Carol’s Column

Parties in the sticks

CHRISTMAS is here with a zing, bing and a swizzle stick wrapped in tinsel paper. I realised it as I brushed my toenails with fluoride to retard the growing cavities.

“Listen, you wanna come to some parties this week?” asked my husband as he pelted past me, dog-eared slippers flapping in the breeze to keep his appointment with James Hadley Chase in the toilet.

Try keeping me away, I thought to myself as I peeled off the make-your-pores-glow mud pack and did a quick mental check on the three Woollies outfits in my wardrobes. But I had to make sure I understood the position absolutely.

Since the disastrous episode five years before, when partying with the manure dressed as mink set, there'd been that evening when things had got a little jolly and I rode the titled owner's prize show-jumper through the catered diningroom with shining canapés, sans apparel through the superbly laid out buffet, crayfish twitching and caviare glinting in the aspic.

When the horse's tail by mischance swished the gateau and my own tail landed in the chocolate mousse, Rob had been reluctant to take me further than the home lounge for happy-hour sherry.

I almost choked on the mouthwash when he told me that, willy nilly, within the space of two days, I would be dining in glittering splendour at the Mount Nelson, Cape Town, and then the following evening having a razzle in Paulpietersburg. Which I looked up in our Reader's Digest Mapfinder and couldn't find. No matter.

I swallowed the mouthwash which caused my perm to frizz plus uncomfortable flatulation for the rest of the day, donned my walking shoes and took to the Rosebank boutiques to acquire outfits that would enhance my husband's reputation as the spouse of the only certified lunatic allowed freedom of the Press.

At an awfully posh place in the Mall I bought a delightful knitwear effort that came to my ankles, but that the sales assistant (no common riff-raff, she) assured me would look “superb donne blouson-style, Modom”.

I decided life is short and that the PTA would have to wait for the next cheque for expanding the boys' ablution blocks, splashed out and bought a R75 original creation in puce-purple.

Armed in puce-purple knits, I jetted to Cape Town to the sparkling banquet of the year at the Mount Nelson and bumped into the identical outfit in the ladies' loo. I immediately stripped the creation and wore it back-to-front with a red table-napkin pinned strategically across the decollete. It looked ravishing, the waiter immediately handed me a tray and said: “Take it to the main table.”

Was it my luck that on the upper gilt-framed-picture landing an elk hound jumped up and entangled all four paws in the delicate wool strands of my gently rotting ensemble.

Above, in the glittering emporium, there was everyone who was anyone. My husband disowned me when I asked the bar steward for a glass of milk and I disowned the waiter for pouring vinaigrette sauce over the smoked salmon.

The next day found me jetting back to Joburg al-la airbus with its attendant sourpusses, and then straight into the Kombi, armed with bevies of kids that, oh my Lord, were all my own?

Yippee and away we sped to Paulpietersburg. Problem. Where is Paulpieterburg?

It took us 35 hamburgers, one flat tyre, a punctured radiator, burnt brushes in the generator to find her. And then we almost missed the town.

His Lordship, who had taken the tough route and chartered a plane, had arrived several hours before.

“Go and spend a day at the Spa,” he said. “Relax and enjoy yourself, you look as if you need it...”

Now the Natal Spa is a place where people take to the waters.

Saw a most amazing sight there. A youngster of 95, sitting inhaling white fumes from a hole strategically placed at the side of the pool. On his face a look of bliss. And seven metres away, a Black gentleman throwing buckets of chlorine through the traps. Ah well.

And then came the night of the Paulpietersburg jol.

The big cheese himself, had gone off to the do, resplendent in dark suit, muted tie and creased shoes.

“Don't disgrace me — all the Mining Magnates (in capital letters) will be there,” were his parting words.

Gently, I unwrapped my crinkle-paper slinky-dress-with-sleeves-and-long-hem-not-to-upset-the-tannies, I sprinkled gold glitter on my new perm, put on my silver stilettos with the gold-fish in the see-through heels and breezed along to Paulpietersburg.

The Mining Managers were delicious. They drank beer by the hundredweight and pinched bottoms as if they were going out of fashion. The Christmas tree in the corner, the pièce de résistance (other than the local town lady of easy virtue), was decorated with snow which turned out to be shaving foam sprayed judiciously over boughs and leaves.

And best of all was Father Christmas who played postman’s knock in the back of the bakkie during the Paul Jones.

Nothing small about the Paulpietersburgians, they braaied an elephant on the spit.

My strapless bra bought for a fortune at Schmutzy's collapsed around my waist, but nobody noticed, they thought it was the way I grew, and I lost my front gold-capped teeth in the Christmas pud. It made Tant Bessie, the local keffee owner's night when she fished them up attached to the brandied prunes.

Divine. Mine Managers floated across the floor, oozing coal and anthracite from every pore.

At the stroke of midnight, I missed the mistletoe and found myself kissing Attie-the-local-butcher and Hannes-the-blockman, who slipped me a little something under my petticoat.

Later that night, safely tucked away in bed at the Spa, the man of my life gave his once-a-year-cuddle, and said: “It was superb bash, wasn't it?”

I squashed Attie's dead springbok to the foot of the bed. My beloved wouldn't have understood, or believed exactly how I'd acquired it.

Aah. Such is connubial bliss.

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