At last, a sunny Saturday. Once a month a ‘Repair Cafe’ happens in our nearby Community Centre (how great is that?). I’d been meaning to go for months, to take the small bedside clock I threw on the floor one night. Well, better put, I swiped it with my hand as I woke from sleep. Meanwhile, I’d set a replacement a few yards away… not because I might do the same but because the ticking is soooo loud. Plus, it doesn’t have a ‘light up’ button.
Off I set, soon after the Repair Cafe opened, and was soon sitting opposite pony-tailed Stephan. I told him what I’d done. “Well, at least you’re honest,” he said. On the table nearby sat a silver tool box. He set serious magnifying glasses on his nose, opened various drawers at various moments to find whatever he needed, and set to work. A bit of chat and before long… voila, my treasured clock was fixed!
On my way out I was hailed by a fellow Thursday-morning Honeyleaf writing workshop writer who wanted to know what I was doing there..
“Oh yeah.’ She nodded. “Stephan. He’s South African.”
Well, I didn’t pick that up because the accent is, of course, familiar to me,