My darling Toni

Thank you so very much for the delightful lunch during which you explained to me the difference between a bog and a blog. It is always heartening to be with someone who loves food the way I do.

I was so excited to hear about this Internet thingy that I decided to go share it with an ex-beau, Percival. He is in hospital again and I thought this great step forward from the Nickelodeon might cheer him up. He was a bit morbid at first; only wanting to talk about having his ashes scattered in Sandton City to ensure his daughters would visit him every day.

But he quickly cheered up after I managed to get some gin ‘n tonic from my flask into his feeding tube. I was still unable to impart my news, though, because he is somewhat incorrigible and his attention quickly turned to a young nurse. When I pointed out that such notions could result in death, he muttered, ‘If she dies, she dies.’

After being marched out by a fairly burly matron on discovery that Percival’s recovery had less to do with the dispensary’s medication, I decided to head for Pretoria to share this Internet thingy with my aunt, Agnes. I must say I was still a bit sceptical about it until I got onto the highway in my pink Cadillac, where it struck me that everyone recognised me from my blog. Oh, the power of technology!

I was doing about 25mph in the fast lane, which is about as quickly as I dared go after consuming most of the contents of the flask. As I drained the last dregs I became aware of a great deal of hooting and waving, which one has to grow accustomed to as a celebrity. Some even gestured for me to join them later for a lady finger cocktail, though they did not slow to leave their details.

One of these kind souls must have telephoned to let the authorities know I was unaccompanied because just after the Grayston Drive off ramp I heard a great wailing of sirens. When I checked in my rearview mirror it was to see a convoy of black German sedans bearing down with blue lights flashing, two of which swerved in front of me and brought me to a stop.

From one sprang a most delectable man in crisp black suit and aviator sunglasses. He ran to my door and covered me from unknown assailants. I was so impressed that I leant out the window and stroked his gun, which for a moment brought that dreamy look men get when you caress their thingies. But there must have been such imminent danger to my person that he yanked open the door, pulled me out by my hair and pushed me to the ground.

I suppose in this age of celebrity culture one has to get used to this attention, but it can get a bit rough. Before I could get details of what information they had about threats to me, the window of the largest car wound down and a familiar head appeared from it.

‘Trinity, is that you?’ beamed my dear friend, Jacob Zuma.

Though he appears to hold a fairly high rank in the VIP Protection Unit, I am sure you have never heard of this wonderful man I like to call Msholozi. I first met him many years ago when I was boating down the Kunene River that separates Angola from South West Africa. At the time there was some disagreement, which I cannot recall, between the people on either side of this waterway.

Having a thing for men in uniform I berthed my craft on the Angolan side and was escorted to a nearby camp to meet the head of intelligence, who was none other than Msholozi. There I found him singing and dancing to a delightful ditty called Mshini Wani. But it was not his moves that made me weak at the knee, but his gorgeous pate that reminded me of the smooth buttocks of a young man I acquainted in Bolivia.

While his guest there we struck a friendship that has not dimmed over time and I am very pleased to tell you that the nastiness of all those years ago appears to have been resolved. Anyway, he quickly ordered his men back into the convoy after assigning one to drive the Cadillac. He then joined me in the back, but I am not at liberty to divulge what happened there because as you know what happens on the backseat of a Cadillac stays in the Cadillac.

What I can say is the Americans, rather than their Teutonic brothers, are absolutely clear as to what legroom means when they make a car. Oh, one little snippet, it is surprisingly sensuous to be in the throws with sirens caterwauling around you, though I am sure you know this already. So it was a slight anticlimax when we arrived at the guesthouse, Mahlamba-Ndlopfu, where he had arranged I stay the night in the presidential suite.

It was such a wonderful evening that I am pleased I did not get to Agnes. I wore my favourite kanga and he has a way with baby oil that is heavenly. But all good things must end and he had to get up early as he had another important dignitary to protect. After a quick shower and a bite of breakfast he saw me to the Cadillac, which for some reason would not start.

But he is such a gentleman that he arranged and paid for a taxi to take me home, even though I am sure he cannot afford it on a policeman’s salary. But that is Msholozi for you.

Yours, as always

Trinity Crimp