Now that the silly season is finally over we can all sit back with a pounding headache, sort out our unpaid bills, and ring our bank manager and plead for an extension on that overdraft that was not absolutely necessary in the first place.
But it is also the time to reflect on our own and other people's follies, induced by the festive season.
Last week as I rolled home from one of the many end-of-the year parties that seemed to be everywhere, I was seized by a sudden fear on entering my home long past my bedtime.
My cognac-soaked brain was racing back in time to the year that was about to become just a memory.
Last year an unusually high number of women were arrested and charged with the murder of their husbands.
Seeing the lady who wakes up next to me every day suddenly conjured up images of a fellow conspirator, someone who was going to put a bullet between my eyes then call the law and claim I was the victim of a botched robbery.
Better to be safe than sorry, my foggy mind told me.
So I locked myself in the guest bedroom and hid the keys.
What my mind couldn't fathom was that the poor lady who wakes next to me every morning has the least reason to send me to the morgue. I mean, I have not inherited any sizeable amount of cash from a rich uncle.
There are no family heirlooms, no insurance policies worth mentioning and by the time ek dak while working for Sowetan my pension pay-out will be enough to cover a funeral only a little more respectable than a pauper's.
But there I was, locked in the guest bedroom.
And I started to experience a pounding headache and a terrible stomach ache at about 3am.
And as you know, men can't stand pain. As you can imagine, I squealed like a pig and called out to the lady who wakes up next to me every morning.
In my hour of need, I wanted her to concoct some remedies and I also needed the reassurance of her womanly bosom.
Problem was, in my drunken stupor, I couldn't find the keys I had hidden.
I had to endure several hours of agony until my head cleared in the morning and I was able to find them, safely tucked under my pillow.
As always, she nursed me back to health without words like: "Serves the bastard right."
But what can one think these days when women pop their old men for a few million pieces of silver?
Popping men for money
Now that the silly season is finally over we can all sit back with a pounding headache, sort out our unpaid bills, and ring our bank manager and plead for an extension on that overdraft that was not absolutely necessary in the first place.
But it is also the time to reflect on our own and other people's follies, induced by the festive season.
Last week as I rolled home from one of the many end-of-the year parties that seemed to be everywhere, I was seized by a sudden fear on entering my home long past my bedtime.
My cognac-soaked brain was racing back in time to the year that was about to become just a memory.
Last year an unusually high number of women were arrested and charged with the murder of their husbands.
Seeing the lady who wakes up next to me every day suddenly conjured up images of a fellow conspirator, someone who was going to put a bullet between my eyes then call the law and claim I was the victim of a botched robbery.
Better to be safe than sorry, my foggy mind told me.
So I locked myself in the guest bedroom and hid the keys.
What my mind couldn't fathom was that the poor lady who wakes next to me every morning has the least reason to send me to the morgue. I mean, I have not inherited any sizeable amount of cash from a rich uncle.
There are no family heirlooms, no insurance policies worth mentioning and by the time ek dak while working for Sowetan my pension pay-out will be enough to cover a funeral only a little more respectable than a pauper's.
But there I was, locked in the guest bedroom.
And I started to experience a pounding headache and a terrible stomach ache at about 3am.
And as you know, men can't stand pain. As you can imagine, I squealed like a pig and called out to the lady who wakes up next to me every morning.
In my hour of need, I wanted her to concoct some remedies and I also needed the reassurance of her womanly bosom.
Problem was, in my drunken stupor, I couldn't find the keys I had hidden.
I had to endure several hours of agony until my head cleared in the morning and I was able to find them, safely tucked under my pillow.
As always, she nursed me back to health without words like: "Serves the bastard right."
But what can one think these days when women pop their old men for a few million pieces of silver?