I Heart Beat by Edyth; Bulbring

power, artistic genius and sweat. I try to ignore the bread taste and eat three more. Toffie finishes seven sandwiches, makes a big burp and goes and swims. He heads out towards the reeds and I cross my toes and hope Red Devil the snake finishes him off.
    I fall asleep on the blanket and I dream that Melinda Gates is chasing me on a bike, singing, “Give me back Bill’s brain food.”
    I wake up with Toffie shaking half the river all over me. His face is inches from mine.
    â€œJis, Beat, but your nose is red. You’ve caught the sun,” he says.
    I tell him it’s time I caught my ride home and leave him by the river.
    Grummer’s out walking, so I go and check out my nose. It looks like I’m related to Tom of The Neighbours. I cover my face with cold cream.
    Over supper Grummer tells me she’s looking forward to going to church with me again at St Paul’s on Sunday morning. I say no can do. Grummer must appreciate that the morning service is a dead end. And, anyway, Mr Perfect’s in the bag. There’s no more need to hit the churches.
    â€œGrummer, we’ve got people for lunch at one o’clock. We don’t have time for morning church,” I say. Grummer says she’s preparing the night before. It’s cold pickled fish and salads for lunch. Can’t wait.
    â€œGrummer,” I say, choosing another tactic, “Grummer, I battle with the Afrikaans. I need to hear the Lord’s word in English.”
    Grummer’s eyes narrow with suspicion. She gives me a
skeef
look and says it had appeared to her that I had enjoyed the sermon last week.
    I give it my best: “I liked the fact that John the Baptist went to the desert for rehab, but how could he fall off the wagon and go back to drinking when Jesus arrived? How could he, Grummer?” I say.
    Grummer says we’ll go to the Anglican service in the evening.
    I say sure thing.
    I think: Mr Alan Rodderick. I think: Mrs Mavis Rodderick.
    It is a sure thing.

Chapter 12
    IT’S SUNDAY AFTERNOON and I’m lying by the river at Toffie’s den. I’m watching Rooi Duiwel sunning himself by the reeds and I’m wondering if he’s going to peel as badly as my nose.
    I’m also thinking that I’m a category-one loser. All in capitals: CATEGORY-ONE LOSER. Toffie and his pals should make me eligible for life membership. I deserve to have BIG L tattooed onto my forehead and put on a current affairs television programme like
Carte Blanche
to tell the viewers: “The Story of a Loser”.
    It goes like this: at approximately 10:58 a.m. GMT, Mr Perfect and his housemate Greg arrived at Chez Wellbeloved for Sunday lunch. Alan, with one el, brought some books for Beatrice Wellbeloved. Present location: propping up the broken leg of the desk in her bedroom.
    Greg, with two gees, brought Mrs Mavis Wellbeloved an orchid. Yellow. Present location: pride of place on the dining-room table.
    The widow Wellbeloved was looking understated and casual (read dowdy), dressed in Capri pants (navy blue) with cotton shirt (white). Beatrice Wellbeloved was similarly casually attired in long pants (black) with matching T-shirt.
    The lunch proceeded in an atmosphere of congenial jollity. Discussion topics included gardening, God, adult fiction. And then gardening, God, children’s fiction.
    The television camera could not have missed, as the keen-eyed Beatrice Wellbeloved should not have missed, how Alan and Greg looked at each other throughout lunch. Nor could the camera have missed the nurturing way Greg spooned clotted cream onto Alan’s bowl of berries. However, should the camera have failed to capture these intimate gestures, the dialogue at the end of the meal, when Greg and Alan had driven off in their white Mini Cooper, would have put the
Carte Blanche
viewers in the picture.
    â€œWhat a super couple, don’t you think, Beatrice?” Mrs Wellbeloved said to her red-nosed