Carol’s Column

Business trips are hell

“I DON’T know how I’ll take the strain,” were my husband’s parting words as he kissed me goodbye.

I smiled bravely, baring my newly flossed teeth and tried not to cry as I thought of my poor, hardworking spouse about to embark on yet another exhausting business trip overseas.

At home, the remaining 17 of us, including dogs, cats, fish and one venus flytrap, sat down to a lonely meal of leftover mince on toast.

“Poor Dad,” muttered my daughter, “imagine having to sit on a plane for 18 hours to get to Ireland.”

Mind you, I didn’t really have time to miss him, what with the drains blocking, the cat getting a piece of spaghetti stuck in his throat, the car knocking the carport pole, and the cracked toilet seat catching my son’s derriere and causing a grievous injury.

My spouse phoned on Monday at 3 am. “You weren’t busy?” he asked, not waiting for an answer. “I’m exhausted we’ve just spent the night in an old castle, eating salmon and drinking Paddy.”

“Ag, shame,” I murmured.

“And the flight was hell,” he added. “They overbooked us so we had to travel first class. They fed us caviare and venison until we couldn’t eat another thing. London was pretty rushed too. We took in a West End show, a new curry restaurant and then went on to a party. Business you know.”

The next few days passed in a blur. I locked myself out of my house and car. Jamie cracked a molar, the exhaust fell off my chariot and I fell upon an earbud and ruptured an eardrum.

Henry-the-hog got his tail caught in the jaws of our neighbour’s hound and had to have nine stitches and a blood transfusion.

On Wednesday, my financial asset phoned as I was dashing off to do the lift scheme and take Henry for a check-up.

“Look, I can’t talk for long,” he said. “I’m dashing all over the show. Shannon, Limerick — it’s exhausting. Are you well?”

“Yes, yes, great,” I gasped through my bronchitic larynx, my good ear quivering.

“Lousy line, I can’t hear you, I’ll say goodbye now.”

On Friday, Henry-the-hog took revenge upon the neighbour’s dog, the drainpipe blocked for the second time, my hooter died and a stray cricket ball smashed the picture window in the lounge.

On Saturday, just as a chicken bone stuck in my newly recovered throat, the phone rang.

“Hi,” said my spouse. “I’m phoning you from a pub called Dirty Nellie’s. The Irish really know how to live. Can you believe they have topless waitresses in Ireland?”

“How’s Dad?” the kids asked when I put down the phone and finished choking.

“Your father’s fine,” I remarked shortly. Children have to be protected.

That was a week ago. Since then, the sewerage system has packed up, we are without water, our neighbour is suing Henry-the-hog for assault, the swimming pool filter has collapsed and my front right-hand tyre had a blow out.

I have done 53 lifts, rescued goldfish Robert Mugabe from Motor the cat, had a funeral service for Margaret Thatcher’s backbone and tail (the gold fish’s, you understand) discovered in Motor’s basket and left two kids at the supermarket by mistake.

Only yesterday, we shot off to Jan Smuts to fetch the traveller. The kids wheeled me in the trolley, I was too tired to walk.

Eventually he emerged, happy, fit, 5 kg heavier, smiling and looking as if he’d spent the past two weeks at a health resort.

“Hi, honey,” he said, “it’s so good to be home again. I really envy you being able to relax and take it easy.

“A business trip is such hell.”

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