs window sipping a fine cup of coffee one fine autumn morn, there in the garbage lane I espy a man in a white lab coat with a shotgun, accompanied by another man in a blue lab coat with a clipboard, and they are staring intensely into my avo tree. Hullo, I call, what’s up? Sir, says the shotgun man, I am from the City Monkey Control Unit, and I have been instructed to shoot a certain vervet which I have reason to believe is in your avo tree, and this gentleman is from the SPCA, to make sure that I take a good clean shot. Well you’ll have to shoot me first, say I, that is my personal monkey to whom I throw every morning a slice of bread from this window, whereafter he makes merry mongst my avocadoes with my permission. Sir, says he, I am obliged to do this and if you hinder me I will get a court order for it and we’ll take out your monkey eventually, that’s the procedure; a certain Mrs Grimsby has complained to the police that this here garbage lane is too small for your monkey and her grandson called Arnold, who is but six years old. Well why don’t you go and shoot Arnold then, f’chrissakes? say I, he’s the one with the problem. Sir, says the gunman, if you obtain a court order for Arnold I shall do it willingly, the little shit, but excuse me, I see the monkey, whereupon he draws a fine bead and blows the poor beast clean out of the tree in a parabolic trajectory. It lies stone dead beneath my window with its jaws reflexively chomping.

So you’re happy now my monkey’s dead? say I to Mrs Grimsby on the morrow. Why do you think he’d have attacked Arnie? Oh no, says she, it was because of his blue...er...blue...er... BALLS? say I. Eek! she squeaks, I don’t want him to see things like that, he’s only six! And another fine morn not long after that, when I’m at my window once more, down there in the garbage lane I espy young Thoko Mkhize from next door mongst the black bags, she’s holding the elastic of her broeks away from her belly button and young Arnie is gazing down inside like he’s just beheld a lovely box of chocolates. Good on yer, mate! think I, your granny’s not going to teach you about the art of love, get out there and learn from joyous experience. Entrapment, said CNN. Enticement. Well enchantment was always jes fine by me.

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