Not a Sex Shop

Jenny and I visited Ronnie’s Sex Shop.
Situated between Ladysmith and Barrydale, it draws on average 200 customers a day. If you walk through the door you will see my business card pasted prominently at eye level in front of you. Ronnie was only too happy to welcome us and sell us his wares.

You see...this is not a sex shop.
Ronnie owned a derelict building in the middle of nowhere, which was humorously painted “Ronnie’s Shop”. One weekend while he was away someone inserted the word “sex” into the sign, and an instant landmark was provided. After enduring 18 months of people stopping to take pictures, Ronnie was persuaded by his friends to capitalise on the potential customers. So he opened a pub. And ever since then his customers have supported him: some buy drinks, some take photographs, and more than one has hung her bra from the rafters or written his greetings on the walls.

And Ronnie is Lord of his Manor. He presides over his pub: listening to sad tales, understanding life’s mistakes, and dispensing wisdom. He also offers advice on local accommodation and opinions on everything. Come to think of it, Ronnie's occupation is really no different to mine. Most people want someone to point out their significance and to give them courage to continue living. The one freedom that I envy Ronnie – is the freedom to speak his mind. I am often constrained by the limits imposed by Church bureaucrats. Perhaps it is time for me to open my own pub.