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THERE’S a species out there that fascinates me. And for all the wrong reasons. These creatures roam among us, often disguised as innocent, faithful men. But they’re far from it, they’re cheaters
I’ve always thought the show Cheaters should come to Cape Town. And, yes, that is an admission that sometimes I’m bored enough to be drawn into watching it in all of its trashy wonder. I’d bet it would probably pull the highest ratings.
Of course, no one would admit to watching, guarding that dirty secret with their lives. But Cape Town is actually very small, and everyone would be curious, in case it’s someone they know.
At some point, we’ve all had a cheater in our lives. Whether he’s that uncle everyone knows has gone to fix every female neighbour’s pipes while the long-suffering wife turns a blind eye. Or an ex-boyfriend who said he was going to the “gym” three times a day.
The thing that especially fascinates me is how they land their conquests, not always being the best-looking, millionaire, love-stallion types one would imagine them to be. I know of a serial cheater who went from an afro in the 1970s to a straightened bob in the 1980s. He still clings to that look. And why not? It’s actually worked for him.
It seems that what he lacked in the looks and style department, he made up for in charm. After more than 20 years, his wife finally kicked him into the kerb.
Then there’s another old cheater who looks a lot like Mr Bean, with less hair. His wife used to follow him to see where he was off to. Imagine how awkward it was when one Sunday afternoon she finally confronted him about his dalliances with a girl young enough to be his daughter. In fact, she was younger than his daughter. All this in the presence of his daughter and her friends.
I don’t trust anyone with more than one cellphone.
Cheating is a fine balancing act, until the house of cards comes tumbling down on national TV.