Carol’s Column

When boerewors is the bane of life

IT'S all so confusing.

Life, I mean. Everything is a decision these days.

From that first moment when you jump out of bed. Should I get out of bed today?

Or should I stay here for ever? Perhaps we should buy a waterbed? Maybe an innerspring mattress would be better for a bad back? Mind you, they say foam is fabulous.

And it doesn't stop.

Should I shower or bath? Oh good heavens, what toothpaste shall I use?

The super-chlorinated, fluoridated, tingle-tongue fresh brand or the grit-shine, anti-plaque, menthol-tasting fluoridated version with the breath-freshener and the built-in glow.

I feel so despondent. How can I expect PW to make a go of things when I can't keep my own house in order?

Take this morning.

"Why are you spraying your hair with underarm deodorant?" asked my husband. Unduly observant as he in turn had sprayed his underarms with the can of "Spray and Cook" and noticed the fragrance was unfamiliar.

You may ask why an aerosol can of "Spray and Cook" was on the bathroom shelf. It's simple.

We were invaded by an army of ferocious jelly-eating ants, and in an annihilation attempt, I'd mistaken the "Spray and Cook" for the insect repellent — a similar shape and colour — just another wrong decision in a lifetime of many. There was worse to come.

"This isn't lathering," shouted my husband, brandishing his shaving brush. His chin a white, bubbling, foamy beard.

"Something's wrong."

Now contraceptive foam has several uses — it still makes the best snow on the boughs of Christmas trees, but shaving is not one of them.

It could have been worse. He could have lathered-up with the tube of quick-stick cement glue in the blue and white tube next to the pimple paste.

In fact, life is one big decision.

For some people it's easy.

My husband's a decisive man. "Don't rush into marriage," said my mother-in-law after we'd courted for 12 years. "You've got to be sure."

Today she still nods her head and mutters: "Marry in haste and repent at leisure," whenever she comes to dinner.

Some decisions have broken up marriages. Such as Herbert and Amelia Klongthorpe who couldn't agree where Fleebie, their chihuahua dog, should sleep.

According to Herbert, the only suitable place for Fleebie to rest, was the marital bed.

Amelia, on the other hand, invested in a shaggy-bear lined basket which she placed strategically at the foot of the bed. For Fleebie. She maintained the bed was not big enough for her, Herbert and Fleebie.

In protest, Herbert slept in the basket for several nights.

Eventually, after much decision-making, they decided to compromise and Herbert, Amelia and Fleebie settled down in relative peace, for the night.

The story has a sad end.

Next morning, Herbert awoke to find Fleebie squashed and lifeless beside him.

He was beside himself with grief and vowed never to set foot in the Klongthorpe bed again as long as he lived.

Which wasn't long as he died from an unspecified ailment a few days later.

This morning, I watch my husband making decisions, and I ache inside for this poor overworked man of mine. Who carries the weight of the world on his back. "Shall I wear my tartan underpants, or do you think the floral ones will do?" he asks.

"The grey suit or the navy? A long-sleeve shirt or a short-sleeve shirt?". The day is fraught with difficult decisions."

At breakfast Jamie decides to leave school. "It's enough," he says. "Why must I go to school? I do all the work and the teacher gets paid for it? It's ridiculous."

"Don't be silly," says my husband. "Enjoy your school days, they're the happiest of your life and you've only got nine more years to go."

At the garage it's the same. "Regular or super?" he asks.

"Petrol, just give me petrol."

At the supermarket, it takes me half an hour to decide on wors. Farm-style, garlic, ordinary, spiced, pimento-flavoured or old-fashioned wors? It's a difficult decision to make.

At the hairdresser it's the same: "Long or short?" says Willie.

At school: "Which child would you like today?" ask Mrs Birt.

At the library: "Spy story, thriller or romance?" she asks.

At home, I remember we have friends for dinner that night. I open the freezer and eventually decide on the mince meat.

I cook the most superb spaghetti bolonaise and serve it fragrant and bubbling to the table.

My guests ooh and aah. "It looks so rich and succulent," they say. And other words such as "tasty", "delicious" and "scumptious" waft around the table.

Modestly I murmur: "It was nothing."

And then there's an agonised yell from Ralph in the kitchen.

"Ma, what shall I feed the dogs?" he shouts. "I can't find the pet mince anywhere."

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