"Really?" I mumbled, staring glassy eyed at the title, not recalling any involvement in its production.
I turned to the back cover and noted that the blurb was written in sloppy cartoon text, immediately alienating an uppity font designer such as myself.
My feelings darkened when I noted that the foreword was written by David Kirk, who reigned as CEO at Fairfax during what I like to call the "redundancy phase" of my illustrious career as a cartoonist.
One fawning media commentator lasciviously describes Kirk on a website as "lean, handsome and rich, with a preppy haircut and designer jeans".
Sadly, I only remember him as the man who headed an organisation that once notified me of redundancy via a text message.
Anyhow, we must let bygones be bygones and, without further ado, after a swift flick through the pages, rediscovering long-forgotten drawings produced at the height of the apartheid controversy, I agreed to add my bit to rugby history by graciously signing the proffered volume.
Coincidentally, the book resurfaced a few days later when it was reviewed by one of my fellow tradesmen in the weekend canvas publication.
The critic described me as a "wonderfully puffed trout".
"Aren't you a little bit offended?" asked the caregiver, noting that the latter term suggested in internet slang, "a conceited older man looking for a younger woman".
"Could've been worse," I responded. "While the reviewer's description is barely the last word in unambiguous lucidity, if I'd been living among professional satirists in the 18th century, I'm sure I would have been more scathingly described as a 'bibacious belswaggering bedpresser'.
"Meaning someone much addicted to drinking, whore-loving and tending to be an overweight, lazy individual."
"Neatly put," she responded, drily.
