Carol’s Column

Needed now — inflatable mum for deflated dad

IN CASE you have left your Father’s Day present a little late — I believe there is a new toy available for the father who has everything.

Or wishes he had.

Called a Mechanical Mother, it comes complete with a detachable wig, hands and feet for easy cleaning.

Another interesting fact about this remarkable toy is that it has interchangeable parts.

If you don’t care for the original model that comes with blonde hair and a Marilyn Monroe face, you can change her for a brunette or even a punk-purple.

The reason I know about this toy is simple.

A week ago, while eating a happy family dinner — the discussion got round to this weekend. And more specifically — today. Father’s Day.

The conversation was stimulating, as usual.

“Jamie, shut your mouth while chewing.

“Who’s slurping spaghetti?

“I can hear spaghetti being slurped. I know I’m not imagining things. A slurped spaghetti is a slurped spaghetti.”

“Ma, stop the Spanish Inquisition,” said my oldest son. He’s the one who is writing matric and never has time to wash the dishes, put water into my broken car radiator and mow the lawn because he’s busy swotting, swotting, swotting.

The same one who finds time to watch ‘Pop Shop’, ‘Not The 9 O’clock News’ and go boardsailing because it relaxes the brain for swotting, swotting, swotting.

“You sound like Justice Goldstone,” he added.

“Penetrating, piercing — you haven’t let up for a moment. Is it important who slurped the spaghetti?”

My paternal great-grandmother, who was the only Jewish belly dancer in the whole of Stellenbosch, always used to say: “It’s not the facts that matter — it’s the principle that’s important”.

I repeated her saying.

The children were not impressed.

“Ma,” said son-number-two, “Let’s discuss more important things. Next Sunday is Father’s Day, so we have to find something out of the ordinary for Daddy.”

“So let’s buy him a pair of socks and a woollen scarf,” I suggested. Brightly, I thought.

Son-number-two shuddered.

“Ma, you are a failure. You are unimaginative and uncreative. Leave Father’s Day to us.”

It was after much more discussion in the same vein that I heard of the Mechanical Mother.

They were all very enthusiastic about the idea.

“She’s costly,” they agreed. “We’ll have to sell our Krugerrands and even mortgage Jamie’s BMX bike — but think of the advantages.”

“Advantages?” I inquired. Every good mother must show an intelligent interest in her offspring’s ideas.

Barry explained: “She comes in every shape and size. She feels real. Her eyes blink and she smiles constantly.”

Ralph continued: “She cooks like Clement Freud, speaks like Bea Reid, sings like Barbra Streisand and looks like Raquel Welsh.

“Furthermore, she’s on a battery and you can charge her up when she’s run down.”

Lucky Mechanical Mother.

“C’mon, Ma,” begged my only daughter, “it’ll be something different.”

I confess, I was a little intrigued. Imagine a Mechanical Mother. Besides, I could take a rest every now and again.

I mean, who has to have a headache or a sore back when there’s a Mechanical Mother around?

She could fix the kitchen drain, replaster the walls, rewire the house, give the dog an enema and do all those other little things that somehow never get done.

Yes, it was tempting.

Which is why this morning I am hiding in the wardrobe as the kids pop our new Mechanical Mother into bed with their still slumbering father.

I can hear the children singing ‘Happy Father’s Day to you’. How delightfully discordant the sound.

Ah, I hear a grunt. Father has woken.

I hear a smacking sound and then a Bea Reid giggle. Then I hear him say: “Honey, you haven’t looked so good for years.

“Why, I haven’t seen you smile since we went on honeymoon.”

A thought crosses my mind.

Indeed, this could be a permanent arrangement.

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