The Cow had noted that several former UCT staff members had retired to Greyton, but she was surprised to see just how much they missed their former place of employ. Why else would they seek to recreate one of the most enduring (if not endearing) UCT landmarks in this otherwise peaceful village?
The Cow was briefly stunned into silence. She fixed her Anonymous Colleague with a bovine stare. "But how do you know," she demanded, "that Safari Suit is a bad lover? Do you have personal experience?"
It just seemed like such an unlikely coupling.
The Anonymous Colleague shrugged. "We had an ex-lover in common," he admitted. "Not at the same time, though!" he added quickly.
The Cow paused. Momentarily distracted by imagining what kind of person would move on from Safari Suit to the Anonymous Colleague- albeit over what space of time, she wasn't sure - she took a while to return to the key issue.
"She or he told you that??"
The Cow was gobsmacked. Somewhere out there, someone that Safari Suit had trusted enough to drop his crimplene trousers for... was rating his performance to his colleague. Who had in turn trusted this person enough to drop another set of trousers for. She wondered what rating this loose-lipped lover had given to the Anonymous Colleague and which colleage had been the beneficiary of that rating.
But she kept such thoughts to herself. At that moment, a deeper panic set in. She remembered the faint sense of amusement at discovering, in quick succession, that a number of her erstwhile dalliances were now the legal spouses of assorted colleagues. Dalliances which had, at the time, happened outside of the context of The Knowledge Factory On The Hill, and and so weren't to be expected to recycle themselves in quite the same incestuous way as intramural musings might be. She wondered whether erstwhile dalliances had similarly loose lips. Whether these colleagues giggled into their morning coffee at the thought of the Cow doing the bovine tango with their lawful weddeds back in days of yore. She wondered... and felt her stomachs cramping into knots.
She'd always felt a little awkward knowing stuff she oughtn't to know about a senior colleague here or there who'd had the misfortune of engaging a little too intimately with someone who discussed their intimate life in pixellated detail with mutual friends over coffee. She'd considered, at times, whether such error of judgment in the selection of shagees could be extrapolated to flakey judgment in other areas, and whether she should quake with concern for the future of the Knowledge Factory as a result... or whether, like Bill Clinton, a penchant for intern juice was not necessarily indicative of judgment in other areas.
Gramsci chuckled. "Well," he mused, "In Safari Suit's case, he has only his poor performance to blame for what's being said. If he'd been fireworks in the bedroom, I imagine he'd be quite happy to have his prowess trumpeted to his colleagues."
The Cow paused. If the rating was good, she wondered, the news even have travelled?
"The political is personal."