Carol’s Column

Democracy is a fragile plant

DOUG and Ilva Kydd gave me a bonsai. An unusual bonsai, it was two bonsai in one, so to speak.

The base, a large, artistically shaped rock, contained two soil-filled hollows and within those concavities resided two perfect miniature trees. Quite exquisite they were. The one resembled an onion with a golden root from which sprouted green strands, the other, a dainty and perfect little specimen of a maple.

The instructions for the bonsai were simple. These tiny trees were to be kept moist at all times and then they would flourish.

The book club ladies were enchanted.

"The thing about small packages is that you always get quality," said Agatha Crump, who spoke with experience, her husband's toupee nudging her nipples when they danced.

Added my good friend Betty: "They're like men. They need an awful lot of attention, they're incredibly fussy, and they have to be constantly nurtured otherwise they wither."

Choosing the correct place for the bonsai was not easy. According to Professor Hung Wang Chen, a world expert on the art of bonsai horticulture, a pleasant environment is essential to the happiness of bonsai.

They enjoy good conversation and their surroundings have to be light, airy and peaceful.

Which immediately excluded the lounge, diningroom and children's bedrooms, for how could two delicate bonsai burgeon to the incessant sounds of Twisted Sister, Depeche Mode and Dire Straits? No self-respecting bonsai would enjoy the turbulent atmosphere of a kitchen or toilet, which left the marital bedroom.

I moved my hairdryer and 34 bottles of moisturiser and tenderly placed the bonsai on the dressing table.

Watering was simple enough, but I discovered I had to watch my subject matter during the daily chats. Township violence distressed them, as did prevarication on the part of political leaders. The onion tree liked Mandela, while the maple visibly twitched for De Klerk. Neither reacted to Buthelezi.

And then an extraordinary thing happened. While the onion tree remained miniature, the maple began to grow and soon it was three metres. In desperation I called Professor Hung Wang Chen.

"Prune vigorously," advised the venerable professor.

Alack, as is common with shaved legs, the more I pruned, the more it grew and soon it had taken over the bedroom.

Once again, I phoned the professor. "Detain it," he said. "Place it in a restricted place, keep it in solitary confinement and limit its nourishment."

I forcibly removed it to the gardening shed, a dark and depressing place, but when I returned home from the supermarket, I discovered my offspring and their friends picketing the shed.

"Banish detention without trial" and "Viva Bonsai" screamed the pickets.

I tried to negotiate. "This is ridiculous, you're talking about a midget tree," I reasoned.

"Ma, this is a principle," said my daughter, the spokesperson. "Every bonsai has the right to determine its own future."

True. The bonsai have returned to the house and are installed in the lounge which is causing problems as their growth is inhibited by loud music and therefore Twisted Sister and other ilk-like sounds have been banished.

"Go and play your noise somewhere else," I said to my daughter of the long eyelashes and ethnic sandals when she complained.

"But that's discrimination," she wailed.

"It's called democracy," I retorted.

Thus, in this household, the bonsai continue to flourish and there is blissful peace.

Which proves democracy has a silver lining.

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