Carol’s Column

Who said life was just one big hoot?

YOU only realise how much you miss something when it's gone.

That is the tragedy of life.

And, three weeks ago, I suffered a dreadful loss.

I lost my hooter.

One moment I had it — the next, it was gone. Well, more or less.

The 'more' is that, while driving to work and singing, 'He loves me, yeah, yeah, yeah' to myself, I shook my head in time to the music.

Momentarily, my eyes glanced away from the windscreen, and, before I realised it — I found myself and my red chariot attached to the car in front. Which, indeed, was not a joyous experience for him or me.

The 'less' was that the damage was minimal. His car didn't have a dent. It was only my front grid, lights and bonnet that were scrunched and crunched.

Which meant a visit to my friendly panel beater, Piet.

Now Piet and I have an intimate relationship stretching back for many prangs. In fact, my car can almost steer itself into his garage, which some might say, it very often does.

Piet was delighted to see text cut off in photograph his arms in text cut off in photograph have you done now?” he said, with a piranha grin from ear to ear.

It will suffice to say I almost mortgaged my two oldest children in order to pay for the damages. Such is life.

Piet, always a star, fixed my car within two days.

It was only later that I noticed all was not as it should be.

My hooter had vanished.

Oh, the button was there, but when you pressed it, nothing happened.

Now my father, a resourceful man with a spanner, always taught me to fight my own car problems.

Which is why I opened the bonnet and attempted to locate the missing hooter myself.

I searched everywhere.

Around the carburettor, next to the radiator, underneath the fan belt, next to the cylinder block, behind the tappet cover, between the spark plugs and the distributor, besides the fuel pump, starter motor and generator.

It was nowhere to be found.

I even cleaned the engine in order to facilitate the search. To no avail. It had gone.

This is ridiculous, I thought to myself, so I phoned the car agents.

A snotty young man, answered the phone.

“Good morning,” I said cheerfully. “I wonder if you can help me.”

“Certainly, Modom,” he answered.

“I know this sounds absurd, but I've lost my hooter.”

“I beg your pardon?” he replied.

“My hooter. I've lost it, and I thought you could tell me where to look for it.”

“Hold on,” he said, his voice sounding like well-strained chicken soup without the meat or feathers, “and I'll put you on to Jeremiah.”

Jeremiah was very helpful: “Ho, ho, ho!” he said. “The hooter, he is gone? Ho, ho, ho!”

“Jeremiah, how can I find him?” I asked.

“Ho, ho, ho. The hooter he is gone a long way away,” he laughed. “Never mind. The Madam, she must look in the front of the car next to the light and she will see him sitting next to the grid.”

“The Madam, she must put her hand in there and pull to see the wires are fastened, and then she will find the naughty little hooter.”

I searched everywhere under, in and beside the grid. Nothing. The wires that nestled there belonged to headlights and parking lights.

So, I drove without a hooter. It was nerve wracking.

It's extraordinary how many people on the road are a menace.

In Killarney, a purple-haired grandmother attacked me in her aged Mini.

In Hillbrow, I almost exterminated a traffic officer when he popped up unexpectedly in front of me and I couldn't hoot him out of the way.

At the Zoo Lake, I had to stop for a flock of Egyptian geese to waddle across the road, and, in Rosebank, a Rolls-Royce jumped the queue and stole my parking place because I couldn't blow my horn irately.

My frustration grew daily as I searched for the hooter. I knew it had to be somewhere.

And then, finally, in despair, I phoned Piet.

“Carol, your problem is my problem,” he said over the phone. “Bring the car in and we'll look search together. Between us, we'll find the hooter. We shall overcome.”

So, last week, early on Thursday morning, Piet and I began the search for the hooter.

Underneath the car we crawled in partnership, he leading the way.

“Kyk, my skat,” (when excited he speaks Afrikaans), “can you see the hooter?”

I peered through the darkness. All I could see was Piet's huge, hairy hand holding a spanner.

“It's too dark,” I murmured. “I can't see anything.”

“Let there be light!” he shouted. “Hey, Shorty, bring the light,” he bellowed. And there was light.

And there, in the shining brightness, cunningly hidden, I saw it — the hooter and the hooter wire.

Tenderly, Piet connected the errant wire to the round hooter attachment.

“Right,” he said in a voice of command, “blow the hooter!”

I hooted. There was silence.

Piet and I wept quietly under the car — the disappointment was almost too much to bear.

Together, me holding and he unscrewing the nut, we detached the offending unit. Only to discover a loose wire.

Within seconds, he'd fastened it securely.

“Right,” he said once more, “hoot.”

So I did.

The blast was loud and clear. My hooter was back in operation.

Oh, what a hero, I thought to myself as I looked at Piet standing tall and proud.

This year is leap year and last Wednesday was the day that women traditionally propose to men.

Aah — if only I wasn't already married and if only Piet wasn't married, I would have proposed.

Every girl needs a hooter in her life.

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