Carol’s Column

A little bit of status gets you nowhere

"HAVE you got ankle-length boots, Ma?" asked my oldest unmarried son through his mop of hair. There are times when I'm not sure which way round he's looking.

"Have you had Anneline Kriel Kerzner to dinner?

"Anneline who?" It's not easy to hear when your ears are covered with stuck-down cottonwool to stop the 'Make-Yourself-Look-Years-Younger' do-it-yourself hairdye tinging the rims of your ears.

Brown-rimmed ears with auburn highlights don't look so attractive, you understand.

"Or Pascual, Donna Wurzel or Otto Krause?"

"Louse, lice! who's got lice?"

"You're hopeless, Ma," shouted Barry through the cottonwool. "You haven't got a status symbol. You're a social failure."

"I am?" By now I'd removed the cottonwool and sticky tape and was gazing wide-eyed at this 17-year-old oracle of treachery I'd spawned.

"Whaddya mean I'm a failure? I'm the best mother you've ever had. I'm the best one you've got. I'm your only mother."

He lifted his eyebrows in that rather pained way that teenage sons do.

"Quite," he said. Then: "Ma, I'm talking about status symbols. According to this article, unless you own an alligator bag, black silk underwear, a holiday cottage at Plett, a bowl of Russian caviare, a whippet and a Rolls — you're a zilch."

I snorted suitably.

"But don't worry," he added, "it's only a fun quiz. Don't take it seriously. We still love you."

"So who's taking it seriously?" I muttered as he took his holey jeans and his 'I-do-it-standing-up' shirt off to bed.

And then picked up the article and scanned it anxiously to find a super status symbol that would make me one of the Beautiful People.

My eye homed in on clubs. The lift club, the book club — neither was listed.

The section on decor floored me.

Did I own a suede love seat? The only suede thing in this household was my husband's bald patch — would that qualify as a seat of love?

Remote control curtains and blinds? Good heavens, I hadn't got round to curtaining all the windows yet. I mean, we'd only been in the house for 15 years.

Ah . . . the 'ritzy' set. "That's me!" I yelled blazing a path into my son's bedroom. "I have a ritzy status symbol — a cordless phone."

He grabbed the paper from my hands. Then sighed theatrically which made me think he closely resembled the man I'd married.

"Ma, read the list properly. The question says 'Have you a cordless phone at the tennis court and swimming pool?'."

"So who needs a pool or court? I've got half a status. You can't take my cordless phone away from me — I qualify. I'm a Beautiful People." I smiled dazzlingly at him causing my uppers to clack against my lowers.

Barry was silent, then he sighed, desperately. Again reminding me of our mutual relative.

"Ma, I don't think you have the kind of cordless phone that gives you status. Your phone is only cordless because you ripped out the cord in a moment of anger."

"It was the only way I could get your brother off the line," I muttered defensively. "And anyway it didn't work. He's been walking around with that phone in his blazer pocket for the past three days."

There is status and status.

You can keep your whippets, Borzois and Bouviers. I know nobody else who owns a Bloodle — a rare mixture of boxer and poodle.

Who else drives an antique car? So old that it runs with legs not wheels.

And who else lives in an original Parkwood house with significant and relevant status such as genuine wooden window frames that drop out at the first sign of a breeze?

With plumbing that sings arias and an electrical system that makes Guy Fawkes look passé?

That's Real, Rustic status for you — the kind that makes the pickly little Piagets, the jazzy jacuzzis and the loud Lear jets look nouveau riche.

So who needs status symbols?

It's more important to have real aims in life.

Like how to get nouveau riche quick.

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