Carol’s Column

The toothmouse strikes again

IT WAS the coming of the toothmouse that made me realise inflation had reared its ugly, multi-pronged head in our household.

Last Sunday morning at the crack of dawn, when the neighbours' dogs were barking us awake and the Indian Mynahs were merrily cacophoning outside the window, there was a ghastly shriek from our youngest unmarried daughter.

"Terrorists!" I screeched to my Prince Snoring, who grunted and rolled over.

Grabbing the iron shoe for broken cartilage and flat feet exercises, I snarled and rushed out. To see the pitiful sight of blood streaming from my daughter's mouth.

"My tooth fell out," said the proudest six-year-old in Africa.

The scream? "Don't worry," said son-number-three with aplomb. "I tied a brick to Nicky's tooth then threw it out of the window."

The family motto is to keep calm. "Couldn't you have opened the window first?" I asked meekly.

That night, the tooth lay in Nicky's mulberry-stained slipper with an additional note saying: "der mr tuthmus, this toth is for you." Jamie had added the brief, but succinct postscript: "At a price."

And so it came about that in the stealth of darkness, my spouse-the-mouse was seen creeping towards that slipper. From whence he took the tooth and left in its place a shiny 5c piece.

The wails next morning were terrible to behold.

Joanne's toothmouse had left 20c, as had David's and Alex's not to mention Damon's.

"It's ridiculous," said the major wage-earner. "This is galloping inflation. Your daughter is pricing her teeth out of the market."

As usual, we compromised and that night spouse-mouse did the return trip with an extra 15c and a note saying: "Dear Nicky, I'm sorry, I only left you 5c last night, I ran out of small change."

Happiness is a munificent toothmouse.

Worse was to come. The tyre of Barry's racing bike was spiked to death when he ran over a bed of nails.

"That'll be R13,99," said the friendly bicycle-shop man as he handed over the new wheel.

"But it's just a retread I want, not a new bike," I emoted. "Keep the wheel!"

Meanwhile, on the home front pressure mounted. "I'm the only boy in Greenside High that rides to school on a one-wheel bike," said my son this morning.

"So what?" I answered. "It gives your front wheel a rest."

Our bed was next on the inflation list. I realised it had to go when I saw my man sleeping on the floor without having to get out of bed.

Fifteen years of connubial bliss had exhausted the springs and it was time to look for another padded playground.

The choice was endless — the prices astronomical. Eventually we followed the advice of a serious salesman in black who stated categorically: "Your bed is not a reflection of your bank balance, it's a reflection of your inner soul." We bought two plastic-coated camp stretchers.

Who needs a luxury, foam-padded innerspring bed on four-way castors?

Even multi-coloured Plural balls have gone up in price. [TEXT LOST IN PHOTOCOPY] are the technicolour gobstoppers of the old days, that cost half a cent and filled a mouth-hole for days.

Today you pay 2c for a fraudulent ball that hardly changes colour and barely fills a gap in your tooth.

And talking about teeth, the financial giant of the family, while eating spaghetti at dinner last night, observed that our second son Ralph's teeth had sent our orthodontist overseas three times this year.

"Did I have orthodontistry when I was a child?" he asked, slurping the strands through his gaps. "Was it necessary?"

The final of the inflation act happened this afternoon when I arrived home from another day of working for ballet, judo, swimming, tennis, weight-lifting, art and gym lessons.

"I need R3 for my class party," my 14-year-old son announced. "50c for a movie, R1 for sweets, chips and pickled cucumbers, and R1,50 because Walner's trying to get Glenda Kemp and her snake."

I knew Father-Dear would hit the roof. He did.

With beetled brow and flashing eyes he bellowed: "Can I come too?"

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