Carol’s Column

And a happy Christmas to you too

YOU know it's Christmas when everything grinds to a standstill.

Take our drains. Last Thursday morning I was awakened by a pungent, unfamiliar fragrance that wafted upstairs and permeated that chamber of connubial bliss wherein my husband, the cat and I slept.

"Tell the kids to put their socks in the wash basket," mumbled the man in my life.

To cut a long story short, it wasn't the kids' socks.

Instead, the backyard was awash with water, tea leaves, small potato peel cuttings and other things.

I phoned the municipality blocked-drains division. They promised to come immediately.

Things came to a head three days later when my daughter left her gas mask at a friend.

I phoned them again.

"You've got to do something. Our drains are blocked — it's a health hazard."

The gentleman at the other end was charming.

"Happy Christmas, lady," he said. "Look, I know it's taking a little longer than normal, but I'm short-staffed. It's Christmas. You know how it is."

I know how it is.

A month ago, while roasting a chicken in beer, our stove, overcome by the fumes, died.

The stove repair-man was helpful. "This stove is obsolete," he remarked on first acquaintance. "I'd throw it away if I were you."

He dismantled it and departed carrying the innards to some secret hideaway from whence he has never returned.

On phoning, a disembodied voice murmured: "A merry Christmas and a happy New Year. Arthur is on holiday and this is a colindictor speaking. When you hear a peep, please record your message. Leave your name and number." The message ends with a tuneless rendering of "Jingle Bells".

During a thunder storm, a section of the roof flew off leaving the main bedroom exposed to the elements.

The roof-repairman is away for the Christmas vacation which is why we've pitched a tent in the bedroom and are sleeping al fresco, so to speak.

On Thursday I discovered a rat at the bottom of the garden.

I phoned the rat catcher who has always been most prompt in the past.

"A happy Christmas," he said. "Look, I'm snowed under at the moment — why don't you just soak some pawpaw in brandy and leave it at the bottom of the garden. That'll fix your rats for Christmas.

"They won't bother you again."

This morning we were woken by a knocking on the door. Outside stood two, very tipsy rats.

"Happy Christmas," they said merrily.

Mind you, I could have been wrong.

■