I entered Al Wahda Street on my morning walk and saw my gardener-friend from Lanka holding a man’s hand and yelling.
“Will you give the money or not?”
“Get lost,” came the reply.
“Tomorrow if you don’t reach here with the money, you will get a punch,” shouted my friend.
I played the referee. “Hey, stop the fight.”
They laughed. “Oh, you thought it’s serious. We were just joking.”
Shucks. Weird sense of humour.
I have this nasty habit of getting into trouble playing the umpire.
I remember an incident in my earlier newspaper office when a jumbo reporter had a tiff with a rabbit-size (hey, don’t take it literally) colleague and began chasing him. The rabbit ran after passing a four-letter comment. The jumbo caught the rabbit at the corridor. While others watched, I ran to break the brawl.
By that time, the jumbo had taken control. Clasping the neck and pushing the rabbit’s head down, the jumbo got set to pack a punch, when I thrust my head in between.
I received the punch and screamed.
“Sorry, sorry,” repeated the jumbo, but the rabbit escaped.
The other colleagues’ mocking look said it all: “Dumbo, why do you think we did not interfere?”