Carol’s Column

Merry Christmas to you too, Mr Cohen

YOU know it's Christmas when everything grinds to a halt.

Take our drains. Last Thursday morning I was awakened by a pungent, unfamiliar fragrance that wafted upstairs and permeated that chamber of connubial bliss wherein my husband, the two goldfish and I slept.

"Tell the kids to put their socks in the wash basket," mumbled the man in my life.

"Their socks can walk by themselves," I muttered with my mouth and eyes closed.

However and alack, the fragrance was not the kids' socks.

Instead the backyard was awash with water, tea leaves, potato peels and other things.

I phoned the municipal blocked-drains division and they promised to come immediately.

Three days later, I phoned them again. "Listen, it's uncomfortable to wear a gas mask in this hot weather," I said to the drain man. "You've got to do something."

The drain man was most sympathetic.

"Happy Christmas," he said. "Look, Lady, I know you got a problem. But so have I. It's Christmas, everyone's on holiday and I'm short staffed. You know how it is."

I know how it is.

A month ago, while roasting a chicken in cherry brandy, our stove, overcome by fumes, died.

The stove repair man was most helpful. "This stove is obsolete," he remarked on first acquaintance. "I'd throw it away if I were you."

He dismantled it and departed carrying the innards to some secret stove destination from whence he has never returned.

Each time I phone, a disembodied voice on an answering machine says, "This is Sammy Stoveman speaking and I am out fixing some lucky person's stove. When you hear the beep, leave your name and number and I will return your call."

It is not easy cooking for nine people, three dogs, a cat and two goldfish on a camping cooker.

Yesterday I phoned in desperation.

A voice said "This is Sammy Stoveman speaking. A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. I am presently on holiday at Plettenberg Bay. Happy cooking." Then came a horrible rendition of Jingle Bells.

During last week's thunder storm, a section of the roof flew off leaving the main bedroom exposed to the elements.

Mr Rafter, the roof repairman is away for the Christmas vacation which is why we've pitched a tent in the bedroom and are sleeping "el casbah" so to speak.

On Friday, I nearly had heart failure when a rat jumped out of the baby marrow patch, leapt over the cabbages and vanished among the carrots.

I immediately phoned Mr Cohen the rat catcher. "Help," I shrieked.

"Listen, you've caught me at a bad moment," he said. "My caravan is loaded and I'm just about to leave for Oyster Bay and I'm going the long way round because I don't want to pay the toll fees because I think they're a blerry disgrace. But I'll tell you what to do. Take three pawpaws, cut them up into neat little pieces, soak them in vodka and then drop them neatly into the rat trap." So I did.

This morning the front door bell rang and outside stood two tipsy rats.

"Merry Christmas," they said.

Well, I think that's what I heard.

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