Revolution: Chapter Three

 

(Image: Ideogram)

Chapter 3 – The Coup

The operation that would later be known as The September Intervention unfolded with a precision that surprised even its architects. For months, fragments of the plan had been tested through simulations and contingency exercises. When the order was finally given in the early hours of Monday, 7 September 2026, every participant knew their role and the moral justification behind it: the preservation of the nation itself.

At 3:00 a.m., convoys of unmarked vehicles moved quietly through Pretoria, Johannesburg, and Cape Town. Units composed of sympathetic elements from the SANDF, tactical police divisions, and contracted private security teams converged on key installations — the Union Buildings, the SABC headquarters, National Treasury, and the South African Reserve Bank. Communications networks were secured; mobile and internet access were temporarily disrupted to prevent disinformation and counter-organising.

By dawn, all principal government ministries were under Council control. The transition was so swift and bloodless that most citizens awoke unaware that a seismic change had occurred. Senior ANC officials, including the president and cabinet members, were escorted from their residences and placed under house arrest in locations prearranged for safety and transparency. The announcement would come later that morning, but the state was already in new hands.

At 7:00 a.m., Dr. Harvey Jacobs arrived at the SABC studios in Auckland Park. Dressed in a simple dark suit, he appeared calm but solemn. His prepared speech had been revised multiple times through the night, the final version stripped of rhetoric and composed in the tone of necessity. Shortly after 8:00, the SABC, eNCA, and all major radio networks broadcast the message live:

“Fellow South Africans,

In the early hours of this morning, your Defence Force and your Police Service, acting in concert with civic and business leaders, have taken temporary custodianship of the Republic. This step has been taken to prevent the total collapse of the state, to restore law and order, and to begin a process of national renewal.

The previous government is under protective custody. There has been no bloodshed, no arrests for political opinion, and no interference with civil life. Our objective is not to destroy democracy, but to safeguard the nation so that true democracy may one day return, cleansed of corruption and fear.

Effective immediately, the Constitution is suspended, and a State of Emergency is declared. The Council for National Renewal will assume executive authority until the country is stabilised and a new framework of governance is established. Essential services will continue uninterrupted.

I appeal to all citizens to remain calm, to go to work, to protect one another, and to remember that we are one people bound by a shared destiny. We act not for power, but for peace. In the coming days, I shall address the nation again to explain the road ahead — The Way Forward.

May wisdom guide us all.”

The effect of Jacobs’s broadcast was electric. Within hours, the announcement had reached every corner of the country. There were isolated protests — particularly from diehard ANC loyalists and left-wing student organisations — but the overwhelming mood was one of weary acceptance, even relief. Ordinary citizens, long disillusioned by endless scandals and failing institutions, greeted the news as a strange kind of deliverance.

In the days that followed, the Council’s rapid actions reinforced that sense of order. Checkpoints were set up at major intersections, curfews were imposed in high-risk zones, and the looting that had erupted sporadically in the previous weeks was brought under control. The media, now operating under a temporary information directive, reported cautiously but consistently on the return of stability.

Behind the scenes, Jacobs and his close advisors worked around the clock to consolidate authority without provoking international outrage. Diplomatic cables were sent to Washington, London, and Brussels assuring foreign governments that South Africa remained committed to democratic principles and the protection of investments. To the astonishment of many observers, the global response was muted — a combination of fatigue with the ANC’s misgovernance and a pragmatic recognition that stability served everyone’s interests.

By mid-September, the initial crisis had passed. Government salaries were paid on time, electricity generation stabilised as technicians returned to work, and the rand, after a brief dip, began to recover.

The Council then turned inward, facing the formidable task of governing. The First Full Council Meeting, held at the Union Buildings on 18 September 2026, marked the beginning of what historians would later call The Reconstruction Era. There, in the cabinet room stripped of party insignia, the fifty members — half men, half women — pledged to steer the nation towards renewal under the guidance of reason and justice.

The coup, in retrospect, had been the easy part. The rebuilding — The Way Forward — would test their ideals and the endurance of an entire people.

---

 

A Hand with the Dishes

 

(Image: Reve)

I phoned him a week ago and we exchanged pleasantries.

“All well. Except, I’m in the dogbox of late.”

He went on to recount how he had fallen out of favour with his wife. Her sister from England had been staying with them for ten days.

“You know how I pull my weight around the house? When I retired, I took on some of the household chores, like washing the dishes. Well, one morning, the wife had gone shopping, I was at the sink dealing with the aftermath of breakfast, when my sister-in-law came into the kitchen to make herself a cup of coffee. We talked about the weather and her plans for the day, and then, after a while, as if to make conversation, she said, ‘You know, whenever I come into the kitchen, I find you standing at the sink washing up. It’s as if that is all you ever do. It’s kind of sad.’

‘Sad?’ I said, a little irritated. ‘So, you think I lead a wretched existence, do you?’

‘No, not at all,’ she said, trying to back-peddle. I would never describe your life as wretched. Who uses that word anymore? It sounds biblical.’

‘I think it sounds Dickensian,’ I said. It was at this point that the idea popped into my head.”

“What idea? Is this what got you into trouble?”

“Yes. You see, I wasn’t particularly flattered by being described as sad. It wasn’t good for my ego, so I said to her as I scoured the porridge pot, ‘You know, it’s funny, but when Barbara was with us  a year ago….’”

“Who is Barbara?” I asked him.

“She is my wife’s other sister; the youngest. Anyway, I told her that when Barbara was staying with us, she had also found me rather pathetic, forever in the kitchen washing up. This was when I threw discretion to the wind and fabricated a scene for her. I told her I said to Barbara, ‘If you feel sorry for me, and would like to brighten up my humdrum day, you could come and give me a little pleasure while I stand here with my hands in soapy water.’”

“Jesus! How did she react?”

“Who? Barbara? No, in reality I never propositioned her.”

“Yes, I get that. I mean the other sister. What did she say? Or do?”

“She was silent for quite some time, then I heard her push back her chair and she came and stood behind me. I think she was trying to control herself before saying or, rather, snarling in my ear, ‘Not only are you sad and pathetic; you are DISGUSTING!’ And she flounced out of the kitchen.”

“She told your wife, I take it?”

“Of course. I attempted to pass it off as a misunderstanding, and that I had meant it as a joke, but that got me nowhere.”

I tried to visualise what he had just described.

“What would you have done if she had reacted differently? If she had taken you seriously and been sympathetic and agreed to    er   give you a hand with the dishes?”

“Mmm. That’s a tricky one. What would you do in such a situation?”

We acknowledged that one would be faced with a difficult moral dilemma, and tacitly agreed to drop this line of speculation, for there were other matters to discuss.

 

Revolution Chapter Two

 

Chapter 2 – The Architects of Change

The inner circle that would eventually engineer the September Intervention took shape quietly and methodically during the first half of 2026. What had begun as a loose collection of academics and civic leaders slowly hardened into a disciplined network of planners and analysts. Its members did not see themselves as conspirators but as custodians of a collapsing republic, forced to do what those in office could not or would not attempt.

At the centre of this network stood Dr Harvey Jacobs, already well known from his lectures, essays, and television commentaries. His mixed heritage and lifelong commitment to social justice lent him credibility across communities; his students described him as a man who could speak the language of Soweto and Stellenbosch in the same breath. He had spent years warning that South Africa’s democracy was eroding from within—that corruption, policy incoherence and patronage had replaced accountability. In his view the coming breakdown was not ideological but structural: a state so weakened that it could no longer maintain order or deliver services.

Jacobs’s public essays had attracted the attention of several prominent figures in business and civil society. Among the first to seek him out was Andries Marais, a mining executive who had seen his company reduced to a shadow by electricity shortages and export bottlenecks. Marais argued that without decisive action the entire private sector would soon follow. Others joined—retired judge Naledi Motaung, former defence strategist Colonel Sipho Nkadimeng, economist Professor Nigel Cooper-Smith, and the lawyer-activist Sakena Moloketsi, whose earlier work on constitutional reform had earned national respect.

They met discreetly in Johannesburg and later in Pretoria, under the guise of a “national dialogue forum.” Over months of discussion a consensus emerged that the political system was beyond internal repair. The ANC’s hold on the state was maintained through networks of dependency—employment in state enterprises, municipal contracts, and the promise of patronage. Any government that tried to govern honestly from within that framework would be destroyed by it. Only a decisive external intervention, they concluded, could break the cycle.

Their deliberations remained theoretical until March 2026, when several senior officers within the South African National Defence Force quietly approached Nkadimeng. The officers—career professionals marginalised by politically connected superiors—offered their cooperation should a plan for national stabilisation become necessary. Around the same time, executives of large private security firms indicated willingness to maintain order if the state faltered. These parallel contacts convinced the Forum that a coordinated intervention was not only possible but already half-prepared by circumstance.

The group adopted a provisional title: The Council for National Renewal. Its early meetings focused on defining legitimacy. Jacobs insisted that any future action must present itself not as a seizure of power but as a guardianship—temporary, procedural, and justified solely by the need to restore the rule of law. The Council’s minutes, later released, recorded his words: “If we are to act outside the constitution, it must be to save the constitution’s purpose, not to destroy it.”

Funding and logistical planning followed. Business donors, fearful of collapse yet unwilling to appear partisan, channelled resources through charitable foundations. Retired intelligence officers mapped communications nodes and transport corridors; sympathetic engineers provided information on national-grid control points. The Council’s analysts identified key ministries where immediate control would prevent administrative paralysis: finance, energy, defence, and broadcasting.

As plans advanced, international legitimacy became a priority. A small delegation—two businessmen, a former diplomat, and an academic adviser—travelled quietly to Washington, ostensibly to attend an investment conference. While there, they met with policy figures linked to the President. The delegation sought no overt endorsement, only an assurance that any South African transition aimed at restoring order and market confidence would not be condemned. They returned with cautious encouragement: the message was that the world would accept almost any government that could guarantee stability and protect trade.

Back in South Africa, Jacobs laboured to forge unity among the Council’s disparate members. Afriforum and business associations pushed for a swift, decisive coup centred on property rights and deregulation. Civil-rights organisations argued for a social compact rooted in justice and accountability. Jacobs positioned himself between these factions, arguing that the success of any post-coup administration would depend on moral legitimacy rather than force. “If the people do not believe we act for their good,” he warned, “they will turn on us before the year is out.”

Throughout the winter, the Council refined its blueprint. The plan called for simultaneous occupation of key communication centres, airports, and government complexes, coupled with a media announcement framing the operation as a constitutional rescue. ANC leadership would be confined, not harmed; Parliament suspended but intact. Essential services—electricity, policing, banking—would continue under emergency management.

Each member understood the risks. Failure would mean treason charges; success would still require confronting the enormous task of governing a broken state. Yet there was a growing sense of inevitability. Each week brought new evidence of governmental paralysis: unpaid public servants, collapsing hospitals, and the postponement of yet another municipal election.

By late August the decision was effectively made. The Council’s final meetings, held in a farmhouse outside Paarl, were sober affairs. Jacobs appeared withdrawn but resolute. He told his colleagues that moral courage consisted not in certainty but in action taken despite uncertainty. “History will judge us not by our hesitation but by what we build after the noise stops,” he said.

When the government confirmed its intention to delay the elections “for administrative reasons,” the Council set the date. The intervention would commence before dawn on the first Monday of September 2026.

The architects of change had completed their design. All that remained was to bring it to life.

---

Revolution: Chapter One

 

(Image: Ideogram)

Chapter 1 – The Gathering Storm

By the middle of 2026, South Africa had reached the edge of systemic failure. The optimism that had once accompanied the democratic transition had long since evaporated; the state had become a weary machine running on inertia, its parts grinding against one another without direction. The July 2021 unrest—remembered for the burning of malls, the looting of distribution warehouses, and the paralysis of the security forces—was widely recognised, in retrospect, as the first visible crack in the post-apartheid order. At the time it was treated as an aberration, a tragic spasm of poverty and politics; five years later it was understood as a warning that had gone unheeded.

The years that followed brought no recovery. Economic stagnation hardened into decline. By 2026, unemployment officially exceeded forty percent, with youth unemployment nearer to seventy. Factories that had once exported manufactured goods to the region stood silent. Mining companies had disinvested after years of policy uncertainty, load-shedding and labour militancy. The agricultural sector, starved of rural infrastructure and tormented by farm attacks, produced barely enough for domestic consumption. Every closed workshop or abandoned mine meant more job losses, more anger, more disillusionment.

The once-vibrant townships and small towns of the industrial heartland sank into despair. In Gauteng and KwaZulu-Natal, informal settlements multiplied on every patch of open ground. Basic services faltered; water systems collapsed; refuse lay uncollected. The state’s ability to enforce the law had eroded to the point where criminal syndicates operated openly, collecting protection fees, running illegal electricity connections, and controlling minibus routes. For millions of citizens, government existed only as an occasional announcement on television.

Business leaders, academics, and community organisers alike spoke privately of a country sliding toward chaos. The ANC government had become a monument to patronage. Cabinet posts were expanded to absorb factional demands, state-owned enterprises served as instruments of enrichment, and procurement contracts were traded like political currency. Affirmative-action and empowerment policies—originally conceived as instruments of justice—had degenerated into bureaucratic barriers that rewarded connections rather than competence. The result was not transformation but paralysis.

By 2025, rolling blackouts had entered their fifteenth year; municipalities owed Eskom hundreds of billions; railways were stripped of cables and stations; ports clogged with unshipped goods. Disinvestment became a torrent: manufacturing output fell to its lowest level in a century, and each factory closure produced another wave of the unemployed. A growing black middle class, frustrated by collapsing services and shrinking opportunity, began to turn openly against the government. In university common rooms and boardrooms alike, talk shifted from reform to survival.

It was in this atmosphere that a group of concerned citizens began meeting informally under the auspices of a civic foundation. What started as discussion groups soon evolved into something more deliberate. Participants included senior academics, business executives, civil-rights advocates, and retired officers of the police and military. Among them was Dr Harvey Jacobs, a respected political scientist and social commentator whose essays had long argued that South Africa was approaching a crisis of legitimacy. Jacobs was widely regarded as incorruptible, intellectually formidable, and—rare among public figures—both coloured and universally trusted.

Jacobs warned that the social fabric was unravelling faster than the government could respond. The unrest of 2021, he said, would look like a rehearsal for the conflagration to come if unemployment and hunger continued to rise. In his view, the country faced a binary choice: either the existing political order would collapse into violence, or a new leadership would have to emerge to impose order and initiate structural reform. His audience, initially sceptical, began to concede that conventional politics offered no path forward.

Over the next several months, discreet meetings multiplied. Representatives from Afriforum, business chambers, religious councils, and university faculties joined in. They called themselves, with cautious irony, the National Renewal Forum. Their discussions centred not on ideology but on survival: how to prevent South Africa from descending into a failed state. Members mapped the country’s power structure, identifying within the SANDF and police those officers who were professional rather than partisan, and who might act to protect the public if the civilian administration imploded.

Outside the Forum’s quiet deliberations, the national mood darkened. Protests over service delivery turned violent; municipal offices burned. The government, paralysed by factional rivalry, attempted to deflect blame onto “foreign agitators” and “racist elements.” Inflation eroded wages; the rand slid below twenty-five to the dollar. International lenders demanded austerity; the government responded with slogans. When, in August 2026, the Electoral Commission announced that municipal elections would likely be postponed for “logistical reasons,” the reaction was explosive. Opposition parties cried foul; the press warned of constitutional crisis. The Forum saw confirmation that the government was clinging to power by decree.

For many of its members the idea of intervention—once unthinkable—began to seem unavoidable. They reasoned that the constitution’s mechanisms had been captured, that the courts were intimidated, and that the police no longer served the people. If South Africa were to survive, the corrupt edifice would have to be dismantled from outside the political system itself.

Jacobs, though cautious, concluded that moral responsibility demanded action. He believed that a temporary assumption of authority, carried out with restraint and directed toward restoration rather than domination, could avert civil war. “If we fail to act,” he told his colleagues, “the streets will act for us—and they will not act rationally.”

Thus, as winter turned to spring in 2026, the first outlines of what would later be called the September Intervention began to take shape—a coup conceived not as conquest but as rescue, born from despair and the conviction that a nation on the brink could still be saved from itself.

---

(Written with help from ChatGPT)

c

Revolution

 

Revolution is a gripping political chronicle of South Africa’s rebirth after a 2026 coup that topples a failing government and sparks an age of reform. Led by the principled academic Harvey Jacobs, a coalition of soldiers, scholars, and civil rights leaders rebuild the nation on fairness, discipline, and Ubuntu.

From collapsing institutions and mass unemployment arises a technocratic government that dares to do what others feared: print money to create jobs, merge ministries to end corruption, and replace chaos with competence. As industries revive and crime falls, new schools, hospitals, and homes rise across the land.

Through Jacobs’s televised addresses and the Council’s policy debates, Revolution traces how moral leadership, economic imagination, and social renewal turn a country from despair to dignity. Five years later, with growth surging and democracy beckoning, Jacobs faces his final test — to relinquish power or extend reform.

Told as a historical chronicle, Revolution is both cautionary and inspiring — a vision of how nations may rebuild themselves through courage, reason, and moral conviction.

Misadventure on the Mountain

 

This is a largely true account, devoid of embellishment. It is about a hike undertaken in the Kogelberg Biosphere by an elderly man and a not so elderly woman. The events were related to me by the man, who I have known for over half a century, and I can vouch for the veracity of his words concerning recent events, not enough time having elapsed for him to edit his memory.

At the age of 74 he is driven by the dread of physical decline to set himself challenges that test his strength, athleticism and endurance. He surfs, cycles, kayaks, and recently completed a one-mile swim in Fals Bay. Admittedly, he needs to swallow anti-inflammatory medication prior to any of these events.  This enables him to dismiss complaints from his overworked joints.

Casting about for another opportunity to defy the relentless advances being made by osteoporosis, spondylosis of the lumbar spine and sarcopenia, he learned of a mountain hike in the Kogelberg Biosphere that sounded like it was not for sissies. Twenty-five kilometres in length, it started at the Palmiet River and climbed over the intervening range to Rooi Els. When he suggested the walk to his wife, she said that this was a two-day hike that was too long to complete in a single outing. He could count her out on this one.

He knew a couple who were keen hikers, and when he suggested they accompany him the man shook his head, judging the distance in twelve hours to be beyond his capability. His wife, however, agreed to take up the offer. A strong-willed woman in her sixties, she was physically fit and had the assertive self-assurance of a successful business person.

It was 7.30 and getting light when they set off after being dropped at the start of the trail. The old fellow was feeling confident and full of vigour, having popped an Arcoxia and two Tramacet half an hour earlier. The late winter vegetation was in prime condition and they made their way through a variety of proteas, ericas, restios, pelargoniums, salvias and heath. The woman led the way, hardly bothering to use her walking pole, while he followed close behind, wielding his two sticks for stability and leverage. The path was clear but narrow and not well-worn. They gained height at a steady rate, the gradient being undemanding, and the views on both sides were increasingly rewarding.

When, after three hours, they stopped for a drink of water and a snack on energy bars, he was grateful for the chance to take the weight off his feet and rest on a shelf of rock. The respite was brief, however, for she soon shouldered her backpack and urged him to do likewise. There was still a long way to go.

Around one o’clock they stopped for a fifteen-minute lunch break before pressing on. They had reached the highest point of the trail and now it was mostly downhill, which was good for muscle fatigue but jarring on his knees and hips. The afternoon wore on and it seemed to him she was quickening her pace. He knew that without the support of his walking poles he would have been stumbling and unable to keep up.

It was midafternoon when she slowed and then came to a halt. For a while the track had been fading, and now there was no trace of it at all. Continuing in the general direction they had been on, they pressed on until she spotted a cairn of stones off to the left. Reaching it, they were relieved to find themselves on a path again. It led to another cairn, and then another, before abruptly disappearing. It was gone four and, although they could see the sea in the distance where Rooi Els lay, the woman estimated there was at least another five kilometres between them and their destination. And it would soon be getting dark.

Below them to their right they could see a gorge running towards the sea. Hoping they would be able to follow it, they made their way diagonally  through thick brush down the hillside until, no longer able to stand, they took to sliding crab like, holding on to bushes to slow their descent. At a rocky outcrop the woman stopped, and when he joined her, they looked down into the gorge and agreed that to descend any further was too dangerous. They would have to retrace their steps. He looked up at the almost vertical hillside, and it was at this point in his story that I asked him if he was starting to panic.

“Panic? Yes, I was more than worried. You could say I was beginning to shat myself. I don’t know how I found the strength to claw my way back up that precipitous slope.”

When he reached his companion, who was waiting for him on more or less level ground, he collapsed with exhaustion and relief. The light dwindling, they agreed they were in serious trouble, and it was at this point that she made her executive decision. If there was cell phone reception up there they would have to call for help.

Fortunately for them, the signal was strong, and she was soon making contact with the Wilderness Search and Rescue hotline. The operator told her to pin their location and remain where they were until help arrived, which would be in about three hours’ time.

The evening was cool but the wind was light, and they made themselves as comfortable as they could in the lee of some tall sugar bushes. It grew dark and the stars shone with intensity in a moonless black sky. Some two and a half hours later he was jolted from a semi-doze by his hiking companion. Not far off two lights were bobbing in the dark. She got to her feet and started shouting to attract the attention of their rescuers.

Members of the Mountain Club of South Africa, they first assessed the condition of their charges, and it was agreed that it would be possible to guide them down to safety without having to call for additional backup. Inexplicably, they had brought only one extra headlamp and , in a show of foolish gallantry, the old man forfeited it to the lady, and had to grope his way in the light from one of the mountaineers walking close behind him. Again, it was thanks to his trusty walking poles that he was saved from missing his footing, falling and breaking an ankle.

Well past midnight, they finally reached the end of the trail and found a reception committee awaiting their arrival. Apart from the main rescue vehicle, which looked like an ambulance, there were two emergency services bakkies loaded with all manner of gear. Eight personnel, plus the two mountaineers, had responded to their SOS. A paramedic gave them a thorough examination, declared them unscathed bar some minor cuts, scratches and bruises, and then they were transported back to a meeting point in Rooi Els. There they were reunited with their spouses, who had been waiting in a state of extreme anxiety. Thus ended their ordeal.

*

When I recounted this story to my son, who has met and interacted with his father’s old mate on a number of occasions, he listened with interest before commenting.

“So, they had cell phone reception?”

“Yes, lucky for them.”

“And they didn’t think of using Google Maps when they lost the path?”

I could tell from the tone of his voice his eyebrows were raised and he was shaking his head.

“I don’t know. How would that have helped?”

“They could have used the satellite option and zoomed in to find their way. Dead easy. I use it when I go hiking or exploring coastal and mountain tracks on my scrambler. Could have saved themselves and the rescue team a whole lot of sweat.”

“It’s all very well for you to be disparaging. They are not millennials like you. Not everybody is familiar with all this stuff.”

“That’s for sure. Anyway, it all ended happily. But he must have felt a bit of a fool, getting lost like that? Somewhat embarrassing.”

“He didn’t sound embarrassed. Totally unabashed, in fact. I think he sees it as another accomplishment, being successfully rescued.”

“And it hasn’t knocked his confidence? Maybe he will slow down and start acting like  an old man?”

“I seriously doubt it. Even now he is probably planning his next escapade.”

Inspiration

 

“Do you know the word ‘unguent’?”

“Yes. Unguentum. Ointment. Why do you ask?”

“I was reading The Wasteland again. Or, rather, listening to it. A brilliant delivery by Alec Guinness. In it, Eliot describes the perfumes on a woman’s dressing table as opulent, coming from unguent, powder and liquid. I like the word unguent, but it strikes me as somewhat archaic. I mean, who uses the term these days? How come you are familiar with it?”

She was drawing up her weekly shopping list and not particularly interested in what I had to say.

“If it says ung on a script, it means ointment, and not a cream.”

“Ah, I was forgetting you’re a pharmacist.”

I thought about this for a bit, and felt a little resentful.

“This is humiliating. It means there are millions of doctors, pharmacists and nurses all over the world who know this word. It makes me feel I have been living in ignorance.”

“Don’t worry about it. You don’t know everything, even though you think you do.”

She got up, opened the fridge, stood looking into its interior for a few moments before closing the door and resuming her seat at the table.

“It’s remarkable how all these medical terms have persisted. They are all rooted in Latin or Greek, aren’t they? And who studies Greek or Latin any more? I know you took Latin up to Matric, and I did it to Standard 8, so we have a useful background. But younger generations? The abbreviation for prescription is Rx, isn’t it? But what the hell does it stand for?”

“Recipe. From recipere, to take, or receive.”

“And the x?”

“That was to show it was an abbreviation, I think. See how much sherry is left, please.”

I got off my ass and went to the dresser.

“Only one and a half bottles left. Better stock up. You know what happened in Covid.”

“You should stop dopping it the way you do. The price keeps going up.”

“The odd tipple helps to keep me sane. A little wine now and again, prn, is a lot cheaper than psychiatric medication.”

“Don’t talk rubbish.”

I thought it wise not to dwell on the topic of  my alcohol intake, and instead went back to pharmacy lingo.

“I like prn. To be taken as needed. Pro re nata, right? But what is that literally?”

“Google it.”

“Here we are,” I said after exercising my thumb. “For the thing born. Now that’s obscure! How the hell did they get to that?”

She was looking for specials in the Spar supplement and adding items to her list. She doesn’t believe in using the notebook on her phone, but prefers to write on a sheet of scrap paper or on the back of a used envelope. Miniscule neat handwriting produced by wielding a mechanical pencil with a B lead, HB being just that bit too hard and light, apparently. I marvel at the speed at which she jots things down. It shouldn’t be surprising, though, considering it is a skill that has been practised every day for more than six decades. And to think there are children growing up hardly able to read cursive, let alone write it! What will they do to communicate if, one day, the Internet is sabotaged and they can no longer type on their electronic devices?

“This is arcane. An esoteric code only comprehensible to a select coterie. Tds. Three a day. I would never have guessed. And po? By mouth. Per orum. Alright, So pr is per rectum. Kind of makes sense.

“Look, if you are bored, why don’t you go and listen to a podcast, or something? Aren’t you writing? Writer’s block? What you probably need is a mental laxative, pr.”

“Very funny.”

But not so funny. I got up and went to the study and sat in front of the computer. I had made a start on at least three ideas, but failed to develop them further than a few lifeless lines before giving up. I needed inspiration. Maybe if I started on something, anything, the juices might start flowing. But what? In desperation I typed ‘Unguent.’ Then I proceeded to record our recent conversation.

When I got as far as her suggestion that I listen to a podcast, I paused. What I had been listening to was a 5-part feature called ‘The War Game.’ It was based on the premise that if Russia decided to invade the UK, the Brits would be in serious trouble, having downgraded their military capability since the end of the Cold War. The recent reports on how depleted South Africa’s armed forces had become, made me think of our own vulnerability. Maybe imagining an invasion of South Africa could stimulate my creative urge and provide material for another piece of fiction? It was worth a try. I typed ‘Revolution,’ and sat back to think about a plot and structure.