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Rise of the Zombie

Duitsland 2014

Rise of the Zombie
And so, he died on us, just like that, the bloody moron. The good Doctor was still poking around inside of him when his heart stopped. No goodbye, au revoir, addio, Auf Wiedersehen, proschhay or even a simple koebaai came from his lips. He just left … for about 20 seconds … twice, and then he was resurrected by a very frantic surgeon, and my moron joined the ranks of, what the French calls; the “réanimés”.
And now I, the very famous Red Cap, is burdened not only with a moron, but by a Zombie moron (or is it a moron Zombie?). I will tell you how it came to pass.
Some time ago he had his gall bladder removed. It did not go well. He almost died. Most people involved believed that he would not make it at the time. Long story, but he did make it. And soon after that incident he started to experience a chronic pain in his right side just below the last short rib. The doctors speculated, poked, manipulated, scanned, X-rayed and sonared him from all sides, but to no avail.
Finding nothing from the outside, one good doctor (our eventual reanimator) decided to invade. A date and time was set for colonoscopy and gastroscopy procedures to be done. His oesophagus, stomach, duodenum, ilium, jejunum, colon and caecum were washed clean to shine forth like the pink marble floors of the Tia Mahal. And in this shining condition he was wheeled into the theatre where the good doctor and his killer anaesthetist awaited him. They sedated him and unceremoniously pushed a flexible rod down his throat and another one of the same up his you-know-what, and that’s when his heart stopped.
The brave doctors did battle for less than halve a minute before they succeeded in reviving the poor sod twice. He was wheeled out of the theatre and sent off post haste to the nearest decent hospital down the road where a cardiologist was alerted of the imminent arrival of a troubled heart attached to a very troubled old man.
Coming too, and then being told of his short visit to eternity, his only comment was that any normal, decent man’s heart would stop if he found himself with a steel rod down his throat and a hose pipe up his arse. He can be such a crude son of a bitch. He then lamented at length about the lack of ringing bells, singing angels, a white light and /or a loving welcoming delegation dressed in brilliant white robes on the other side. “How imprudent can you get?” he asked indignantly.
I coughed warningly and said, “Shall we call you Reginald Shoe from now on sir?” in a castigating tone of voice. Of course, I was alluding to Reg Shoe the zombie in Terry Pratchett’s’ Discworld series. If one rants like a child, you will be treated like a child.
On arrival at the hospital he was admitted to an ordinary ward for un-well people. The cardiologist’s runner girl rocked up with a tablet in hand and fired a lot of questions at our zombie who did not comprehend a word she was saying. His wife took over and answered all the questions which was promptly and efficiently punched into the tabled before the runner girl took off again. Next came the Ward Sister with about ten pages of questions that needed to be answered by the patient before he could be admitted to the hospital. The questions turned out to be the exact same questions the runner girl just fired at our perplexed zombie.
With the questionnaire completed the Sister wandered off, and out of the blue another Sister appeared on the scene with a clipboard in hand. This one looked decidedly more like a cleaning girl than a proper Ward Sister. She started to ask the same questions the other two interrogators threw at our newly reanimated, and now totally flabbergasted Mr Reg Shoe. The irony was that the new inquisitor could not comprehend the answers given to her and so she kept repeating the questions over and over, and although the real Ward Sister told her that the admission papers have been completed and the more she referred her to the file, the more she kept on repeating the questions.
This madness continued for a while when suddenly the Reanimator doctor stormed into the ward foaming at the mouth and wanting to know what the hell his Promethean (or réanimé) was doing in this ward. He should be in intensive care, he shouted. And off they sped with the poor fool down the passage to the nearest ICU ward.
But on arrival at the ICU he was refused entrance, citing a shortage of beds as reason. Off they wheeled him again, down the passage and into a lift to the next ICU where he was again refused admission on the same grounds as at the previous ICU, although we were standing right next to a pristine clean and obviously empty bed. A heated argument erupted between the bed pushers and the Ward Sister re the empty bed reserved for very sick people and the seemingly healthy but somewhat bewildered patient with the rosy cheeks who could not possibly need intensive care.
Enter stage from the right came our little runner girl, adding her shrill soprano voice to the fray. Out shouting the rest of the lot, she won the day with threats of hell-fire and brimstone, and the zombie was transferred to the empty bed, hooked up to a monitor with angry flashing lights that went beep-boop-beep.
There he was, sitting up in bed and smiling his moron smile at everybody while his good wife sat crying in the corridor. At length, the runner girl showed up again and explained to the good wife that the cardiologist wanted permission from the patient to invade his body … again. He wanted to enter the engine room and more specific, the pumping department. (Thank the small gods for small mercies, it was not the hose-pipe-from-the-bottom kind of invasion again!) The doctor felt that an angiogram was urgently called for at this stage.
After much deliberation, shedding of tears and promises that no open-heart surgery would be performed again like the previous time, permission was granted and the invasion scheduled for the next morning.

Water in Wyn in Bloed

Goeie nuus. Die boek sal vir die volgende 7 dae by Amazon teen die afslagprys van $3.99 beskikbaar wees.

Nou beskikbaar by Amazon

WATER IN WYN IN BLOED

“En ons het almal gedink sy sou van die stapel afklim nadat sy dit self van bo af met petrol deurweek en aan die brand gesteek het,” sê die man met die lang jas. Vir ’n lang tyd heers daar ’n doodse stilte onder die groepie begrafnisgangers onder die man met die jas se boom. In almal se gedagtes staan die strak prentjie van ’n lyk op ’n brandstapel deur vlamme omhul en ’n rookpluim wat die lug in spiraal, terwyl ’n sagte, suiwer sopraan die aria “Vissi d’arte” uit Tosca van Puccini uit die rook en vlamme vanaf die brandstapel sing:

Die boek is nou beskikbaar by Amazon vir Kindle lesers. Dit kan ook deur die App “Kindle for PC’s” op jou rekenaar afgelaai word.

Volg die skakel: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B073GXQZNM/

Water in Wyn in Bloed

Ek sal julle op hoogte hou van wanneer die boek beskikbaar sal wees.

Ode to a life lived well

Iets wat ek en ons ouboet nog altyd in gemeen gehad het; ons liefdie vir klasieke musiek, opera en jazz
Opgedra aan Dirk.

Ouboet


Dirk, Petrus, Johannes van Schalkwyk 1936-2017
Ons Ouboet, gebore lank voor ek die lig gesien het en uit die huis uit voor ek behoorlik bewus geword het van wat alles om my aan die gang was.

Meeste van die tyd was hy net `n skadu figuur in die agtergrond van my bestaan. Iewers was daar `n ouboet met sy eie lewe, sy eie drome, sy eie vriende. Ek onthou grepe van waar hy wel op die voorgrond getree het soos Kersfees by Letswana Park waar hy en Sus die dansbaan aan die brand gedans het, soveel so dat die ander dansers op die kant gaan staan het om te kyk hoe die twee die Tango dans, amper soos Al Pacino en Gabrielle Anwar in Scent of a Woman.

Ek was nog op laerskool toe hy eendag vir my `n verjaarsdag geskenk gegee het, `n Daisy pellet gun, so `n klein, grootliks plastiek windgeweertjie wat sulke klein ronde koeëltjies met so `n boog geskiet het. Jy kon sien hoe die koeëltjie deur die lug trek, en die vöeltjies kon dit ook sien aankom, met die gevolg dat hulle gelukkig kon wegvlieg voor die koeël hulle tref. Ek en die mossies het groot pret gehad met daardie geweer van my.

Gebore in die ou Oos-Transvaal iewers op `n plaas naby Trichartd, toe na Hibernia en later Loslapdoorns in die Wes-Transvaal naby Lichtenburg. Laerskool Zoetmelksvlei, Hoërskool Lichtenburg, Universiteit Pretoria toe Army toe. Van daar die wye wêreld in om te werk, te trou en 4 seuns groot te maak, goed groot te maak sodat hulle goeie, verantwoordelike manne kon word. En dit is miskien ons finale nalatenskap, `n soort van getuigskrif vir ons, dat ons kinders eerbare, hardwerkende en geliefde mense in die samelewing word wat op hulle beurt goeie ouers vir hulle eie kinders is. (of miskien is dit juis ten spyte van ons pogings om hulle op te voed, dat hulle goed uitdraai?)

Iewers langs die pad het ek hom eendag per ongeluk amper dood gery met sy eie rooi Willys Jeep, maar dis `n lang storie. En nou is hy weg. Ons Ouboet, Pa van sy seuns en Oupa van sy kleinkinders is huis toe. Ons groet jou, jou skadu sal nog lank in die agtergrond van ons lewens voort bestaan. Gaan in vrede.
“The return journey may take us back through physical love, the unity of touch; Through mental love, the unity of rapport; Through cosmic love, unity with all things. In the end, our journey form Love to Love will take us back to the realization of oneness with What we have always been and ever will be.” (Arthur Tricknor: Solid Ground of Being)

Dit kom

Voorblad van my nuwe boek. Dit sal een van die dae beskikbaar wees by Amazon. Hou hierdie spasie dop.

Voorblad ontwerp deur Hannelie.

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