Carol’s Column

Every household drudge should have her day — but when?

YESTERDAY morning Liquorice-the-labrador had an asthma attack, Barry split his trousers, Jamie smashed the diningroom window with his yoyo.

My mother-in-law phoned, I reversed the car into municipal pole number 12 at the end of the drive, forgot a child in the lift scheme and got stuck in my Woolworth's nightie at the Jan Smuts robot.

Having learnt to be resourceful from my grandmother who planted Brussel sprouts in place of cabbages during the war in case the Germans bombed Stellenbosch, I banged the battery with a lunchbox and revived the engine.

Got a ticket for not wearing a safety belt and locked the keys in the car.

All before 7.15am.

Meanwhile back home, the financial asset of the family ate his leisurely breakfast, listened to the news and read the paper.

My mother was right, I thought to myself as I watched him exert himself and butter a piece of toast.

She warned me never to marry a man.

He caught sight of me.

"Sleep well, Hon?" he smiled. "I didn't want to disturb you."

Of such stirring fabric is a 15-year-old marriage made.

"I've been awake for the past two hours," I screeched.

"Then who's asleep in bed?" he retorted, "I've just kissed you goodbye — you didn't murmur."

I shot upstairs to find Liquorice fast asleep.

Downstairs my spouse peered through his glasses in his usual perceptive way.

"You look terrible," he said, "What you need is an early night."

Which is why at 7 last night I shut the bedroom door to the sound of my soulmate telling the children I needed an early night and they were all to make a special effort. Bliss.

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I had a long, leisurely soak in the bath. There was nothing to disturb the peace. No children, no mother-in-law, only Gershon-the-goldfish opening and shutting his mouth silently in his bowl.

This was a night for indulgence. I sprinkled myself with Chanel, lay down on the bed, shut my eyes and counted grasshoppers.

There was deathly silence. I got up and tiptoed downstairs.

My family sat mesmerised watching TV without sound.

My mother's wrong I whispered triumphantly to myself. This is a man in a million, a rare treasure. He really cares.

I lay down again.

In the distance the phone rang. Jamie burst into the room. "Ma, it's urgent. Can you lift to Sterkfontein on Friday? It doesn't matter if you can't take the Kombi — it just means the class can't go."

I played dead. He poked my eyeball.

"Can you hear me?"

"No, I'm sleeping."

He departed.

I barricaded the door, pushing the dressingtable hard against the door handle, closed the curtains, pulled out the phone plug and switched off the light.

There was the distinct patter of many little feet across the ceiling.

I shut my eyes, counted rats in traps and meditated.

Why are we the only family in Parkwood with plumbing that sings "Ave Maria" when someone uses the downstairs toilet?

Why am I the only mother in Parkwood with a hamster who lives under my bed?

Why do we have neighbours that play the trombone?

I fell asleep. To be woken by Ralph smashing the dressingtable mirror as he opened the door.

"Ma, there's been an accident."

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"What? At your age? I mean you're 13. I took the waterproof off your bed 12 years ago".

Ralph twitched: "Ma, it's an emergency — the tumble-drier is smoking and dad says you'll know what to do."

Downstairs the kitchen was thick with smoke.

"It's an emergency," gasped my rare treasure."

"Have you tried switching it off?" I growled. There was silence then a click.

At 10pm Auntie Bertha sang "Happy Birthday" down the line from New York.

"But my birthday's in December," I wailed.

"That's right Carol, I never forget."

At midnight I was still wide awake when he slipped into bed, snuggling up in his customary way and almost ejecting me from the bed.

Most nights he doesn't snore. This night was different to all other nights.

The bed vibrated from the hideous sound. I held his nose and shook him. Nothing helped.

At 2am I found myself on the sofa in the lounge dicing a kamikaze mosquito.

At 3am there was a noise on the stoep. Armed with tennis racket and Liquorice I surprised Rodney, the neighbour's hound, attacking the dustbin and locked myself out of the house.

It's not important that I scaled the trellis, crawled on to the pagoda and fell through its roof.

It took my husband an hour to extricate me from the chickenwire entwined with Bougainvillaea.

At 4am I finally slept.

This morning the high-pressure hose on the washing machine burst, flooding the kitchen.

Nicky dropped her hairbrush down the toilet, Gershon the Goldfish sadly passed away, my mother-in-law phoned.

I dropped the cream-cheese on the carpet open-side down and reversed into municipal pole number 12 at the bottom of the drive, while fetching the lift scheme.

All before 7.15am.

I crawled into the house and collapsed at the table. "You look great," said my husband.

"Just one early night and you're a dynamic ball of fire."

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