On Esio Trots bonking

So I asked my mum how the farm in the Klein Karoo was and she said it had been fantastic apart from my stepdad spending all his time watching the rugby at the the Bosvark. The farm was lush and green and as they drove into the property, kudus sprang into the dense bush and baboons gazed at them from trees.


I asked how the goats were… as a couple of years ago I had proudly named the snowy white pets Brie, Feta and Babybel. Apparently the goats had started breeding like rabbits and eating the lucerne so they got rid of them. Similarly the ostriches had been a bit of a nuisance, too much sticking their heads in the sand and all of that denial so they were given to the surprised neighbours. Can you imagine that: ‘Hey, we've come to give you some er, ahem, ostriches.'


So Mum has been telling everyone that will listen that we have like 20 leopards on the farm. Let me tell you now this is a gross exaggeration. Mum and Ian have been so excited due to some passionate Rhodes scholar who is doing his PHD* on the Cape Leopards. In fact, they’ve set up cameras on the farm and have found at least 2 male leopards that have passed by. A cat whisperer from Texas has even come to collar the shy spotted cats. Therefore from 2 leopards, we apparently have 16-20 leopards, if they extrapolate that. Ok ‘extrapolate’. Has anyone ever heard of that word? I learned that word at the tender age of 27.


*Mum has already told me he’s far too nice for me. In case you’re wondering, any male between the ages of 20- 40 gets screened as potential husband material. My stepdad is apparently supposed to be taking me on a ‘tour ‘of the trading floor at Absa so I can see what it’s like, rather what the men are like.


So the leopards may be the main draw card but apparently much to my mother’s chagrin there are several big fat tortoises that are drawn to the green grass surrounding the farmhouse, far preferring it to the dusty, rocky terrain that they ordinarily inhabit. As everyone was settling down for an afternoon nap, a rather awkward, strangled noise started in the garden.


My mother is describing this as we’re sitting in a trendy Parktown North restaurant where everyone’s picking at their salads and covertly people watching. I was in hysterics by the time mum started to enact and imitate the noise these creatures make when bonking. She really got into it, sticking out her neck and tongue and bleating in a strangled and stuttered way and clacking her tongue to show the clacking of the shells. Apparently it’s like watching an old man having sex. My stepfather heatedly denies knowing what that would be like and snidely remarks that my mother may know since her past liaison was with an ‘elder’ French gentleman.