Carol’s Column

Raindrops keep falling on my head

AND so the rains came.

Everyone rejoiced.

Dry, yellow grass grew green and lush. Flowers popped up perkily bursting out of drought-shrivelled stems and trees straightened their shoulders and stood tall and proud.

Yes, everyone rejoiced as the heavens opened on the Reef last week.

Except me.

Because while everyone else was busy rejoicing — I was watching the water leaking through the holes in the roof.

Oh, at first I was ecstatic as I stood and watched the deluge from inside our warm, secure house.

“Bring on the manure!” I shouted, “the fertiliser, the bulbs. Yipee! The rains have come.”

That was until I felt it raining on my head.

In the bedroom?

I looked ceilingwards and watched drops of rain trickle through the light fitting and down the corners.

As I gazed, mesmerised at the sight, the trickle turned to torrents.

So, who needs the Victoria Falls in the bedroom?

“Fetch a bucket!” I yelled to Jamie.

“Bring the towels!” I shouted to Nicky.

“Help, help!” I screamed to Ralph.

For 18 years, my spouse has managed to avoid every serious crisis in this household.

When the sewerage overflowed he was in Cape Town.

When the jacaranda tree was struck by lightning and smashed the carport, he was in Doornfontein.

When the stoep pergola died of dry rot and collapsed, he was in America.

And now, as the house was being washed away, he was in Durban.

It is not nice crawling round on a wet roof in the middle of the night looking for a broken tile or worse.

Especially one that is inhabited by 25 pigeons. The roof not the tile.

In fact, Jamie, Ralph and I came to the same conclusion simultaneously as the three of us hunted together.

But it was Ralph, always the most vociferous one of the family, who spoke out first. “Ma, what is blocking this roof is pigeon ****!”

“Ralph, please don't use words like that,” I reprimanded him as I slid on a pile of feathers and other things.

“Ma,” added Jamie, “Ralph is right. The pigeon **** is blocking up the gutters and that's making the rain bank up against the flat parts of the roof and leak into the house.”

“Jamie, please don't use that word either,” I said as I dropped my torch into the foul-smelling slush.

The rain pelted down. Around us the pigeons squawked and screeched, furious at being disturbed, and the air was pungent and odoriferous.

“Okay, Okay. Let's retreat — we'll clear it tomorrow,” I said. A good general knows when to pull back her troops.

Besides, these particular troops and their leader were cold, wet and drowning in the rain.

Inside, things weren't much better.

All over, little water spouts had sprouted on the ceiling and little Nicky was running around like a frantic hamster with towels, buckets and saucepans.

Still it poured.

We tried everything. Pratley's putty, Prestik, soggy newspaper, all in vain.

Things began to look serious when I noticed Ralph's bed floating downstairs.

And then, as suddenly as it started, the rain stopped.

Next morning dawned dazzlingly bright. Sunny skies, the mole crickets digging holes in our freshly-grown green lawn and not a raindrop to be seen.

The kids shot off to school and I quickly skimmed up the ladder on to the roof.

It took an hour and many shovelfuls to clear away the natural pigeon compost.

I took care not to disturb the 15 or so little pigeon chicks nesting just under the eaves.

At last it was done. The roof sparkled in a slimy, shiny kind of way.

“Okay, rain again,” I muttered defiantly as I retreated down the ladder and into the shower.

Make no mistake. Somebody up there is definitely listening. Because that night it rained again.

For 15 minutes there wasn't a leak to be seen — and then, as it pelted down outside it stormed inside.

“Leave it,” I said wearily to the boys as they prepared to man the step ladder. “Let it leak. We'll pitch the tent in the lounge.”

The following morning I shot up on to the roof.

Have you any idea what 25 pigeons can produce naturally in only one day and night?

“We could go into the fertiliser business in a big way,” I said to Ralph, who'd come up with me to investigate. “Like Louis Luyt, we could make a killing.”

“Ma,” replied Ralph the pragmatist. “The pigeons have got to go. Because where there are pigeons there will always be pigeon ****. It's only natural.”

“Please don't use that word,” I said as we climbed down the ladder.

It is impossible to catch 25 pigeons and 15 chicks in order to transport them elsewhere. I know. I tried.

For one diabolical moment I contemplated placing Mac-the-cat on the roof but quickly washed my wicked mind out with carbolic soap.

Annihilation is out of the question in this family of mine where I once stood on a silkworm by mistake and was branded a murderer for a week.

No, pigeon pie was not the answer.

Roofing experts have all said the same thing. “Get rid of the pigeons and your leaks will cease.”

My good friend Betty phoned me just now.

“Isn't it wonderful, Carol,” she said enthusiastically. “All this beautiful rain, everything's growing.”

“Ja,” I answered, “the mushrooms on my bedroom carpet are thriving.”

“Huh, what did you say? Carol? Carol? Are you Okay?”

“No,” I muttered, “I'm finding it difficult to hold the phone and the umbrella in one hand while I empty the water out of the waste-paper basket. Raindrops keep falling on my head.”

Just then, I heard a terrible noise.

“Hang on,” I said, and dropped the phone.

From the chimney came a rushing sound.

Good heavens, it's flooding down the chimney now, I thought in horror.

I was wrong.

It wasn't rain. Instead, a soot-caked pigeon flew out of the fireplace and fluttered around frantically, shedding soot everywhere. The walls, curtains, carpets, couch — everything was black.

Do you ever get the feeling that you just can't win?

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