48 Hours

There was a movie of this name in the 1980s, starring Eddie Murphy and Nick Nolte. Remember when Eddie Murphy used to be fun? There was Beverley Hills Cop, Coming to America, and not to forget that racous video “Delirious”, that we watched at Gary’s parents’ place after school.

My 48 hours was spent at home this weekend: I entered the premises at 18h30 on Friday, and did not leave until 15h30 on Sunday. Well, it’s not exactly 48 hours issit? But then again, did I ever claim to be Eddie Murphy? Or Nick Nolte for that matter?

Prior to the 48 hours, I played squash on Friday afternoon, first against the resident gym bunny, and then against some shortish, unathletic-looking guy. I asked this guy if he played league. There was a terse ‘yes’. I should’ve just walked off the court then. Turns out the cagey bastard is a 4th league monster. I had no chance. His shuffling, granny-like movements were just too much to bear, and I cried off after 2 games. Did I mention the pin-point accuracy into the back corners? Hardly any power on them, just perfect length. It was cruelty manifested as a game of squash.

Meanwhile Jim Bunny (I shall not dignify him with the monniker Man Friday, which is what he was heading for) was standing at the back of the glass court, laughing.

From then on, things could only get better, and my “48 hours” (let’s just leave them like that, ok? It doesn’t sound as snazzy to say 45 hours, 30 odd minutes) thereafter was spent sleeping, braaing, playing with the boys, and…whatever it is people do when they are not writhing in agony on a squash court.


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