There was another crazy person at the door.
This one had a pink plastic garden flamingo in a sleeper embrace under his right arm, while he authoritively left-palmed a faux-cheetahfur bound filofax. Looking very much like a sunday morning tv-evangelist with a god-struck devotee and a well-thumped bible, Alfred thought, squinting cautiously through the peekhole.
Yesterday’s one was an attractive brunette wearing electric-blue Manolohs. Continue reading Alfred at No 30, Streetview Terrace.
Jim van de Vuuren wears a really bad toupee. Probably the worst artificial hairpiece to have ever been manufactured. Jim appears ignorant of this. Jim is a loud man, direct, maybe even rude.
Jim tends to gesticulate extravagantly, palms often flung out as if to indicate how weighty the world is upon him.
Jim believes himself to be an important man, if it weren’t for him, the drivers’ licensing department would crumble into insignificant iotas.
Even though Jim’s sphere of influence extends no more beyond that of the mandatory eye-testing, yes, Randfontein would be sorrier without his dedication.
He has an eye for the ladies, yes, Jim does. He likes the young, nervous ones, first-timers, floundering with their applications. He likes to think himself a good man then, almost benevolent, when he overlooks their failure to make out some of the checkered boxes while they peer into the eye-testing machine. While they sit, eyes manacled to the black plastic, Jim stands close, sometimes stroking their hair during the test. He likes the feel of feminine silkiness and the residual softness of shampoo.
