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.
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.’
‘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.
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..