My mask stays on, tannie

To say that 2020 has not been the best of years, is probably the understatement of the year. For me, however, there have been a few highlights thanks to the pandemic.

Undoubtedly, the most noteworthy is that 2020 is probably the first year in my life – touch wood – that I have not been subjected to that horrible Afrikaner tradition of kissing all your female relatives at every family gathering.

I have absolutely no idea where this torturous tradition has its roots, but my guess is there’s a dark and sinister history to it.

As a child, visiting either of my grandmothers inevitably involved this saliva exchange.

“Remember not to pull your face or wipe your mouth with your sleeve” was the stern warning from my mother. “She kisses you because she loves you.”

In retrospect, I should have locked myself in the bathroom for the duration of the visit. Then I would only have had to kiss her once, but I never thought of that when I was small.

My worst family kissing experience, however, was as an adolescent with a woman who I’m not sure how I am related to. I suspect she was an aunt or cousin of a grandparent.

She had a big black mole slightly above her upper lip, just to the inside of the corner of her mouth.

It wasn’t that sexy Cindy Crawford beauty spot, but rather a Nanny McPhee mole, with three long, black hairs giving her a genuine Medusa look.

On greeting her, she grabbed me by my cheeks, pouted and pressed her soggy lips against mine. Instantly, I could feel the mole-hairs springing to life, trying to caress my cheek.

It was such a shock, I tried to scream. She must have misinterpreted me opening my mouth and read it as a sign, because the next instant, her tongue was inside my mouth, doing a mating dance and looking for a partner.

To this day, I still wake up in the middle of the night screaming and wiping my mouth on my pillow.

So, to whoever introduced lockdowns, social distancing and the compulsory wearing of masks, thank you.