Carol’s Column

Vinning is vot counts, and our Boks did so in style

The phone rang just after 7pm on Saturday evening. “What a game,” said the voice at the other end. Actually, to be more accurate, it said: “Vot a game!” because the speaker, Trudy, is German.

“We played like giants,” she said. “That Honiball, he vos vunderful and he kicked like a champion.

“And as for Pieter Rossouw, he ran like the vind. A beautiful player. I also like Percy,” she added, “Percy Montgomery, he's good that boy, he's good.”

So, you might think, what is unusual about this conversation.

Nothing much other than the fact that Trudy Shulman is 80-something (three actually, almost four, but she doesn't like to be specific), and she's my mother.

She was, of course, enthusing about the memorable rugby Test match in which the Springboks magnificently trounced France.

“Johanna vos shouting loop, loop, loop, and I vos shouting run run run. And they did,” she said excitedly.

Johanna Cupido, her companion, is a mere spring chicken, a lass of 82.

Together they puff away on their cigarettes (“vot, you vont me to stop smoking now after 70 years, my system von't survive the shock”), and sip a little port (“Vergelegen, it's the best port in the South Africa, and do you know, this is the seventh generation Faure son producing this port?”).

But then, my mother is fairly extraordinary, I think.

She drives around like Damon Hill in a small, souped up and superbly maintained ancient jalopy. A few weeks ago, she chased a traffic cop on a bike, and caught him.

“Madam, I should give you a ticket for speeding,” he said when up he zoomed.

“Don't be cheeky, young officer,” she retorted. “You dropped your gloves,” and she handed them over. (She says if you call a traffic cop “officer”, he never gives you a ticket).

To get back to the rugby. For almost half an hour after the game, my mother gave me an analysis on why France had lost so despondently and why she thought “our boys” would do well at Twickenham “vis coming weekend”.

“You can't underestimate England,” she said, “they played a good game against the All Blacks.

“But good isn't good enough. Vinning is vot counts.”

I put down the phone and thought, right. Okay. That's great, two little old ladies well into their eighties and they're crazy about rugby.

“Well, you have to get your lunacy from somewhere,” said my good friend Betty when I mentioned the above conversation to her.

My friend Nomsa was more specific. “Why are you surprised, Carol,” she said.

“These old people, of course they're terrific. My mother built her house by herself without any help, brick by brick, when my father was working on the mines. She even made the bricks herself. She worked as a domestic for over 60 years and on her salary managed to educate all her children.

“She only learnt to read when she was in her thirties. Today, she's 86, still grows enough vegetables to feed everyone, reads the newspapers daily and is keenly interested in the present power struggle in the ANC. Don't underestimate our elders.”

I don't. Yesterday morning I arrived at my mother's flat to find her stove dismantled.

“What's happening?” I exclaimed.

“The front plate isn't working, so I'm fixing it,” she replied sharply.

“Ma, why don't you call an electrician?” I suggested.

“What on earth for?” she said.

Quite. What a stupid question.

After all, this is my 83-year-old mother who's refused a dinner invitation this Saturday night because she doesn't want to miss watching the Springboks beating England.

Ag ja, no, well, fine.

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