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Mini Saga
by Phyllis Owen
It was a warm, pleasant summer’s morning when I drove to the supermarket in Randburg, Johannesburg. To my surprise, I found a convenient parking for my elderly, but in excellent condition, mini-clubman. With a light step I walked to the supermarket. As expected, it was a hive of activity.
I cruised up and down the aisles looking for the articles I wanted, met a couple of friends, and after a short chat, continued with my search.
The shopping completed I pushed the trolly to the parking area clutching the car keys in my hand. I felt quite smug. For once I had managed to obtain everything on my list and more, without having to slip across to the opposition supermarket.
When I arrived at the spot where I had parked the mini, I stared dumbfounded at the row of cars. There had to be some mistake.
No mini!
I began to walk down the row noticing another mini, but mine had a white top. After walking up and down all the rows, the awful possibility dawned on me that the car had been stolen.
I felt utterly helpless and looked appealingly at an elderly gentleman coming towards me. ‘My car’s been stolen,’ I gasped out.
He looked questioningly at me. ‘Are you sure you haven’t parked it somewhere else? It happens?’
‘Positive.’
‘Then you had better phone the police. What’s your car number?’
I grimaced. ‘I don’t know. It’s TJ23 something.’ Embarrassed, I gaped at him. I had never bothered to memorize the number. There was an engineer’s hard hat on the back ledge that had been given to me by my Australian son-in-law before they left and that’s all I looked for when I went to find the car.
We were about to walk up the ramp to the supermarket when I saw the mini appear round a corner and coming towards me, driven by a young man with another in the passenger seat.
With a shriek like a banshee, I pushed the trolley in front of the car, forcing him to slam on brakes.
‘What are you doing with my mini?’ I demanded.
The two young men simultaneously opened the doors and came up to me.
‘I’m sorry,’ spluttered the driver. ‘It’s not what you think. I didn’t steal it.’
The passenger stood behind him, fear in his eyes and moving uncomfortably from one foot to the other.
‘Come off it,’ I said, looking at him suspiciously.
He swallowed hard before explaining, ‘We were half way to Soweto when I suddenly noticed the car had a radio and mine didn’t, so we hurried back.’ He pointed to the mini I had noticed in the parking lot. ‘That’s my car.’
‘But mine has a white top,’ I began, unconvinced. ‘How could you not see the difference?’
He nodded. ‘I should have noticed, but we were discussing the show we had been to last night and look,’ he held out the car key, ‘It fits your car. I had hoped to bring it back before it was missed.’
A couple of people walked past at that moment. ‘A likely story,’ one of the men quipped.
‘I can believe him,’ I replied thoughtfully. ‘Some years back I opened someone’s boot with my car key. It was the identical model and colour. I was about to put my parcels into the boot when I noticed a box of electrical equipment I didn’t have. Who knows what would have happened had the boot been empty.’
The young man gave a relieved sigh and smiled. ‘Let me help you with your packages.’
When they were all loaded into the boot, I thanked him, wished him well and drove home, only too pleased to have my mini back again.
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