Carol’s Column

The night sweet romance passed me by

THE invitation arrived for my husband in the form of a bunnygirl complete with a bottle of wine and a wide smile.

It said: “Saturday 14th February ... Dinner for two ... At Butlers to woo ... A suite for the night ... To make things just right. Breakfast’s reserved and for two is served, A Valentine that’s shared by two people who care. ... Let the Hotel Braamfontein play host to you and your Valentine and arrange a memorable night ...”

My spouse was enchanted. We arranged for a dog sitter, a cat sitter, left the children to fend for themselves and shot off to the Hotel Braamfontein with toothbrushes and clean underwear. One should always be prepared. My grandmother, the belly-dancer from Stellenbosch, always carried a spare set of false teeth around with her, just in case, you understand.

We checked into the hotel for our Valentine night of romance, and it was only when we were shooting up to the 21st floor that I realised I’d left my wedding ring on the basin at home next to the wrinkle-free extra-fatty soap and the matching nailbrush and soapbowl.

“Having a night on the town,” said a huge, rugby-lock type to my husband, nudge, nudge, wink, wink, almost knocking him out of his designer shoes.

A delicious feeling of wickedness pervaded me as I stood in my Woolworths off-the-rack special, ready for a night of romance.

Our suite was ready, complete with crimson roses and a gift of his and her perfume.

Drenched in Je Reviens, we trotted down to Butlers and our “dinner for two with soft romantic music and a special Valentine a la Carte menu”.

Butlers is a soft-pink symphony of a restaurant. Everyone looks good in soft pink. Even the wrinkles on my neck looked delicately ruched instead of wrinkled.

There was definitely romance in the air.

“You look wonderful,” said my spouse, holding my hand and gazing fondly at the bags under my eyes. “You haven’t changed a bit since the day we married, you still look like Woody Allen.”

The meal was an aphrodisiacal delight — oysters, scallops and spinach, breast of this and that, happily stuffed and ready to slide down our waiting palates.

Attentively and lovingly, assistant maitre d’ Paul Ndlovu created masterpiece after masterpiece before our eyes.

Our Valentine dinner progressed, as did the two bottles of chilled white wine.

At the end of the meal, we held hands as we stumbled to our suite. Used to meatballs and tomato sauce, the sumptuous meal had gone a little to our heads, spleens, livers and kidneys.

In the glorious suite, I nipped into the bathroom, changed into my good friend Betty’s see-through black lace designer nightie with the varnished cleavage, and brushed my teeth.

“Why are you foaming at the mouth?” my husband asked me as I pranced into the bedroom.

Well, anyone can make a mistake with toothpaste and shaving foam.

The next morning we slept late, without the patter of 24 little feet to wake us. What joy.

“Are you missing the kids?” my husband asked as we sipped our champagne.

“No, a champagne breakfast for three dogs, one cat and four kids wouldn’t be the same,” I mumbled between a croissant and honey and a brioche with strawberry jam.

“Was it romantic?” my good friend Betty asked later.

“Ah, the oysters were done to a turn, the spinach sparkled, the wine was chilled to perfection and the bed was unbelievably comfortable,” I replied. “We slept like two potatoes in a skin.”

“How romantic,” muttered Betty.

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