Carol’s Column

Bite the dust baby, cos here I come

THERE was no doubt about it — powerful, sleek, elegant, with a magnificent body. It was quite the most handsome thing I'd ever seen, touched or driven.

Er ... and expensive.

Well, by now, you've probably guessed it wasn't my husband, Ari Onassis or a dashing lover I was talking about.

In fact, you may be wondering what a plump, middle-aged mother of four, with sagging chins and things, was doing driving R125 000-worth of Lamborghini Espada.

Believe me, so was Klaus Grogor, the guy sitting in the passenger seat.

Under normal circumstances, like his car, he's a handsome, sleek fellow. Right now, he looked distinctly grey. His fists were clenched and was it my imagination, or had his blond hair really turned white within the past 10 minutes?

It happened this way, over what started out as a pleasant breakfast.

"If you write about my snoring once again, I'll divorce you," said my spouse. "Whenever I meet people, I'm introduced as the bald-headed man with flat feet who snores and lives with a crazy wife."

He looked hurt.

"But darling," I murmured through my dentures, "you're the most fascinating thing around. Even my mother thinks you're divine and you know how high her standards are."

He scowled: "She married your father, she thinks you're Elizabeth Taylor and that her four grandchildren are geniuses. No, her standards are faulty.

"Find something else fascinating to write about."

Which is why, last Monday morning, on my way to the supermarket, I happened to pass by the House of Sports Cars and there — streamlined and amazing, was quite the most fascinating thing I'd ever seen.

The car was nice too, so what the hang?

A gentleman — Mr Grögor, approached. I explained the crisis in my life and, a kindly man, he agreed to let me try like a millionaire for a short while.

And I found myself behind the wheel of this not inexpensive Lamborghini.

We had a pep-talk before I came to grips with the dashboard.

Oh, that dashboard! Lights glittered, dials flashed, glass sparkled, knobs knobbed. And all set in chamois leather too.

It looked like the control panel of a Jumbo Jet.

"Most impressive," I murmured to Klaus — we were now on first-name terms, you understand, not wanting him to think I was at all apprehensive.

"Ah ... the gear?" I asked delicately.

His eyes lit up and he sighed visibly with relief. "This is an automatic, an amazing feature in a thoroughbred sports car that goes at 275km/h with ease and seats four in comfort."

Great comfort. There's so much leg-room, I found myself lying flat along the genuine pig-skin leather seats, my legs stretched, in vain, towards the pedals.

With a gentle push of a knob, the seat, with me attached, slid towards the steering wheel and we were ready for blast-off.

That it's a whole lot of heaven and then some.

The 12 cylinders (which is a remarkable amount of cylinderage for those of you who might be ignorant of such technical data) trembled. I put my foot down, and we were off.

What do you say about a car that flies through the air, leaving lesser mortals a gasping blur in the distance?

"Don't worry about cops," I said gaily to Klaus. "If she does 275km/h we'll be gone before they realise we're there."

He didn't hear me. His eyes were shut tight and I could hear him praying.

"I'm only joking," I said, slowing down to a sedate 60km/h.

"Watch out for that truck," he grimaced through clenched jaw.

From a kilometre away, I saw a truck approaching. "Don't worry," I said, "you're quite safe. I've never smashed a car. Well, not really, it's always been the other driver's fault."

He shuddered.

For once, it gave me pleasure to be able to stop at robots because everybody stared.

I know exactly how Prince Philip and Donna Wurzel feel when people stare — and it's a fantastic sensation.

As we shot along, holding the road, the suspension softer than the softest duck-down duvet, I shed my chins and things and got a taste of glamour. I felt like Raquel Welch, never mind Elizabeth Taylor.

By now, due to the fact that we were still on the road and hadn't as yet, hit anything, Klaus volunteered some information.

"It has all the usuals and unusuals. Electric heated windows, tinted windows all the way round, airconditioning, radio tapedeck, a fantastic performance. This is a sports car among sports cars. A top-range sports car."

"Don't tell me baby," I breathed.

There was one problem. I found difficulty parting with the Lamborghini.

And it was a let-down to say the least, climbing into my trusty steed with the hatchback convenient for shopping bags and satchels.

That night, I leered at my husband across the macaroni cheese.

"You'll be pleased to know," I said demurely. "I've found something more fascinating than you to write about."

"You have," he looked sceptical.

"And it has high-performance and is comfortable."

He didn't smile.

"Of course I'd never really think of buying one. I mean who really needs a R125 000 Lamborghini Espada?"

He choked.

I continued happily: "Of course we can get it at a snip because it's second-hand, for R55 000. In fact, did you know there's a 12-month waiting list for this car because it's so special? It's not a spit-and-dab job like mine."

And then he laughed. "You're amazing," he said. "You have this fantastic imagination. I mean who in their right mind would let you loose in a Lamborghini. Ha ha."

"Ha, ha, yourself," I retorted.

That night in bed, I lay awake listening to the usual Lazar night-sounds which I am not allowed to mention, and remembered a magical car that made me feel like a queen.

I thought of what son-number-three said when I kissed him goodnight. "But Ma, you always said a car was just a means of getting from one place to another."

Oh yeah? I thought to myself, but there are means and means. And fell asleep to the happy sound of my husband's snoring.

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