Carol’s Column

Every mother needs a thief in her life

HELL is shopping in Rosebank on a Saturday morning.

But working mothers have no choice. Which is why I found myself fighting for a parking place at 8am.

With fenders girded, bonnet thrust forward and the wheels screaming, I moved into attack a schmaltzy-looking German tank of burnished copper with a metallic finish.

At the last minute — sense overcame courage and he stood aside as I quickly manoeuvred my beat-up jalopy into the coveted parking place.

Ecstatic at the victory, I knew exactly how Wellington felt at the Battle of Waterloo.

“Ma, you drive like a lunatic,” said the viper of my bosom, my once-sweet daughter. Such is children's gratitude.

“You want to walk, walk,” I growled as I charged off to the supermarket poised to do battle with a trolley.

Loaded

Two hours later, Nicky and I emerged, each pushing a loaded trolley.

“Ma, you're embarrassing,” said Nicky. “Did you have to burst into tears and beat your breast when the cashier totalled up?

“Good heavens, do you realise that I could fly to Siberia or Honolulu on the money that you and your brothers eat up monthly?”

We arrived at my car and immediately four other drivers in the vicinity hooted aggressively. “You going out, Lady?” “Can I have your place?”

“Okay, okay, just let me unpack,” I shouted. Let them fight it out themselves, I thought to myself as I scratched in my bag for my key.

The hooting intensified.

“Ma, there's your key,” my daughter cried.

Sure enough, dangling from the keyhole, my bunch of keys grinned at me.

So what do you do when your key is locked inside your car? When you are surrounded by a mountain of groceries and a horde of hooting drivers who want your place?

My car was carefully locked. Every door and orifice impregnable.

While sitting on the roof, trying to unscrew the sunroof with a nail file, I heard a voice.

“Got a spot of bother, have you?” I looked down. A charming, gentle-faced young man, maybe a minister, a school teacher, politician or poet, blinked at me from behind his glasses.

“I've locked my keys inside,” I muttered foolishly.

“Come, jump down and we'll break into your car,” he held out his hand, a Sir Galahad in a blue wind cheater.

“If we can find a piece of wire, it'll take one minute,” he added, looking around.

Nestling under the parking meter, we found a discarded coat hanger.

He unwound it, looped the end and attempted to push it through the closed door. “It's really easy breaking into a car,” he said, “if only I could push this wire through. It's too thick.”

Just then, a distinguished, grandfatherly man in a Gucci suit and matching tie, shoes and carrier bag, appeared on my left.

“Got a problem? I'll break into your car. It's simple really. If you've got a piece of masking tape, it'll take a second.”

My original Sir Galahad was still battling to push the coat hanger through the edge of the closed door.

Meanwhile a crowd had gathered around. “Smash a window,” suggested one onlooker.

“Ignore the rabble,” advised the grandfather, “damage is unnecessary.”

Suddenly there were three men breaking into my car. The poet, the grandfather and a new arrival. John Travolta-the-second.

Muscles rippling through his T-shirt, he was the all South African Boy Beautiful. First team rugby, toothpaste teeth and sossatie eyes, he had it all.

“Ag, man”, he drawled, “let me try.” He grabbed the wire re-arranged the loop, flexed his muscles then pushed it through the door. With a flick of his wrist, the lock button was up and the door was open.

The onlookers cheered.

“Oh, it was nothing,” he said modestly. “I used to borrow cars and go for joyrides all the time when I was young.”

Spin

“Yes, I can remember taking a Rolls for a spin, when I was about 14,” said the poet, “what a car ...”

“And I used to steal sport cars,” admitted the grandfather.

They all shook their heads wistfully. “Those were the days.”

My daughter, was silent on the drive home.

But later, when I called my little family for supper, I found them all outside.

Nicky, armed with a coat hanger, was demonstrating the art of car theft to her brothers.

Who says kids never learn?

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