Carol’s Column

For whom the bell tolls: a hairy experience

It’s frightening when the bell rings, you open the door and a total stranger flings his arms around you and lands a wet kiss on your cheek.

It happened to me last week and my veins almost shrivelled with shock.

I was in the back garden, gently spreading dog droppings on to burgeoning bulb sprouts, when I heard the bell. Rushing inside, I opened the front door and was bowled over by a tall, gangling, hirsute stranger whose face was hidden behind a shock of bushy hair. Imagine my consternation when he grabbed me and kissed me.

“Do I know you?” I asked coolly. It is always advisable to keep one’s coolth in situations of stress.

“Ma, it’s me, Jamie, don’t you recognise me.”

I was unable to see a face through the hair. Indeed, this could have been one of the extras from “Gorillas in the Mist”.

“Prove that you’re my son,” I said sternly, “show your identification”.

“Ma, you’re being ridiculous,” said the stranger. “It’s me, your third-youngest, unmarried son. I’m the one who eats ice-cream for breakfast and has a travelling goldfish called Clinton Friedman.”

He sounded familiar.

“I’ve just come back from Rhodes for the June vacation.”

It was plausible. After all, who else has a travelling goldfish called Clinton Friedman?

Just then, the stranger pulled the hair back from his face and it was indeed Jamie. Or a good likeness. One can never be too sure these days.

But within half an hour, there was no doubt. Our house looked typhoon-devastated. Bits of model aircraft littered the dining-room table, an army of dirty clothing marched its way to the wash basket, a dismantled sailboard was strewn over the lounge floor and Henry-the-Hog, normally a resilient dog, had succumbed to a coma due to a pair of unsavoury smelling running shoes being placed beside his basket.

Jamie was home.

I tried to prepare my financial asset by warning him in advance. He chortled into his designer jersey, as husbands do, and said: “I’d like to meet the father who cannot recognise his own son.”

Five minutes later, he shot downstairs, white around the gills, his eyebrows attached to his hairline.

“There’s a naked strange man upstairs,” he gasped. “All he’s wearing is a gold earring.”

“Ah, you’ve seen your youngest son,” I murmured smugly. A little smugness goes a long way.

He sat down and demanded instant medication, so I poured him a triple whisky.

“That hairy, walking mushroom upstairs is not my third son,” he said weakly.

Just then, the hairy, walking mushroom made his appearance.

“Hi, Dad,” he said jovially, and hugged his father. “You’re looking good, it’s great to see you,” added Jamie magnanimously.

“Can you actually see me?” asked my husband dubiously.

“There is nothing more important than education,” my grandmother, the Turkish belly-dancer, used to say, “because no one can take it away from you. An educated man is a prince among men.”

I looked at Jamie, who was in the process of acquiring his princedom at Rhodes University.

“So how are your studies?” I asked enthusiastically.

“Great,” he answered. And thus was his academic curriculum succinctly dismissed.

“So what are you doing these holidays?” inquired my spouse.

“I want to go for flying and ballet lessons,” replied Jamie — which made my husband choke into his whisky.

After dinner, Jamie departed to visit his friends.

“Wasn’t that your Mauritian caftan he was wearing?” twitched my husband.

“Yes, it matches his earring, doesn’t it?” I replied airily.

“You don’t think we have a problem?” growled my spouse.

“No, no. I think Jamie’s busy getting acquainted with his Id. He’s finding himself. All kids go through these stages. You must relax, be more laid back.”

I patted his reinforced shoulder pad comfortingly, swallowed a glass of brandy and passed clean out.

“Are you okay?” he asked some time later. “You mustn’t let the kids faze you. Jamie’s just evolving. Relax, be laid back.”

“I’m so laid back that I’m horizontal,” I muttered.

And why shouldn’t I be? Everyone else talks about “My son the doctor”, “My son the lawyer” or even “My son the astronaut”. I know no one who can say: “My son the flying ballerina.”

■