You know life has a way of warning you. But sometimes, the dreadful thing has to happen for you to recognize that the warning was there. You just did not heed it. I had a couple of those this past week. Let me tell you about two of them.

The first was my car. My car comes with a couple of warnings. The first warning is, never ask your 21-year-old son to go car shopping for you. This happened a few years ago, when our youngest son was twenty-one and a student at University. I was at a terribly busy point in my life. The car I was driving at the time, was just no longer suitable for what I was doing (it was small and nippy, an ideal peak hour traffic car), but as I was then driving long distances, small and nippy became too lightweight and flimsy on long trips. I simply did not have the time to go car shopping, and so one evening I asked my son to find me a car. Armed with a list of my needs, the size of my budget and a letter from me to car dealerships to please take him seriously, he set off with the sort of gusto which I had hoped he would apply to his studies. Long story short: My needs turned into his wants, the budget got stuck in the starting blocks and that is why I do drive a very nice car, still. I am so reluctant to even think that I need to give this car up one day, and fortunately the car is aging very well. That is until that funny little flashy light started popping up. Which brings me to warning number two.

Funny little flashy light has been giving me the odd flash for a good while now. It would come and go, and I would take notice of it, or not. Depending on the mood. Deep down in my heart-of-hearts, I knew the car was not driving the way it used to, and in my defense, I had booked it in for a service. Service was booked for Monday. Friday, on Hermanus’ only busy road, which happened to be very busy at the time, my car decided: this is it. We will not be going any further today.

By now, you all know about my most reliable and dependable steed: Colin. Who of course was no-where to be found in my time of need. Nope. He did not answer the phone. I was left on my own, – not for long. I live in that town where people will stop and ask how they can help you, and some nice person did. Nice person got me out of my pickle. Turns out he is familiar with the model of car I drive. Strange, he said. These cars will usually give you a warning light when this is about to happen. Are you sure the warning light did not flash? I worked extremely hard on maintaining my poker face, because you can imagine that I denied the flashing little nuisance. Three times. Until the rooster crowed, and a Hadeda flew over.

Well, nice chap said, I suggest you do not drive this car another mile. Get to a workshop as soon as you can. Workshop, where car was booked for the Monday, was just down the road. Workshop was also very busy. Do you know the sad thing about getting older?  Batting eyelids, wispy smiles and wiping invisible tears no longer work. Mechanic managed not to roll his eyes as he asked: did the warning light not flash?

With the car clearly out of action for a few days (oh, if only I was 30 years younger, 30kgs lighter and my skirt 30cm shorter), Colin and I spent a weekend doing what we have not done for such a long time. We stayed at home. Do you know what this reminds me of, Colin asked? Lock Down. You know that time not so long ago when we all had to stay home and eat home food. This self-imposed lockdown came just in time for the next warning.

Warning three, reached us by Saturday morning. The weather man had told us to expect a cool, rainy weekend. What he forgot to add, was about the warning light that flashed. The one that warned us that our rainy weekend was about to turn into a Level 9 storm warning. Colin and I get a nervous twitch when we hear Level 9 storm warning. We experienced the full might of that last September. Of course, with time, one forgets the detail, but a detail that will stay with me for a long time, is that first glimpse I had of the water and how very much of it there was. The night before, it was a grass paddy full of wooly sheep, the next day it was a raging river with drenched sheep on the banks, staring at two equally drenched humans.

So, we took heed of the warning and battened down. September taught us well. We filled every bucket, bottle and jug with water drinking water. We debated endlessly (we were under voluntary lock down, remember, so we had plenty time) how full the gas cylinder was. We made sure to have a flask of boiling water on hand. Gosh. Talk about Dooms Day Preppers. We were taking no chances. Fortunately for us, the bulk of the storm happened on the other side of the mountain. We looked at photos and videos of the devastation that descended on those communities, and as much as we felt so sorry for everyone, I also felt very guilty at how relieved I felt that it was not US this time.

5 days later, and life is back to normal. Storm Level 9 has moved along. The car is fixed. I still give Colin the beady eye every now and again. How is it possible that you did not hear the phone ringing? How could you leave me to face the world of car mechanics on my own?

Oh yes, I did forget to mention. By the time Colin saw my missed call and called back, I had run the gauntlet, and lived to tell the story. Fortunately for Colin, he did not actually speak the question I could see forming on his lips: Did you not notice the warning light?

A wise man knows when to keep quiet.