A Danish Close Shave…

Different ferry entirely just to fool you

My brain wouldn’t work. Why was this lady kneeling in the corridor, flapping her hands? Was she having an epileptic fit?

‘Dunno,’ answered my brain, still sulking at being disturbed from a jolly dream about boats. ‘It’s 1am, I’ve been awake only half an hour and you haven’t made me a cup of tea yet.’ Thanks, Brain – you’ve just wasted valuable seconds…and now we’re up Shit Creek. Never mind without a paddle; the dinghy’s sunk, too.

Denmark Danger

Still rooted to the spot – the spot being Rodbyhavn docks – my eyes registered a man. My brain, which I’m seriously considering exchanging for a dual core processor, or maybe just a kettle, said, ‘He’s dressed funny.’ And then, as the masked gunman walked purposefully towards me, it finally woke up. ‘Poo,’ it said. ‘With a capital P.’

Rodby to Puttgarden ferry. Trucks and a train share the deck

‘On the floor. Now,’ said the malefactor, his voice like a pistol shot. His command brooked little argument. Although, now that my brain and I were once more a formidable team, we briefly considered fending him off.

A DAF door key slashing wildly against bullets? It seemed an asymmetrical battle, so we complied – germane to survival and all that. Course if I’d had my catapult with me, it would’ve been a different story.

Now, for all his talking big and wearing blue boiler suits and masks, he was actually quite a gentle robber. A proper baddy, yes, but no histrionics; no trigger-happy nonsense or calling people unspeakable words. He very lightly pushed my back, indicating that I should have a lie-down. And then he disappeared, leaving me clutching my DKV card and wondering if the police are going to mind that I’d left my engine running.

Balaclava-ed Burglar

Sleepy, low-lying Denmark. Its highest hill is 170 metres

As I lay there, cloaked beneath the icy scythe of death, my brain went into overdrive. What if the getaway driver returns to “tie up loose ends”? Why hadn’t I written a will and left my flip-flops to medical science?

‘If my time is up,’ said my brain, ‘ what on earth is CID going to make of Namibian’s Gentleman’s Folder on my hard drive?’ Oh, what a mess.

Seconds later, there was a screech of tyres. The baddies had gone. ‘I say,’ I croaked from the floor, feeling a bit sheepish, ‘All OK?’

When officers arrived, it became apparent how unobservant I’d been. ‘Can you describe the attacker?’ asked the uniformed woman. ‘Could have been seven foot three or a dwarf,’ I replied honestly. ‘And there was a car, but I couldn’t tell you the make, model, colour or registration.’

Funny things, brains..

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