Carol’s Column

A smoky tale of woe

THERE was smoke everywhere.

I couldn’t breathe.

My lungs were bursting, my eyes watered. I knew my last moment had come.

What a way to go — suffocated in a cloud of noxious fumes.

Life was so unjust, I’d always fancied that death would come to me differently.

Perhaps while dancing the can can at the Civic Theatre to the Boston Philharmonic Orchestra, or while making love to a ravishing sheik who had swept me away to his gold-turreted palace, or even while sailing single-handed over the Victoria Falls.

No, there was no dignity in expiring on my lounge floor, alone and unappreciated.

Just then, the door opened, and a breath of fresh air accompanied by my husband, not quite so fresh, entered.

“Good heavens, are you trying to burn the house down?” he bellowed loudly. Which is the way most people bellow.

I couldn’t reply, my voicebox was frozen in a vice of smoke.

Slowly, I crawled towards him and grabbed the end of his highly-polished Gucci shoe.

“It’s OK, you don’t have to prostrate yourself before me,” he said. The trouble is, he wasn’t joking.

I staggered to my feet and tottered out of the lounge, gulping untainted oxygen.

“What actually were you doing in there?” he asked, which, under the circumstances, was a pertinent question.

“I was trying to light a fire,” I explained weakly. You understand, it is not easy to speak when you have almost choked to death.

“The whole of South Africa is in the grip of an ice age with no relief in sight, and so I thought I’d bring a little warm relief into your lives.”

“But why didn’t you switch on the electric heater?” asked my husband. Not an unintelligent question.

“Because a real fire is the heart of a home, it’s warm, comfortable, glowing. It gives everyone a feeling of happiness.”

“Right now, all you have given everyone is a severe case of asphyxiation,” observed my husband in that inimitable way of his. It’s at times like this that I recall my Russian grandmother’s words: “Never marry a man,” she’d said. “They are cruel, uncaring beasts. Use them, enjoy them and then discard them.”

My potential discard removed himself to the kitchen to investigate the food situation on the home front.

Meanwhile, there was still smoke in the lounge.

I phoned our local Civil Defence group who were on the spot within moments.

Brandishing gasmasks, they cleared the lounge and made some strategic suggestions.

Such as the one that we should get our chimney swept.

It will suffice to say that in Johannesburg, chimney sweeping is a dying craft. Indeed, you can count the chimney sweeps available on two fingers.

And, both were incarcerated up someone else’s chimney when I phoned.

No matter that it was an emergency — one offered to come towards the end of July, and the other could only book us an afternoon in September.

My good friend Betty solved the problem, as she usually does.

“You don’t need a chimney sweep,” she said. “Ring the Norwood cleansing department and ask them to send over their drain unblockers — euphemistically known as plumbers.”

The cleansing department couldn’t have been more helpful. They were there in a flash and within half an hour of unpacking their drain sticks had unblocked our errant chimney.

Spewed forth from within was one dislodged brick, three charcoal-grilled pigeons, several gnarled and blackened oak branches, and, of course, 10 barrels of soot.

But the chimney was clear.

I decided to light a fire the following day.

Having learnt this elementary skill during my Girl Guide days, I foresaw no problems.

I should have known better.

I laid the fire with care, lovingly, and then, as I lit it, there was a whoosh and an enraged, wild, massive blackened pigeon flew out of the chimney and into the lounge.

Round and round he flew, blackening the walls, the furniture, the carpets and even my mother-in-law’s photograph.

Hearing strange sounds, my husband entered the lounge.

I suppose it must have been a shock to find a blackened wife, lounge and pigeon.

“This is the end,” he exclaimed, and left immediately. He hasn’t been seen since.

Well, that’s not so bad. What is rather dreadful is that the insurance won’t pay out as they maintain a pigeon flying down a chimney is classified as ‘an act of God’.

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