Very close call locked in a loo

The distances between Karoo towns are never-ending, so after many hours gazing at heat wave after heat wave, I pulled into a picturesque village for nosh and a cuppa.

On entering the broekie lace restaurant-cum-antique shop, I espied just one lonely diner at a corner table.

I have always been wary of eateries without people, but before I was able to reverse, an authoritarian voice from behind the counter commanded I take a seat. While pulling out a chair, a bark from the corner: “Come join me. Why in Hades must we sit alone?”

I felt like running out, but something about the man’s voice drew me like a magnet.

It turned out that “Jimmy” was a well-known sheep farmer and expert breeder of sheepdogs, and while munching on bread and sipping black Rooibos, spun many a fascinating fable about clever Lassies and sharp-eyed shepherds.

Mesmerised, I hardly tasted my cholesterol-filled pie. Sadly, too soon, he left, but not before picking up my tab. A magnanimous gesture only found in these parts.

Now, just a quick visit to the toilet, then back to the heat waves.

To get to the restroom I stumble with cracked kneecaps through a myriad mannequins dressed in Queen Victoria dresses, as well as ye olde furniture pieces. Scary.

With relief I reached the spot, and proceeded to finish the business pronto.

Then I heard the outer door banging closed. My imagination, given the creepy location?

Wrong. The door was locked. Trapped. Came out in a cold sweat, with heartburn forgotten. No amount of banging brought rescuers. The only sounds were giggles next door. Had the dolls come to life, amused at the dilemma facing modern man in locked boghouse? Was this purgatory-in-waiting?

Just then a raucous cackle and a key in the lock. The Grim Reaper? No, the waitress, who explained she had given the outer door key to a lady diner before me.

With red face I re-entered the eatery. The lady, a German tourist, tapped me on the arm: “You okay? Ha-ha! Ja?”

“Nein! Ha-ha!” I shouted and stormed out, heartburn and rash promises forgotten.

All this has nothing to do with age. Even young squirts are familiar with indigestion and ablution claustrophobia.