MARRIAGE COUNSELLING AND THE SUZUKI BANDIT

FOREWORD
·         The following happened years ago.
·         I am happily remarried to a gorgeous gal and have a new career.
·         My life is running on rails.
·         The following is a no-sympathy zone, for entertainment only.
·         Put the tissues away.
·         Goddit?
·         Read on.
 
(Disclosure: this is more business tutoring than marriage counselling but the latter makes for a catchier title.)

---

 
 
Anno Twenty Something. My long-established business goes under.
 
To spare the neighbours the aromas and flies associated with a freshly-capped stiff, community organisation ORT JET steps in and sends me for counselling.
 
Tutor S will be my shrink. Once a week Tutor S will spend sixty minutes unpacking and unpicking my life’s fabric.
 
Some time into the process Tutor S detects a need to interview my then-wife to ascertain her (Then-Wife’s) expectations.
 
By this time, Then-Wife and I are living under different roofs, and given the choice between seeing Then-Wife or submitting to a tax audit, I’d probably choose the latter.
 
The appointment is made. Next Tuesday at 14:00 hours Tutor S, Then-Wife and I will congregate in Tutor S’ lounge-cum-office.
 
An important part of the story is that in Johannesburg, South Africa, high walls and motorised gates, monitored by cameras, barricade the rich (anyone who doesn’t live in a shack) against home invasion by the poor (anyone who does).
 
The stage thus set, we expose what you need to know about the Suzuki Bandit.

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It’s sunny the day Then-Wife and I are to face each other in Tutor S’ lounge.  
 
I don’t want to arrive a minute earlier than I can get away with.
 
Rolling the Bandit out of the garage, I thumb the button and the Suzuki cheerfully burst into life. I set out on the highway and through the suburbs. My timing looks about right. I know by now how long it takes to do the 14 kilometres to Tutor S’ house.
 
The meeting starts at two o clock. I aim to arrive with seconds to spare.
 
But I haven’t had the Bandit for long. Japanese bikes tend not to hold many surprises, but there is one, and I’m about to learn all about it.
 
I’ve never been very fond of LCD or LED displays. Plain old needles are easier to read.
 
It’s about ten to two and running to plan. If necessary, I’ll stop somewhere let any extra time tick away. I do not want to arrive a second earlier than I can avoid.
 
Those digital instruments…
 
The fuel level shows the lowest bar. What I haven’t noticed is the fuel pump icon is now blinking on and off in harmony with the low-fuel-level LCD bar.
 
Eight minutes to two.
 
Timing looks about right.
 
Seven minutes. Six minutes. Five; four.
 
And… V-R-R-R… V-r-r-r-…. B-m-m-m-m-m-m.
 
Engine dies.
 
Pulling in the clutch, I coast to the kerb.  
 
Laboriously pulling the gloves off I open the tank cap and shake the bike from side to side, in case there’s an air lock.  
 
Thumb the button.
 
Nope. She’s out of fuel.
 
And it’s gone two o clock.
 
I pull the helmet off, fish the phone out and pull up Tutor S’ number. It rings unanswered. Dial Then-Wife’s number. Same non-result. It’s past two; the session has started.
 
I begin hoofing to the nearest garage. The summer sun is taking no prisoners and, conscientious about riding apparel, I’m in leathers and boots.
 
Five past two. Ten past. Quarter past. In the heat I trudge onto the garage forecourt. The attendant (you’re not allowed to serve yourself in South Africa) finds me an empty plastic soft drink bottle, dribbles a few drops of petrol into it, tips it out and fills it for me.
 
I start the hot hike back to the bike, hoping it’s still there.
 
Twenty past. Twenty five past. Half past. I make a few more call attempts, so they can see I tried.
 
At least the Bandit is still where I left her.
 
I pour the plastic bottle’s contents into the Bandit’s tank. Why is it that no matter how careful you try to be, you always spill a bit?
 
Ignition on, thumb the button and the motor booms into life.


Twenty to three.
 

I pull the helmet and gloves on, wait for a gap in the traffic, and pull away.
 

---

 
At something-teen to three I arrive at Tutor S’ gate and press the intercom button.
 
The gate swings open, I ride in, and the gate swings shut behind me. Manoeuvring the bike on Tutor S’ driveway I park next to Then-Wife’s Honda Jazz.
 
Hot and dishevelled, I quick-march to the entrance, pulling off my helmet.
 
I burst into the lounge-cum-office. “So sorry…” I pant.
 
Tutor S looks at me the way the bailiff does when marching the prisoners into the courtroom.
 
Opposite Tutor S is Then-Wife, clutching a sheaf of A4 printouts.
 
Coiled to pounce, Then-Wife glares daggers at me.
 
“Uh… petrol…” I stammer, forcing an oily smile.
 
“Petrol,” mimics Then-Wife in a voice that could freeze plasma.
 
Then-Wife brandishes the printouts.
 
WTF…?
 
Then-Wife, having previously conned me into exchanging e-mail passwords (“in case of emergency”), went on to raid my e-mail account. She is armed with a sheaf of mails that look downright incriminating.
 
(This line is important:) A muffled voice calls something inaudible from the other side of the closed door. “Ja, okay,” barks Tutor S impatiently.
 
And Then-Wife proceeds to turn the remaining ten minutes of the session into dentistry without anaesthetic.
 

---

At last, when the Creator and the Devil have played enough of that poker game in the Chris de Burgh song, the clock strikes three and the session is over.
 
Exiting Tutor S’ lounge, I naively hope I will now repair to the safety of the full face helmet.
 
Nope; The Man Upstairs hasn’t quite finished with me yet. He does indeed have a sense of humour.
 
-Remember I told you about the voice that called to Tutor S from behind the closed door?
-Remember I told you about Johannesburg’s homes being fortresses?
 
The voice was her husband’s. Seems he couldn’t find his remote. So he called through the door that he was borrowing hers. “Ja, fine,” Tutor S had called back, shortly.
 
So, Husband has Tutor S’ remote.
 
Meaning, Tutor S can’t open the gate.
 
Meaning, Then-Wife and I are to enjoy each other’s warmth and affection until Husband returns with the remote.
 

---

Then-Wife and I take our seats on Tutor S’ porch.
 
We attempt some small talk. It feels like swallowing crushed glass.
 
Einstein was right; everything is relative. A minute in one instance can be an hour in another.
 
Five minutes crawl by. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty.
 
After half an hour of enduring a thorn bush rammed down my throat, I silently cheer as the gate finally swings open. Something expensive drives in and parks. The driver’s door opens and closes. With a cursory wave Husband semi-acknowledges us as he strides to the house. Then his stride slows to a halt. Turning to us, he asks “oh, sorry, were you waiting to get out?” and buzzes the gate open.
 
“Oh well, drive safely,” I bid Then-Wife goodbye.
 
“You too,” comes the reply in that cream-curdling tone.
 
At last I can pull the helmet on.
 
I mount the Suzuki and fire her up.
 
The gate swings shut in front of us.
 
I have to dismount, once again go into the house and ask Tutor S to open the gate. Trotting back to the Suzuki I start her and roll through the exit.
 
With a wry chuckle I set course for the garage to fill up.
 
Thus the Suzuki’s hitherto-unfamiliar instruments become calibrated in my mind. When the low-petrol bar plus the tank icon start flashing in unison…
Find.
Petrol.                                                                                                         
NOW.
 
Remember this, fellow Bandit owners.

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Went to see a Triumph Tiger. but turned it down… remembering how the Bandit got me out of most of an hour of marriage counselling inquisition, this Suzuki and I have a bond.


Regards
Stan L
South Africa

Thanks for sharing Stan L - Well written - sad, entertaining at the same time.

truck wrote:sad...

Thanks Doc, but look at me now! 



New wife...






New life!

We book seaside holidays, she takes the fly-&-drive package, I ride down and meet here there! 

This pic is in the Karoo (outback) shortly before lockdown; next one takes place as soon as this @#%!! pandemic blows over!

No stopping ya now!