Point Cynthia

Upon arriving in Timbuktu, I was determined to be more badly behaved than ever. And so when I saw a nice little bicycle standing unlocked at the airport, I decided to swipe it. That would teach Alexi to call me a gofer, I thought. I attached my suitcase to the back with a white scarf, got out my giraffe-o-meter which I had learnt to make at boy scouts - I didn’t like girl scouts one bit - and started peddling in the direction of my giraffe. (For those who haven’t been keeping up lately someone had actually sent me on assignment to find a runaway giraffe.)

I thought it might be an idea to get out my press badge and stick it to my fluffy bonnet so that I could go through the red lights without anyone stopping me.

It worked quite nicely for a while, until a policeman wearing a pink outfit said he needed to see my bicycle license. Bicycle license, I asked? Yes, he said. It had just been introduced to increase fines to beat the recession. Golly, I thought. I have come all this way and life is really no different than it is in LaLaLand with those traffic wardens in those little speedy cars hiding on every corner.

Knowing every trick in the book, I offered to buy the warden a drink to discuss the matter and two hours later we had put the bike on top of his red and white striped patrol car and were speeding merrily in the direction of the giraffe. Cynthia, as she was known, had escaped two weeks ago from the home of an eccentric Mexican artist, and no one had been able to catch her since. Cats had been swiped from trees, dogs gone missing and there was almost no grass left in the southern part of the island.

At Point Cynthia, where her hide-out had come be known, we found some so-called experts making strange squeaking noises in an attempt to lure out Cynthia from a giant forest. But I knew better. I walked into the forest saying, “Come Kitty, Kitty, Kitty. Come Kitty, Kitty Kitty,” and two hours later I had my giraffe. I knew that every giraffe really dreamed of being a small kitty that could curl up on its master’s lap. I led Cynthia out of the forest and tied her to the back of my bike, alongside my suitcase, and started peddling towards the artist’s home. After two bottles of tequila, it turned out the giraffe had not run away but been sent away for not being a kitty. Who would have thought? So Cynthia was bequeathed to me by her master along with a couple of paintings, and I headed to the airport determined to fly Cynthia back and give her a loving home.