Carol’s Column

Business is hell

"I DON'T know how I'm going to take the strain," were my husband's parting words as he kissed me goodbye and wafted through the international departure gate at Jan Smuts Airport.

I smiled bravely, baring my newly-flossed teeth, (a family that flosses together stays together . . . and anyway, why shouldn't the floss makers live too?), and tried not to cry as I thought of my poor, hardworking spouse about to embark on yet another, exhausting overseas business trip.

At home, the remnants of the family — all 12 of us if you count the dogs, cat, hamster, fish and other mouths that are accommodated in this household — sat down to a lonely meal of fish cakes from left-overs and chips.

"Poor Daddy," muttered my youngest son, "imagine having to sit on a plane for 18 hours."

Mind you, I didn't really have time to miss him. What with the cat catching flu, the painters dropping the tin of enamel over the newly installed diningroom carpet, the blocked drains and the minor car crash at the Oxford Street robot — I was fairly busy.

He phoned on Monday at 7am. "I hope I didn't disturb you," he said. "No, don't worry. I've been up for hours," I replied.

"Great, great," he murmured. "The flight was hell. It was absolutely packed, they overbooked and so I had to travel first class."

"Shame."

"Mind you, drinks are on the house and the food wasn't bad even if the caviar blinis were a trifle overcooked."

"Did you sleep well last night?" I asked solicitously.

"Yes, we had a quick bite, grabbed a West End show and then went on to a party. Business you know."

The following days passed in a blur of stalled cars, an overheated boiler that burst, children that required transport from one end of Africa to the other, or so it seemed. Countless rugby and netball matches and a cracked upper molar that required emergency treatment at 11pm at night.

He phoned again on Wednesday. "Look, I can't talk long," he said. "It's dreadfully expensive and I've got to pop across to Belgium for the day. Are you all well?"

"Yes, yes, everything's just fine," I muttered through my bronchitic larynx.

"Lousy line, I can't hear you — well, I'll say goodbye now."

On Friday, a branch of our oak tree broke off, badly denting the neighbour's car. A love-sick cat wailed until 12.30am. I fell asleep at 1am and the phone rang at 2am.

"Hello, is this South Africa?" said a strange female voice. "Will you take a call from Mr Lazar?"

"Certainly," and then there was silence.

Eventually the voice returned. "I seem to have lost him," it said. "What a wicked man he is, ha, ha. I'll call later."

Ha, ha. I pulled out the plug.

He phoned again on Saturday at lunch time just as a piece of chicken bone stuck in my throat.

"Are you sure you're OK?" he asked anxiously. "I can barely hear you speak. I'm exhausted, we've seen four shows in three days and they've got these cute lunch bars where the girls serve beef on rye topless."

"Is Daddy all right? What's he doing?" the kids asked. "Your father's fine." I replied shortly. "He's in New York eating open beef on rye sandwiches." Young minds should be protected.

That was a week ago. The painters have since disappeared after removing the front door to sand it down. The stove is not working, Licquorice-the-Labrador has toothache, the neighbour is suing us for malicious damage to his property and a section of the roof has blown away leaving a two-metre hole.

Yesterday we went to fetch our returning financial asset from the airport.

The kids wheeled me to the arrivals lounge in a trolley. I was too exhausted to walk.

Eventually the glass doors swung open and he emerged. Fit, tanned, three kilos heavier and flashing his flossed teeth at the world.

"Hi honey," he said.

"Gosh it's good to be home. I really envy you being able to take it easy here. A business trip is such hell."

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