Carol’s Column

Putting old ties where your ‘tush’ is

Where do ties go when they are no longer wanted. Is there a market for discarded ties? Or could it be possible there is a great tie orphanage somewhere in the sky.

These were the thoughts that crossed my mind when I recently opened my husband's cupboard and observed at least 70 ties hanging from the lopsided do-it-yourself rail he so valiantly installed many years ago. There, stashed away on the top shelf, were at least double that amount again.

This large quantity of ties was in itself a mystery.

As with so many other long-standing marriages, there is virtually nothing about which we agree.

We differ politically: I call him a fascist, he says I am a communist. Musically, he hums Gilbert and Sullivan, I like jazz. His ultimate car is a Lancia Thema. I drool over a Landy. He thinks I look like a prison warder when I wear lipstick; hard and unyielding; I think lipstick makes me look not unlike Greta Garbo in her prime.

But on the question of ties we are in total agreement. We both believe ties are absurd. Uncomfortable for those who wear them and an anachronism from the days when we were ruled by the Brits.

In hot South Africa they seem particularly ridiculous.

Which is why his large tie collection is such a mystery.

Over the years, he wore a tie because that was the fashion. At school he had no choice and in the business world, it was expected. Then, every man wore a suit and tie or a sports jacket, shirt and tie.

Even today in the year 2000, there are still restaurants which insist that male diners wear jackets and ties before they are allowed to enter the establishment's pretentious portals to eat the meal for which the customer is paying.

It seems a man is not able to enjoy food unless he is constrained by a jacket and wears a long piece of cloth knotted around his Adam's apple.

However, these days, my man hardly ever wears a suit or even socks, let alone a tie.

"These ties must go," I announced, my arms overflowing with the lengthy fashion accessories.

"Don't be silly, I've had some of those ties all my life," he replied. "You'd be throwing away my past.

"Look, this is my Parkwood Primary School tie, and this is my old Parktown Boys' High tie. It's a collectors piece."

"It's a particularly ugly striped tie. The broad red and black stripes have faded and you can still see the stains from the food that missed your mouth." was my reply.

"This tie stays," he said clutching it.

There was the silk tie he wore for our wedding, the string tie he bought in London, ties given by a Danish girlfriend, long married with six children and thick thighs. Impulsive ties, I'd bought him for presents.

Eventually, we compromised. "You find a suitable home for them and they can go," he said.

I phoned various charities.

"There is no demand for ties," I was told. "We need shirts, jerseys, suits and jackets but nobody wears ties these days especially since the Madiba shirts came into fashion."

I then phoned a tie factory. "Fortunately there's not a market for recycled ties," said the chief executive officer, Jaco Kruger.

And then I found the perfect solution to my tie problem. Unwanted ties make great stuffing for cushions and it took just a few hours to fill six newly acquired cushion covers.

"I see my ties have gone," said my spouse only yesterday. "I hope to a worthy place," he added.

"Totally," I replied observing his backside happily residing upon a soft, plump cushion.

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