Carol’s Column

A big city's for the birds and even they don't want it

GOT a letter from Stella the other day.

A refugee from Johannesburg — she's living it up in that foremost holiday centre on the South Coast. Where else, but Margate?

She's missing the singing, swinging Johannesburg life. Finds Margate lonely, insular, unmotivating and bleak.

I think of her this morning when I break down in the early morning M1 traffic.

Sardine-like, multi-coloured metal tins on wheels, we crawl townwards, hot and bothered, getting more irritable by the centimetre.

It takes an hour to drive four kilometres to the city. Yes, it's true — Johannesburg has something.

It's fun spending an hour driving up and down congested streets looking for a hole in which to park your car. And then you find it, blink the indicator and reverse into a gentleman in a tank-like Chevvy who's parking in the same spot.

"Stupid woman driver!" he yells at me. "Cretinous half-wit!" I yell back. Which is a happy sort of way to start the day.

Later, while shopping, the lift gets stuck in between underwear and men's clothing. Choc-a-block with 14 people, a heavy-breathing garlic-lover and me.

At the post office, six cubicles are gesluit. One is open. It takes half an hour to get to the head of the queue, where the wizened face behind the grid says: "Lunch time," and thwacks his cubicle shut.

Later still, my tooth is killing me so I phone the dentist, tell him it's an emergency and he agrees to see me in three weeks' time.

At school I fetch the wrong children because 1 200 boys in green look the same and two boys get into my car and say: "Hi, Mom." It takes a while to remember we don't have blonds in the family.

Anyway, if I can't tell the difference — the other mothers won't notice. The odds are my own kids won't realise they've got the wrong mother until they've had supper anyway.

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At the supermarket, the trolleys are taken, the veggies are threadbare and the chicken fridge is empty. A packet of giblets won't feed a family of six so I buy spaghetti and head for the till which clings and clangs in time to the piped music which accompanies the special sales pitch.

"You lucky shoppers," the voice says, "today is cabbage day — one cabbage is a bargain 5c, two cabbages are going for 10c and three for an amazing 15c — rush, rush, rush and get your bargain cabbage now."

I rush in vain. The last cabbage is swept from under my nose.

An hour later I sprint to the car, pop the parcels in the boot and shoot off home. Where my kids greet me ecstatically because I've bought them a white poodle puppy.

"What white poodle puppy?" and sure enough, sitting on the sheepskin-covered back seat is a white poodle puppy I've never seen before. Since when have I had sheepskin-covered seats? Oh my God, I've got the wrong car.

Back I zoom to the parking lot and sure enough — there's my car, still vacant. I park, say goodbye to the white poodle puppy who is sitting on my lap, and change cars.

Back home, the lights trip and I discover there's a blackout due to overloading on the main line.

"So what's wrong with cold spaghetti?" I ask my spouse who has had a hard day at the office and is pleased to be home with his happy little family.

"Nothing's wrong with cold spaghetti — but uncooked cold spaghetti is ridiculous," he says. At which stage the phone rings and my mother-in-law wants to know why her TV set is dead, not to mention her stove and fridge.

The doorbell dongs and our friendly neighbours with their six children and four dogs come and join us for cold spaghetti.

It's all too much. What I need is a long holiday in a sleepy joint called Margate.

Hey Stella, air the sheets — I'm on my way.

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