Carol’s Column

A little drama in life goes a long way

OH, THE day started happily enough.

I floated downstairs in my faded candlewick dressing gown, tripping over Jamie's skate board en route to the kitchen.

Only to find we were out of bread, orange juice, fresh fruit and home-made muesli for breakfast.

So I opened a can of viennas. What could be nicer than sausages and coffee for breakfast? Was it my fault the can was blown and the viennas dead on arrival?

It took an hour instead of the usual 10 minutes to get to work due to severe congestion on the M1.

It was only while seated at my desk trying to find my spectacles lost in the cucumber sandwiches that I noticed my feet did not match.

The left was clad in a nifty little red shoe, while the right looked down-at-heel in scuffed khaki.

Yes, as I say, the day started happily enough.

At 11am, I ate my contact lens when it dropped into the cucumber sandwich.

At 12 noon, the phone rang.

“Hello, Mrs Lazar, this is Rosebank School here.”

“Hello,” I said chirpily. I'm always happy to speak to my kids' school. We've had a long association together — and, over the years, believe me there's been a lot of speaking.

“Nicky's fine. Don't worry. She had a slight accident and fell off the toilet — we think she may have broken her wrist.”

It took me four minutes flat to fly to Rosebank School. On the way I was stopped by a cop who took one look at my face and said: “Lady, do you want an escort?”

Oh, may the sun shine merrily on him and his bike for the rest of his life. Better still — ring me and I'll take you out to a candlelight dinner for three. You me and Nicky.

At Rosebank, lying in the sickbay, surrounded by teachers and children, lay my daughter the invalid.

Her small face white, her pansy eyes wide and her bugs-bunny mouth smileless.

Her little hand looked slightly squiff and her wrist was badly swollen.

She was being brave trying not to cry — so I tried to be brave too. Motherhood's tough sometimes.

“Good heavens, thank goodness it's only a small toilet,” I said, “can you imagine if it had been a high one!”

Accompanied by a tender, loving, caring procession, we made our way to the car.

“Are you alright, Mrs Lazar?” asked Mrs Anderson, the school secretary solicitously. This wasn't the moment to tell her that more than anything else, I longed for a stiff brandy.

I remember someone saying the Transvaal Education Department has strict rules about drinking on school premises before 1pm.

In an hour, Nicky's wrist had been X-rayed, doctored and splinted.

She was full of bounce. I was finished.

Back to the office we flew, accompanied by a duvet and pillow — and there, lying on the floor, next to my desk, my daughter, splint and all, was spoilt rotten by everyone on this newspaper.

There are advantages and disadvantages to being a working mother.

Just then I remembered I'd promised to phone Rosebank School to tell them what happened.

“Ah, Mrs Lazar,” said Mrs Anderson, “I'm so pleased everything's going to be alright. You've had quite a time of it. You must have received a shock when we phoned.”

“Oh, I did, Mrs Anderson, I did. But then, when you've had four children at the same primary school for so many years — you get used to being phoned.

Hello, Mrs Lazar, This is Miss Woodhouse from Rosebank School. Barry has brought the most fascinating object to school for the interest table this morning.”

“Oh really, Miss Woodhouse.” Thank you for phoning to tell me.”

“Well, actually, I thought I should let you know what it is, Mrs Lazar.”

“How kind of you, Miss Woodhouse.

“It's your Dutch cap.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Yes, yes, it's your Dutch cap. I checked with the school nursing sister. So I thought I'd let you know that if you need it, it's lying on the interest table in my classroom.”

Or, “Hello, Mrs Lazar, this is Rosebank School. Don't worry, everything's fine. Somebody kicked Barry in the mouth and his two front teeth are broken and he looks like White Fang.”

Or: “Hello, Carol, this is Lynne Wise speaking. (After so many years, you get to know some of the teachers well.)

“I'm so sorry to hear the news.”

“What news?”

“That you and Rob are getting divorced.”

“We are?”

“Yes, when Mr Wood asked if there was any special news at assembly this morning, little Ralph stood up and told the whole school you'd thrown a breadroll at Rob this morning and you were leaving for ever.”

Or: “Hello, Carol. This is Sandy Brink here from Rosebank School. Those ducks Jamie brought to school for the nature project have run away. We locked them in the classroom but they escaped. Don't worry, we've mobilised the entire school — we're going to find them.”

Or: “Hello, Carol. This is Brian Barker from Rosebank School. Don't worry, everything's fine. Jamie's had a bad fall in high jump and he's hurt his back. But don't worry, he's moving everything.”

Or: Hello, Carol. This is Brian Barker from Rosebank School. Don't worry, everything's fine. Peter Friedmann's broken his knee and the bone's sticking out of his leg.”

“Brian, you've got the wrong mother. Peter's not my son. Mine are Barry, Ralph and Jamie.”

“Yes, I know, but his folks are away so Barry volunteered you because you're so used to broken limbs.”

Yes, I must admit, very little phases me these days.

I mean, it's not every mother whose 10-year-old daughter breaks a wrist falling off a toilet.

That takes a special kind of talent. It sort of runs in the family.

Do you ever get the feeling it's been one of those days?

■