Pop-Star is indebted to family friend Mary Gabb for this delightful little story about Granny’s crash in her swim suit.

It all happened a long time ago, and 4-year-old Oliver is now a strapping young man of 20.

Pop-Star hopes you enjoy reading it as much as he did

Mary with friend Noelene

‘I spy with my little eye”, chanted 4 year-old Oliver from the back seat of my car, ‘something beginning with b!’ Flipping through all the b words I can dredge up from my internal Thesaurus and casting my eyes around my field of vision, I fail to notice that the cars ahead of me are stationary. I am intent both on getting myself to my aqua-aerobic class on time and depositing the three little darlings back in their own nest after a sleep-over. When it finally dawns that I am headed for disaster, I react quickly and jump on the brakes praying that my car’s tread will hold. It is the first rain we have had for six months and I am nervous about the ability of my tyres to grip the greasy road.
‘Hang on! I’m stopping,’ I shout to the three kids in the back seat. The squeal of brakes qualifies me in the eyes of the young as a Grand Prix driver. I feel the brakes lock and my trusty ’78 Volvo becomes a graceful skater on ice, despite my frantic attempts to arrest its progress. While I realize the car is out of my control, I still attempt to steer towards the kerb and away from the looming queue of cars. But a large bus lumbers into my path from the right. There is no place to go. I take my foot off the brake momentarily and brake again less viciously. ‘Will I make it?” Some unnerving moments and then a modest thud arrests my progress. My vehicle noses into the bus; the vehicles eye each other off with some belligerence. I wish that I had stayed at home.
‘Bus’, shrieks Oliver in my ear. ‘My turn again!’
‘Damn’, I thought ‘I’m going to have to get out and face the bus driver’. The grandchildren in the back of the car, seem to be as unconcerned as though close nose to nose contact with a bus is a regular performance. The raucous screaming of the tyres, and my evasive tactics have impressed my small passengers. They chortle with excitement and are unruffled. Rain is coming down quite heavily now and I boldly emerge from my vehicle dressed only in my bathing suit.
The bus driver and I inspect the vehicles. He tries not to notice my state of undress. No evidence of my inattention is evident. There is not a mark on my old car and barely a scratch on the left front of his shiny new Swedish bus. Traffic is backing up, cars are tooting at the congestion, and from their windows the bus passengers survey the scene below with amused interest. The bus driver shrugs his shoulders.
‘Thank God and Sweden for Volvos, lady. You’d better get on your way and put some clothes on. You could have fooled me. I thought it was winter!’
‘I spy with my little eye………….’