Carol’s Column

Every mother needs a newspaper round in her life

THE show must go on!

Oh, what valiant words.

Hannibal used them to urge on his troops when his elephants foundered while crossing the great and mighty Alps.

Churchill thundered them when the British fought on the beaches, in the trenches and wherever.

And Jamie Lazar said them on Monday afternoon as he stood before me, his nose bloody, the two fingers of his left hand blue and swollen like rotten sausages.

I sipped my Cane and tea calmly. Mothers mustn’t panic. “Good heavens, whatever happened to you?” I screeched. “Someone tried to kill you!”

“Ma, relax, I was playing rugby and the ball and I had an altercation. I think my fingers are broken. I can’t move them.”

“Oh, my poor little boy,” I wailed. Mothers tend to wail in a stress situation.

“Ag ja, well, no fine,” he beamed and uttered these words: “The show must go on.”

It was my turn to pause.

“Whaddya mean?”

“I have to do my newspaper round, I can’t ride my bike and fling papers,” he said. “But, I can’t let the readers down.”

“So phone and get a substitute.”

“I am a substitute.”

“Jamie, there’s no way that I am doing a newspaper round for you,” I stated categorically.

Which is why, 10 minutes later we were both seated in my crimson chariot with 38 newspapers and a list of seven roads.

The instructions on the list read like the Communist Manifesto, unbending and explicit were they.

‘At No 8, roll and place in big tube placed under letterbox. Do not put in little tube, man gets very cross and has tantrum.’

‘At No 12, fold square and put on third spike.’

‘At No 23, push under orange door at end of brick driveway. Make sure paper goes right under otherwise woman gets furious.’

‘At No 52, push through letterbox with copper lips. The brick letterbox is for rubbish.’

We couldn’t find the streets.

“Winslow? There’s no Winslow, it must be Worcester.”

Jamie was patient. “Ma, there’s no letterbox in Worcester Road with copper lips, there MUST be a Winslow somewhere.”

“Winslow, Worcester, what’s the difference,” I grumbled.

Houses hid themselves cunningly. “Ma, this is ridiculous, there must be a 42 somewhere. No, I’m not shoving it into 40 or 44.”

At 73, a wild and vicious animal attacked the paper as it landed on the lawn ripping it to shreds.

“Did you see that fierce hound? What was it, a wolf?” I screamed as my son clambered into the car.

“A Maltese poodle.”

“Oh, so to me it looked like a wolf.”

Cardigan Road, when we eventually found it, proved to be the most friendly.

A little old lady, in a black lace dress and gold-rimmed glasses, tottered down the driveway, her stick and head wobbling.

“Hello, little boy,” she beamed at Jamie who cringed, “so you’re our dinky little newspaper man.”

The dinky little newspaper man pulled a horrible face and shuddered.

She peered at me. “Ah, I see it’s a joint venture. It’s so nice to see mothers and sons doing something together these days.”

She smiled and took a swing at the head of a dead marigold with a drive that would have made Gary Player drool at his smiling lips.

“Come in and have a glass of gin,” she said hospitably.

“Thank you,” I said. “No thank you,” said Jamie. “We still have 23 papers to deliver. Duty calls.”

Three houses down, a moon-faced gentleman with a bloodhound face and handlebar moustache threatened my son.

“Don’t you dare throw my paper. I’ll tan your hide if you don’t place it neatly in the box,” he yelled loudly.

“Ma, come back, you can’t punch him,” Jamie shouted desperately as I bore down on him. “Newspaper sellers play the game, the customer’s always right. If you punch him I’ll lose my round.”

“But he was abusive.”

“Relax, Ma, it’s a job hazard.”

Fortunately, the rest of Cardigan Road was charming, as were the other four streets.

And other than a few snapping dog jaws, lost letterboxes, lost homes and too-small tubes, things went smoothly.

We drove home an hour later.

“You know, Ma,” said Jamie, “we’re a great team. We could do this every day.”

“You’re kidding. My back’s sore, I’ve got cramp in my right knee, I have eye strain and I don’t want to deliver newspapers. It’s not motherwork.”

“OK, OK, it was just a thought,” he muttered. Then: “I’ll pay you R1.”

It was a generous offer seeing he got paid R1,90 for the entire round.

Before I could answer he spoke again: “Of course, you don’t have to take it.”

“Jamie, with an offer like that, who could refuse?”

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