Two Bits: I’d like to be on a desert island . . .

Don’t you just wish you could escape to a desert island? I’ve had this fantasy since a young lad of being shipwrecked and imagining what I would have to do to survive.

The fantasy returned this holiday in the 20 km/h traffic, the politicians squabbling over the trough, the endless repeats on DSTV and the vagaries of the stock market. I’m absolutely floored by the horrific deaths of two children when some idiot/s dropped a rock onto the N2 from the bridge near Crocodile Creek.

I really want them to be caught and locked away for the rest of their lives. The horror for the survivor is beyond words.

And the price of butter. We can blame Pro Tim Noakes for that. My dairy farmer brother-in-law says there is now huge demand for unseparated milk to make full cream everything, so there is little cream left over for butter. There’s a farm stall in Champagne valley where we buy butter for R80/kg. The owner once breathlessly told us, maybe thinking we were naïve Joburg types, that is was “made from real cream”. Uh-huh.

Cold is definitely not a part of my desert island fantasy. Not for me the Faroes or Marion Island, bleak and windbeaten and bitterly cold. It would be a regular desert island in the tropics, with palm trees and large flowers and a waterfall or two.

Balmy nights spent in the hammock made from a washed up fragment of sail, sunny days interrupted by the occasional warm downpour, enjoyed from the shelter of woven palm fronds.

Wonderful beaches of fine sand.

The island must be free of all clutter. Except there are a few things I’d like. F’rinstance, like shipping lanes over the horizon, not close enough for rescue but the occasional container could fall off in a storm and wash up on my beach.

That way I’d come by a fishing rod and tackle, a small workshop to fix those things that invariably go wrong (like a jammed reel) and an inflatable boat.
The boat is necessary to make the occasional trip to the supermarket. On a neighbouring island not too far away. For chilli sauce – because plain fish can be so boring – and olive oil and balsamic for the salads from my vegetable garden.

No cell phone, TV nor radio. Not, not, not! Though perhaps a well-stocked library, on another island a day’s row away. I’d call it Book Island. And a kindly librarian always ready with suggestions for titles to suit my mood.

Come to think of it, there are times it might get a tad lonely. So Friend Island, not that far away, so they could drop by occasionally on their way to the supermarket. They’d bear gifts of marmalade and I’d take them pickled fish.

But hold on. I already have a great beach on my doorstep and a friendly library just down the road. A vegetable garden and a hammock. Good fishing the cast of a line away. A roof over my head. Even a supermarket or two just around the corner. Friends in the house and more in the neighbourhood.

So I think I’ll stay right here! When I want to pretend I’m on a desert island, all I have to do is lie on my hammock and drift away . . .

* * *

I wish all our friends and supporters, even my enemies, good fortune in the new year. My friends because they deserve good fortune, my enemies because a little luck might improve their dispositions.

* * *

A man is stranded on a desert island, all alone for ten years. One day, he sees a speck in the horizon. He thinks to himself, “It’s not a ship.” The speck gets a little closer and he thinks, “It’s not a boat.” The speck gets even closer and he thinks, “It’s not a raft.”

Then, out of the surf comes this gorgeous blonde woman, wearing a wet suit and scuba gear. She comes up to the guy and says, “How long has it been since you’ve had a cigarette?”

“Ten years!”, he says.

She reaches over and unzips a waterproof pocket on her left sleeve and pulls out a pack of fresh cigarettes.

He takes one, lights it, takes a long drag, and says, “Man, oh man! Is that good!”

Then she asked, “How long has it been since you’ve had a drink of whisky?”

He replies, “Ten years!”

She reaches over, unzips her waterproof pocket on her right sleeve, pulls out a flask and gives it to him.

He takes a long swig and says, “Wow, that’s fantastic!”

Then she starts unzipping a longer zipper that runs down the front of her wet suit and she says to him, “And how long since you played around?”

And the man replies, “Wow! Don’t tell me that you’ve got golf clubs in there!”

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