Carol’s Column

The diningroom table’s the backbone of the family: Help! We’ve just collapsed

THE diningroom table is the backbone of a family.

It’s the one place where there is family togetherness.

While crunching and munching away, it is the one place where the family unit can be together discussing world issues and other interesting topics.

So why should my family be any different?

“Can you have an abortion if you were raped?” asked son-number-three, Jamie, last night.

An intelligent question, a thoughtful, probing question, I thought.

“Yes,” I replied. “It’s one of the few cases where abortion is legalised in this country.”

There was silence as we all chewed the leftover meatballs and spaghetti I’d cunningly disguised as an exotic Indonesian dish with a garlic sauce.

“What are we eating?” asked my spouse, a man of great perception with a delicate palate, “it tastes like dog food in garlic.”

There are times when I know I should have listened to my great grandmother and steered clear of matrimony.

“Men are not nice,” she used to say. “Besides — from a tax point of view it would have been cheaper to have remained single.”

“How do you have an abortion?” asked Jamie.

“You go into a hospital,” I replied.

“Ma, you’re being evasive,” he noted with asperity. “What I want to know is what do they do?”

“Ah,” I crunched my meatball and pondered.

Being a democratic family, we have always been totally straightforward with the children.

Answered their questions, brought them up honestly so that by the time they turn 21 they’ll know the facts of life.

“Right, well it’s simple really. You scrape the womb and evacuate the unwanted foetus. What do you think of this South African spy? Isn’t it an amazing story.”

“Ma, stop trying to change the subject.”

“OK, Jamie, I’ll draw it for you.” So I did.

Which created further discussion.

“Ma,” said my second son, “that’s incorrect. Eggs don’t only get fertilised in the womb. They can get fertilised in the ovarian tubes too. They’re always rolling.”

I nearly choked on my garlic sauce. “Ralph, I’ve got news for you — there’s no way you were a rolling egg. You and your brothers and sister were firmly entrenched in the correct spot when you happened.”

“Ma, you’re getting aggressive,” said our second son. “The trouble with parents is they resist advance and change. Look at the way Dad still insists on going to work in a horse and cart, it’s archaic.”

The diningroom table is also a place of education — a place of intelligent conversation.

“Shall I shave my legs tomorrow?” asked our oldest unmarried son.

His father’s eyebrows twitched alarmingly.

Accused of being a repressive father, he restrained himself: “What the hang are you going to shave your legs for? Is this a new teenage fad? Are you crazy?” he bellowed.

“Dad, it’s for a swimming gala. All good swimmers shave their legs, it reduces friction in the water. Mark Spitz shaved his whole body when he won seven golds at the Olympics.”

“You look better with hair, it hides you,” muttered my husband. Ungraciously, I thought.

“What do you think of our own, home-grown Russian spy?” I asked brightly.

Barry looked at me. “Ma, Sacke says he’ll write your columns for you in future — he didn’t like the plant monitor one, he said you reached an all-time low.”

“Tell Sacke I’ll send him to Siberia — and what do you think of the navy spy?”

It’s always good to have a controversial topic or two.

Such as: “I’m not washing up — I washed up last night.”

And the Russian spy?

So who needs a Russian spy when there are more fascinating things to talk about such as in-grown toenails, abortion and the fact that Barbra Streisand’s a man in drag?

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