Protocol and Pink Slippers
Harold Strachan
Sort of eight o’clockish, at a guess, we’re low on petrol, as estimated, and we’re near Kokstad, as calculated, and it is now time to pull in here at the police station, as arranged and appointed, and tank up this vehicle and sign for it all and move on to Durbs, where I will be purposefully locked up solo once again and the dangerous interim of transit from die Rooi Hel Boep in die Baai* will be safely over.
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