Carol’s Column

Heppy Klissimus

LAST weekend I went bankrupt. It happened like this.

As I combed the last of the dark-brown hair-dye through my hair, they say black's ageing when you're over 15, the doorbell rang. And there he stood, the oldest man I'd ever seen.

His shirt hung in tatters, his cast-off takkies that had seen better days, curled around his bony toes. He stank not a little, but on his face was the largest grin, albeit toothless, I'd ever seen.

"Heppy Klissimus. Medem, and the Medem's hair looks real good hey?" he said, grabbing my hand and pumping vigorously at my arm.

Not an unfriendly person by nature, I was a little taken aback. "Have we met before?" I inquired tentatively, not wishing to hurt his feelings.

"Doesn't Medem remember me? The drain man wot unblocks the drains and it's Klissimus-box time."

"Of course I do," said I with as huge a grin as his, knowing neither my drains nor I had ever seen him before.

And that was the beginning of the Klissimus-box weekend. The milkman arrived to wish me Happy Christmas and informed me he would prefer wine to money. The butcher's delivery man parked his bicycle under the lounge window and sang "Come All Ye Faithful".

Four separate groups of dustmen, whistles blowing, sticks sticking and doeks flapping, swore blindly that they were THE Lazar dustbin cleaners. As their songs, whoops and dances of joy seemed to develop an ominous tone, we Heppy Klissimussed them all.

At dinner our friendly summons bearer, the Messenger of the Court, arrived with a summons and I almost broke my foot trying to kick my spouse, but contacted the table instead when he asked him to stay for dinner.

"After all, you're almost one of the family aren't you," said my husband winking and twitching simultaneously.

Breakfast next morning was rudely interrupted by an altercation with the newspaper delivery man who was dissatisfied with his Klissimus-box and threatened to stop our circulation.

Our gardener who for 15 years has managed to murder every newly-planted shrub in our garden, threatened to distribute the manure inside the diningroom if his heppy Klissimus was not increased. "Hasn't you heard of inflation?" he asked my irate husband who was at a distinct disadvantage having been interrupted from his customary early morning sedentary session in the water closet. "Everything's up, taxes, cigarettes, booze?" he added.

A superb lunch at the Goldies was interrupted by a strident knocking at the door. Our host returned to announce the street sweeper was outside. Waiting.

"Tell him to go and sweep the streets," said Maureen, not missing a bite of beansprout salad. A woman of resolution — how I wished I could emulate her.

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At the garage, the petrol attendant excelled himself. He filled the car, wiped up the extra 50 cents he'd spilled down the side, put air in my tyres, broke a wiper which he stuck to the aerial and then washed the windows. Enabling me to see out of them for the first time in a year. I saw him waiting, smiling, expectant and determined. Out came his hand and some "Heppy Klissimus" was exchanged.

"Come again tomorrow, I'll look after you really well," were his parting words.

My mother-in-law's maid phoned to ask how I was and to wish me a Happy Christmas and invited me to pop in for a cup of tea anytime tomorrow.

In the space of one hour the rat catcher, the swimming-pool-man-that-painted-the-pool-last-year, the dry-cleaning man and the local shebeen queen popped in to wish me the season's greetings. And acquire their suitable remuneration.

The postman brought the post to the front door. Letters pray!

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Monday morning was a public holiday. Not for the local traders. The municipal branch-cutters, the early-morning mowers of the sidewalks, not to mention 24 collectors of various obscure churches all called before 10 am.

At lunchtime we abandoned the house and spent the rest of the day driving around avoiding rattling Klissimus boxes at red robots.

On Tuesday morning, when the phone rang at 8.30 am, I yelled down the line. "I'm not interested in Klissimus boxes and you can put yours you know where."

There was a stunned silence and then I heard the dulcet tone of my bank manager telling me that indeed, it was just about Christmas boxes he'd phoned as my own personal one was seriously overflowing into the red, so to speak.

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