Carol’s Column

The Wedding causes civil war

THERE was a rumour that Prince Charles and Lady Diana were going to honeymoon at Matjiesfontein.

It was only a rumour mind you.

Then there was another story going around that they would have preferred Muizenberg because of the beautiful beaches.

Well, the truth of the matter is that they would have liked to have gone to Durban but they couldn't get in.

It was fully booked because of the Transvaal school holidays.

But don't worry, with their luck they're bound to find somewhere to go. And at a pinch you could always hire the Caribbean.

Anyway, I reckon that honeymoons are among the most overrated, overexposed, over-exploited pastimes.

In all these years, I've never met anyone who really enjoyed their honeymoon.

Take the Thatchs.

Gertrude and Felix Thatch planned their honeymoon for months.

Wanting a honeymoon they'd remember for the rest of their life, they mortgaged their vehicle and their pedigreed English sheepdog and flew down to Cape Town.

Once there, they booked in at one of the many seaside hotels specially catering for honeymooners.

On the first day of their honeymoon, they decided they'd wanted to bathe au naturel (she'd had a Scandinavian grandmother) and so they made their way to Sandy Bay.

Where they proceeded to undress and join the many other sun-lovers sunbathing tastefully in the nude.

Felix then decided he needed to cool off and popped into the refreshingly icy Atlantic for a swim.

Which was fine.

Except that when he eventually emerged from the water, he had a serious problem.

Before him, lay 20 or so female bodies, pinkish and glistening in the sun. Totally naked other than the sunhats covering the faces. (Facial skin is tender and needs adequate protection you understand).

Felix was beside himself. He didn't recognise Gertrude.

He stumbled embarrassedly from body to body plaintively inquiring: "Er . . . are you by any chance my wife?"

Whereupon one irate male, thinking his companion was being assaulted, punched Felix hard in his solar plexus, causing not inconsiderable discomfort.

Felix did eventually find Gertrude, but only after he'd discovered another attractive brunette with an irresistible navel.

Things were never quite the same between Felix and Gertrude. And sad to say, their marriage didn't last.

Mind you, the above situation couldn't really happen to the future King and Queen of England.

Meanwhile, it is still a mystery where Charles and Diana will spend their honeymoon.

It seems ridiculous, but this important question is threatening to split the family.

In fact, it wasn't until Charles announced his engagement to Di, that I realised how totally incompatible we were.

"Charles has done it," I rejoiced to my husband.

"Charles who?" he said.

"The one and only."

"Charles Chaplin," he replied.

"Don't be ridiculous, Charles Chaplin can't do anything where he is right now," I pointed out logically, "this is the most important social event of the year.

"Prince Charles is betrothed, he's found a wife and you don't even know who I'm talking about."

His reply was characteristic: "What a drag."

And that's how it's been for the past few months.

Our bedroom has become the site of the most bitter civil war since the American War of Independence.

Above my head is a large picture of The Happy Couple, surrounded by smaller prints of Prince Charles boating, sailing, commanding, polo-riding, flying and skiing — not to mention Lady Diana sitting in the garden, standing in the garden and eating in the garden.

Above my spouse's head is a huge poster of Naas Botha.

On my side of the bed stands a wastepaper basket with the Royal heads entwined, a bedside mat with a smiling Charles and Di and an alarm clock that wakes you with the wedding march.

On his side are the entwined flags of New Zealand and South Africa, a rugby ball in the likeness of Johan Claasens' head and a bedside mat of the entire Springbok rugby team.

The final crunch came last night when I ordered the champagne for The Wedding Day.

There was no room to store it because of the three-month's supply of beer for the New Zealand rugby matches.

"This is the end," I yelled to my husband in a fit of pique. "It's either me or the beer — we can't all live in this house."

He opened a can of beer and smiled.

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