Brauer and Terry got married long before Brauer matured. Then again, had they waited for that – no, wasn’t feasible.
It was a good show and there was grog and I spose they asked us to leave, as I seldom leave before that; one would think being ‘best’ man would carry some privileges . . .
We headed home in Nel’s white Mazda RX2. The ‘R’ being for ‘Rotary Engine’. Not the benevolent kind as in Rotary helping charity, but of the gas-guzzling kind with a high-pitched whine like Trevor John when he felt he’d been done down. South, we headed, late at night, leaving rural Pretoria for urban Joburg, Nel behind the wheel, the long-suffering Norts navigating, me and the delightful Cheryl Forsdick on the back seat.
So we were getting home with expedience when a dronk oke in an oncoming car veered into our lane slap-bang in front of us and hit us head-on. Bang.
Norts was slightly hurt and the delightful Forsdick was slightly hurt and Nel of course was severely injured. We knew that before impact because that’s the way it always was, and Nel would obviously need lots of attention.
Poor bugger did actually have a genuine smack this time as proven by X-rays and by his being on crutches for eighteen months after that. Later Norts found out the docs had told Nel he could chuck them away after six weeks.