My mother made me do it.

“What is a camel hair paintbrush made from?”

Mum was the only person who knew that the answer was squirrel hair. So we won the quiz.

My friend, Possum, and I dropped mum at home, and she asked us to come in for a celebratory drink. We said yes, what a good idea.

Four hours of red wine later saw us at 3am. On a Sunday night. Monday morning actually.

Possum and I decided it might be a good time to go home. As we turned into my street, I saw a battered car with one headlight cruising towards us.

“If you don’t mind,” I say to Possum, “I’d rather not open the garage now. Safe not sorry and all that, you know”

“Sure,” she says. “No problem.”

We look into the car as it passes. The driver is a woman. She ignores us.

“I don’t like this,” I say. “What is a woman doing cruising the suburbs at 3.30 on a Monday morning?”

“I don’t like this either. What should we do?” Possum knows that there have been several driveway hijackings in our area recently. Part of the modus operandi of the hijackers is to dispatch a scout who alerts the hijackers to residents arriving late at night. Who says the scout can’t be a woman?

So I ask Possum, “Do you mind if we follow her?”

“Absolutely not. I think it’s your duty.” (Possum’s visiting from America, and has forgotten how apathetic South Africans can be).

We turn around and start following the car. Possum writes down the registration number. The car is still cruising and goes though a stop street. By now, the driver must know we are following her. At the second house along, the car slows, and whoever is in the passenger seat throws something over the wall of one of the houses.

“Did you see that?” Possum’s eyes are wide.

“Yes. What was it?”

“I don’t know.” She pauses. “What shall we do?”

“Well, we must do something”. I look behind me, hoping to see a patrol vehicle. No luck.

“I’m not getting out of this car.”

“Me neither.”

We look at each other. Then I do what any civic-minded resident would do at 3.30am. I hoot. And I hoot some more.

Nothing happens.

“Now what?” Possum asks.

“We can’t just leave. I mean, what’s in that package? It could be drugs. Or a weapon. Maybe it’s a gun!”

I get out of the car, leaving the engine running. Just in case. Possum gets out too.

I ring the doorbell.

A man’s voice: “Hello?”

I move closer to the intercom, “I’m so sorry, I know it’s late, but a car has just driven past, and thrown something over your wall.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m Dusty Muffin. I live around the corner. I saw this suspicious car with one headlight, and decided to follow it. Just in case. Then I saw something being thrown over your wall.”

A light comes on. I hear a door open, voices and footsteps. The gate opens. An elderly couple in glasses and pyjamas peer out. I start explaining and apologising again. Possum joins in.

Meanwhile, I’m rubbernecking, looking for the Object. I can’t see it.

The woman asks me, “Where did they throw it over the wall?”

Possum points and answers, “About there.”

And then I see it, caught in a bush.

Their morning newspaper.