Carol’s Column

The day I lit up my husband's life in our new jacuzzi

The new jacuzzi arrived this week. The one my son in America ordered for a surprise birthday present.

It came on a trailer and was lugged into the garden by four muscular men.

After much family discussion on where it should or shouldn't go, we decided on a suitable spot.

Actually, my husband wanted the jacuzzi as far from the house as possible, preferably in somebody else's garden in another suburb in a different town, and possibly, another country. He wasn't keen on the idea of a jacuzzi, you see.

“Where would you like this jacuzzi,” said the main installer, who introduced himself as Wortel de Villiers. I pointed out the area and with infinite care he and his colleagues ripped up half our garden.

Then, after pounding the remaining soil flat, they carefully positioned the jacuzzi and, like a giant bath-tub, it stood proud with pipes and wires leading to the pump, 6m distant, a cumbersome piece of machinery hidden by an ugly fibreglass cover.

To tell the truth, it did not look attractive.

“Right,” said Wortel, after connecting pipes and fittings, “that's it.”

“But Wortel, what about the brickwork, the wiring up, the connection?” I queried.

“No, we install the jacuzzi, you have to call in a builder and an electrician to finish it off,” he replied and then noticed my abject face. “Look, you can use it so long,” he added. “Just connect it to an extension cord and join the wires.”

So I did and immediately, the water began to warm. To make it look more picturesque, I banked the displaced soil around it and planted some purple and pink petunias mixed with ivy. My jacuzzi was beginning to resemble Lady Anne Barnard's bath at Kirstenbosch. A cool green pool set among a leafy bower. Aesthetically, it was quite pleasing.

But there was still a problem. The pump cover was hideously obtrusive, so I painted it green and stuck on fronds of plastic variegated ivy bought at the local nursery.

From a suitable distance, the final result, while not perfect, was a definite improvement. The pump was now an integrated part of the garden.

My husband returned home from work. To say he was unhappy when he opened the lounge door and stepped into the verdant world would be an understatement.

“What the hell is that?” he growled in such a tone that my heart dropped to my ankles.

Because this is a respectable publication, I shall not repeat what was said about the free-standing jacuzzi. However, I will mention that the final suggestion of many was that I fill it up with soil and use it as a compost heap.

For the launch of the jacuzzi, I'd bought a bottle of bubbly. When he'd lost his breath and calmed down, I persuaded him to strip and step into the jacuzzi.

“Sit down, lean back, shut your eyes and relax,” I murmured, and poured him a glass of iced champagne. “Now, isn't this stunning?” I said, switching on the control to activate it.

Like a cauldron, it began to steam and bubble. And then there was a sizzling sound and I saw my husband's hair straighten and his eyes grow as large as dinner plates. Black-rimmed dinner plates.

Good heavens, it seemed he was being electrocuted. I must have misconnected the wires and it was obviously shorting. Naturally, I immediately switched off the jacuzzi. I didn't want to damage the unit.

“I think you're trying to murder me,” he gasped.

“Well, it wasn't premeditated,” I said.

Which might be true.

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