I would rather run naked through the streets of Monrovia with a bright yellow target painted on my chest than suffer another day of winter.

Even the mineworkers in Gauteng have called off their threatened strike because it's so much cosier underground right now.

Nothing I do seems to warm me up. I have tried everything from sjambokking street children to setting fire to Brenda's old clothes. Which weren't all that old, as it turned out. They just happened to be in a big cardboard box at the very back of the storage cupboard because her walk-in closet was full.

She rotates her clothes, apparently, like a wise farmer rotates his crops. How was I to know?

The silly cow was livid and she got it into her head to chase me through the back streets of Sea Point and half way up Signal Hill where we got into a terrible shouting match. I accused her of being unable to throw things away. "You're a hoarder!" I shouted. Unfortunately, the second syllable was drowned out by the midday gun.

A group of fat American tourists rushed to Brenda's assistance and I ended up holding them personally responsible for the carnage in Liberia.

The whole affair certainly warmed me up and later that evening I was in such a good mood that I slipped my hand down Brenda's blouse on the pretext that I was looking for my car keys.

It appears she has attached some kind of protective device to her bra because I was left with badly lacerated fingers. I know she cares for me. It's just that some women have different ways of showing it.

Besides, winter brings out the worst in everyone around here. Look at Marthinus van Schalkwyk with his ruddy cheeks and polo neck jumpers.

And it's not just in Cape Town. That poor Jacob Zuma is meant to be Deputy President and yet he is being treated worse than me. "Sherlock" Ngcuka expects him to answer 35 questions by Thursday.

Actually, that's not too bad. I get that many questions before breakfast after a night out with neighbour Ted. But to have to provide a detailed account of his finances since 1994 seems a bit unfair.

My latest credit card statement reflects purchases from at least three companies whose names are completely alien to me.

Brenda thinks they are brothels, but I doubt it.

If I was the Deputy President I would be going out of my way to sustain blunt trauma to the head. Many South African men suffer from amnesia, especially the married ones, and there is no reason why Zuma should be any different.

Alcohol is another sure-fire way of destroying the memory, and if I was Zuma I would have been drinking heavily ever since the arms deal was signed.

Come to think of it, that's precisely what I have been doing. But for different reasons, I'm sure. I can't remember. But that's not important right now. What is important is that former transport minister Mac Maharaj be cleared of any wrongdoing insofar as his trip to Disneyland is concerned.

I have it on good authority that he was there to study the monorail that runs between Typhoon Lagoon and the Magic Kingdom, with a view to introducing a similar system between parliament and the Muizenberg beachfront.

He was there for the good of South Africa, for heaven's sake, not because he wanted his picture taken with some stunted moron wearing a mouse suit.

I say cut Mac some slack.

Schabir Shaik, I'm not so sure about. The Scorpions are due to have a word with him today, so it's best that I stay out of the way.

The Scorpions scare me. These people are capable of making notes without once having to shake their pens. Their lips do not even move when they take down statements, even when numbers are involved.

Unlike regular cops, the Scorpions have access to genuine Polaroid sunglasses and roadworthy cars. Don't mess with them.

But if you are going to get arrested, you may as well benefit from the cachet of having the Scorpions do it.

I still remember the days when it was quite embarrassing to be arrested. You used to pray that the cops would come for you at 4am so that the neighbours wouldn't see you being tossed into the back of the van wearing a beer-stained sweatshirt and a pair of comfy undies the size of your grandmother's knickers.

But they never did, of course. They would always arrive just as you were putting the chops on the braai, and it always ended with the in-laws getting hysterical while your stupid dog ran around biting everyone except the officer putting the handcuffs on you.

These days, getting led away on suspicion of white-collar crime is something to put on the curriculum vitae. Dust off the Edgars suit and alert the press.

Those who do get nabbed by the Scorpions rarely show guilt on their faces. In fact, all we ever really see are traces of cheap lipstick. And if you're in trouble, it's always good to have a well-dressed wife at your side.

It worked for Bill Clinton and it might even work for Peter Marais.

Had there been a Mrs Jeffrey Dahmer, she would have stood in the doorway with her hands on her hips saying: "Oh, come on, officer. It's not like he ate them raw, you know!"

It doesn't matter if you've been dipping into the till, an intern or someone else's brain, the fact remains that it is damn good PR to be seen with a smiling woman.

But out on bail and back in the bedroom, the smiles fade fast. "You stupid grabby idiot!

"How could you?" rage the angry wives.

"How could you get caught!"

With acknowledgements to Ben Trovato and the Cape Times.