We’d been on the farm a couple of days in the June holidays when the week-end arrived, and with it, the Jo’burg contingent. They roared up through the mud in my youngest brother-in-law’s latest vehicle - an elderly Landrover, called George, which towed behind it a flat-bed trailer, specially adapted for not one sporty quad bike, but two! This huge beast roared into the yard, splattering us with mud as it skidded to a stop. Before anyone could say hello, my young nephew - now a 15-year-old string bean of 6’2” - unfolded himself from the backseat, flew onto the trailer, donned his helmet, unloaded the first quad bike and disappeared up the ground road into the sunset, shortly followed by his father on the other one. (He did say hello first). I think these townies must get cabin fever up there in the city, especially the youngsters who most of the week can only look longingly at their big toy parked in the garage. The new, glamorous girlfriend (of whose looks and designer clothes we are all desperately envious), now emerged from the front seat, full of stories of the journey, gesticulating all the time with her impossibly long nails, talking all the time and bestowing mega-watt smiles all round as she opened the boot to reveal mountains of provisions for the week-end, crates of wine and beer and all kinds of treats for the children. We looked around for her two designer Yorkies, but were told they had gone to the kennels in deference to the resident farm dogs. They had sometimes stayed with her father but his female bull terrier had suddenly decided that the little male was one of her pups, and her protective attention had been getting too much for him. The story of the day was that George had managed, in spite of his age, to acquire a speeding fine, thereby seriously impressing all the men.