Carol’s Column

The naked truth

NOTHING causes more problems in a marriage than a honeymoon.

In fact, I think it's the most over-rated thing since grated cheese. And at least you can do something with that. Cheese sauce on cauliflower is far more satisfying than a honeymoon.

Last week, my good friend Charlotte phoned me in tears.

"Welcome home," I shrieked down the line. "What's it like being an old married lady of three weeks? Ha, ha."

There was silence at the other end.

Then, I heard a wail that made my blood curdle.

"Good heavens, what's the matter?" I shouted, concerned.

"You mustn't get upset, marriage is like that, it has its ups and downs. It's just one of those things you have to learn to live with."

Of course it's always easy to be wise after the event.

There was another silence.

"How was the honeymoon?" I said brightly. "It must have been fun."

"Fun?" That was the first word Charlotte had spoken for minutes, well, I was relieved she was still alive. And then I heard the sorry tale.

The Cocklethwaites (for that was who Charlotte was now — from Charlotte Ham to Charlotte Cocklethwaite) — had married in Cape Town.

The wedding had gone fairly smoothly, other than a maiden aunt of 93 who got stuck in the lavatory.

The fire brigade eventually extricated her after much chipping away at the porcelain bowl. Happily she was none the worse for wear and returned to another bottle of champagne.

After the reception, the Cocklethwaites set off to spend their wedding night among the vines at Lanzerac.

Half way there, Herman, to his horror, discovered he'd lost Charlotte.

He searched the car thoroughly but she was nowhere to be found.

He shot back to Sea Point at top speed to find a tearful Charlotte and his father-in-law loading an elephant gun that had last seen duty prior to the Boer War.

Fortunately, he managed to persuade them it'd been a genuine error. He hadn't noticed he'd left his brand-new spouse behind.

The Cocklethwaites set off for the second time and broke down on a deserted stretch of road near Faure.

They abandoned the car and hitched the last two kilometres to Lanzerac, where they fell into bed, utterly exhausted and far too tired to take advantage of their new status.

The following morning they found the car — and their luggage — had been stolen.

"I didn't mind breakfasting in my wedding gown," said Charlotte tearfully. "We even laughed when we heard the woman at the next table remark: 'God, some people are so obvious. I bet they're not even married.'"

Fortunately the Cocklethwaites discovered their stolen car — they'd actually mistaken the original road — and proceeded on their honeymoon.

They wended their way up the Garden Route and spent their nights pushing single beds together as is the wont of most newly-married couples.

It's only when you've been married for any length of time, two months or so, that single beds become a treat.

Which was fine except that in Mosselbay, the bed parted and Herman slipped heavily to the floor, injuring his collar bone and coccyx and cracking his third left rib.

Which somewhat obstructed his manoeuvrability.

At Plettenberg Bay, the Cocklethwaites discovered a private beach 10km along the shore where they proceeded to tan au naturel.

Herman, a fair-skinned young man, sustained serious sunburn all over and turned an angry lobster red. Especially on the areas of his body that had never before been exposed to the brutal rays of a hot African sun.

Charlotte spent the rest of the honeymoon administering calamine lotion and Vaseline-impregnated gauze to Herman's frizzled body.

After that, Herman didn't even bother to push the beds together anymore said Charlotte sadly.

Perhaps it's appropriate to mention here that Charlotte was a rarity. One of those old-fashioned girls who believed in saving herself for her wedding night.

They cut short their honeymoon and had returned home the previous night.

"Where's Herman?" I asked quietly.

She hiccuped. "He's lying on the bed like a trussed chicken, with his collar bone and rib cage strapped in crepe bandage and most of him is covered in Vaseline gauze."

Experience is what it's all about. In my most comforting voice, I said to Charlotte: "Look, pour yourself a sherry and sit back and relax. The worst is over, the best is still to come. You'll have many more unbandaged nights together."

"I know," she wailed, "that's what's worrying me."

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