Carol’s Column

When stately homes crumble

THEY say every man's house is his castle. Which is true.

It's just that some castles are more stately than others.

A few weeks ago, I noticed the oak tree had fresh green shoots.

I noticed this while lying in bed gazing through the crack in the bedroom wall.

Good heavens! The crack in the bedroom wall! I shook my spouse awake.

"I think our house is falling apart," I yelled.

"It's not the only thing around here," he grunted as he rolled on his starboard side and disappeared under the pillow.

"Relax," he muttered when I prodded him in the back. "All Johannesburg houses have cracks. It's only serious when the wind sucks your clothes outside."

I observed his grey suit and matching Dior shirt lying on the pergoda.

"It's serious," I said.

The electrical system was the next item to cause trouble.

It had the temperament of a Spanish bullfighter, coming and going at all times, but we only realised it was serious when a small, flat-footed sardine of a man from the electricity department, called one morning and condemned the wiring.

We mortgaged the children in order to pay for rewiring — an extensive job that took several months due to the fact the contractor ran out of wire halfway through the job. Something to do with shortages in the building industry.

For a while, we lived in style with nothing more serious than a leaking geyser which only came to our attention the day the kitchen ceiling collapsed due to the weight of water that collected in the roof.

The plumber, a craftsman of the older school, was overjoyed when confronted with our intricate plumbing system.

"They don't do things like this anymore," he said. "This is a masterpiece of planning. Do you realise it's something short of a miracle that you have hot water — this geyser is 80 years old. Of course it will have to go."

One day, not so long ago, our chimney was dislodged by a family of bald-headed Indian Mynahs who took to roosting in the downpipe under the eaves of the roof.

Amos, a builder highly recommended by a friend of a friend, agreed to rebuild the chimney.

It was unfortunate that he and his ladder fell through the roof causing the greater part of the lounge to be exposed to the elements.

On Thursday evening, my mother-in-law came to dinner, sat down at the diningroom table and fell through the floor, when the sanded and high-gloss bourne gleam Oregon pine floor boards collapsed beneath her.

Which some might consider well-planned. In fact it was merely opportune.

Amos, our by now resident builder, reassured us that it was not white ants.

"Don't worry," he said, pulling on his pipe and shaking his head gravely, "It's just dry rot."

This morning, an estate agent knocked at the door, causing not a little damage to the original brass hinges and lead-plate window, which, in fact, fell out.

"Good morning," she chirped merrily. "Are you interested in selling your house?

"I have the perfect buyer. Someone who is looking for a family home with character, something like this, a little quaint and different.

"Oh, I don't think so, but let's discuss it," said my husband yanking her through the door.

Later he called me into the kitchen.

"For heavens sake, stop saying you'll be so sorry to sell the house," he whispered through clenched jaw, "She might believe you."

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