Carol’s Column

Oh death where is thy sting?

THE grand, gracious notes of Beethoven's funeral march sounded loud and clear.

Never before had the oak tree looked so magnificent in all its leafy splendour. The tiny casket lay next to the small hole in the gently-turned turf.

I quietly wiped away a tear.

"This is ridiculous," said my husband. "All this fuss for a couple of silkworms."

Ralph, the acting funeral-parlour director, intoned his solemn words: "It is not who you are, but what you are that counts in life for all too soon one meets one's doom."

Jamie, the erstwhile owner of the dear, departed worms, removed the Popsicle from his mouth and left nostril, sighed and looked at me accusingly.

"Forgive those that know not what they do." Ralph's sorrowful words clanged heavily around my guilty ears.

"OK, I'm sorry," I shrieked tearfully. "I didn't mean to murder Claude and Bertram. Did I know they were under the desk when I sprayed for cockroaches?"

It wasn't a good start to a Saturday afternoon. But there wasn't really time to mourn.

I popped on my pink crimp and flatties and set off to Zoo Lake baths to do my swimming-mother-bit.

Barry was silent as he strode along beside me. There was obviously something on his mind.

"Look ma, none of the other mothers jump into the pool to shout for their children and egg them on," he said eventually.

I was hurt. "I wasn't going to shout anyway," I replied huffily. "I lost my voice last night at the judo tournament when that hooligan gripped my throat as I tried to get him off you."

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So instead of yelling encouragement for my Spitz-the-blitz, I helped Margie with the teas and chatted at the tea urn while she laid out the cups.

It was real swimming weather. It started raining halfway through the gala. The pool overflowed and at least three swimmers spilled over the edge. Margie was philosophical as we huddled under the spoked but naked umbrella. "It could be worse," she said. "I mean, some people listen to Springbok radio for fun."

After the gala, we chipped the ice off the swimmers, gave them tea and then I went home to feed the rabbits.

To find them in my wardrobe trying to mate with my fluffy sheepskin slippers. "I didn't want them to get wet," said my daughter feeding them a 50c lettuce through the spiked heels of my R17,99 Pucci shoes.

On my white-frilled, down-filled continental pillow, I found nine bits of mobile bubble gum trembling away. I was informed that Hymie-the-hamster had formed an alliance with Herbert and the result of the merger was lying on my pillow.

My traditional Saturday afternoon of rest was drawing to a close.

The doorbell rang as I stretched out on the sofa with Len Deighton. A knock-kneed man in puce was trying to sell me God.

Ten minutes later an encyclopaedia salesman dropped through the window.

In desperation, I locked myself in the toilet with Deighton and then couldn't open the door.

Ever resourceful, my husband came to the rescue in his inimitable way. "Who needs a door in a toilet? It's just another unnecessary luxury we can do without," he said as he chopped it down.

"It's difficult being a Saturday mother," I said to him a little later, after I'd fed the dogs, put the hardly-used hamster litter in the cat box, and washed the budgie. "I mean, nobody really appreciates me."

I kept up a running commentary while I whipped together baked beans on toast, broke a Rosenthal tea cup and threw away the socks with holes in them.

"I'm a drudge," I wailed in self pity. There was no reply.

My dynamic spouse was out on the couch exhausted after his Saturday afternoon sleep.

"I'm replacing me with a trade-in", I announced to my family while frying kippers and bananas next morning.

There was silence. Then: "Does that mean you're leaving?" asked Jamie of the dimples and dead silkworms.

"You can't go. I promised you'd lift my class to Santarama."

A tear of joy dripped on to the sizzling kippers. A needed drudge is a many splendid thing.

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