I did promise that story, but it's such a sad thing, in a way. I have it all in my head so that I just need to write it down, but there won't be any fun in that. It was a real WAWA, that one.
There is that thing about Africa: You can have just one little thing wrong with you, just one crack in your armor. Africa will find that crack, get inside, and eat you up! That's what happened to Chris, I think. Anyway, that's how I want to write it up, and it's my story to tell.
It's not like that time in Auntie's Kitchen, getting a lecture on the rights of the modern woman as all these tarts were flitting past completely unnoticed by our high-minded lecturer. I thought that was a p*ss-take for a very long time, that he was satirizing modern feminism, when I was playing along with that. It turned out that he was totally serious, and that he had not noticed that I was being satirical! That was hilarious! Right at the end, the butterfly prawns were served, dripping with oil. "Do you use King's Oil?" asked the lecturer.
"Oh yes Sah!"
"I never eat anything fried in King's Oil," said he. "Take them away," said he.
"Oh, goody. Let me have those prawns, please," said I, and then I fell upon them like the wolf on the fold, like SASless on a virgin ... bar card.