I got a girl name of Boney Maroney, she’s as skinny as a stick of macaroni …
So goes the old song, a favourite of my late dad’s.
I’m not. Skinny as a stick of macaroni, that is. Not anymore.
Could be as a result of the good food I ate at the Indaba. Could be the past six weeks working my way through a contract and eating off the agency breakfast trolley every morning. Could be the campaign I was working on, which was … chocolate …
Anyhow, time has flown and today is my last day at the agency. It seemed fitting that I bid the friends I’ve made here goodbye with cakes, and it seems imperative that said cakes contain the product we’ve all been concentrating on.
Now, before I tot off to say my farewells, and in light of yesterday’s post about the return of my errant dog, I want to share an old story:
As a young woman, my mother in law lived in a house that was next door to the Valkenberg Psychiatric Hospital. She had a big yellow dog called Tex, who had been in a dog fight and had a long row of stitches on his back. The wound had started suppurating and the vet had given her ointment to apply and ordered her to try and keep it covered. She thought she had found a perfect solution; he was roughly the same size as Old Spouse (then a small boy of six) and she had dressed Tex in one of her son’s tshirts.
One morning Tex managed to get out of the gate and ran down the road. My MIL, at that stage still in her dressing gown, ran around the neighborhood looking for him. Eventually she went into the hospital grounds and couldn’t find him anywhere, so she ran toward the main entrance and there she encountered one of the psychiatrists who had arrived to do his rounds. Have you seen my dog, she asked him, he’s wearing a yellow shirt?
The doctor looked at her and very kindly, without missing a beat, he said; and you’re worried because he doesn’t have his trousers on?