Carol’s Column

Hello Baryshnikov, my name's Carol

HMMM. So Sol and Anneline have finally split for good. Well, that's what the newspapers said this week.

It was the main topic of discussion at the book club on Tuesday night. We dashed through Christopher Hope, David Robbins and J M Coetzee in three minutes flat, decided we'd order 14 copies of "Flabless at Forty" — one for each member — and then got on to Sol and Anneline.

"She shouldn't have married him," said Gertrude Ginkel, filing her nails into perfect ovals so that she would make a good impression and prove to women with unreal nails that she was better groomed than they were. "I mean, would you if you had the choice?"

Ten women said "yes" immediately which surprised me.

"The trouble with you, Carol," said Myrtle Hogg. "Is that you're so pedestrian. Think of all that money, the power, the charisma. Isn't that a turn-on for you?"

"Yes, of course it is, but it's like the Klutmik diamond. You want the Klutmik diamond and you have to take Mr Klutmik too. Now who wants Mr Klutmik?"

"So you want romance too?" said Gertrude Ginkel. "Don't be ridiculous, don't be so naive. How long do you think romance lasts in the average marriage? Three minutes, three years? Phweet!" she snorted.

"How many of us would still be married to our husbands if we didn't have children, dogs and washing machines to keep us together?" asked my good friend Betty.

From Sol and Anneline it was a logical jump to affairs.

"Every woman needs an affair to keep her happy," chimed Myrtle Hogg. "There comes a time when every middle-aged drudge needs to be swept off her bunions and made to feel like a Bo Derek."

"You can always tell when someone's having an affair," contributed Agatha Crump, who had remained remarkably silent throughout this scintillating verbal exchange.

"When a friend of yours has a facelift, shaves her legs daily and has her hair dyed every three weeks, you know she's having an affair," she added darkly.

We all looked at Myrtle whose face had recently been pulled up to the top of her head leaving her looking distinctly Oriental and in distress.

"Anyway", continued Agatha, "we should all break loose. Our husbands take us totally for granted."

"What about it?" Betty asked me as we walked to the car afterwards.

"About what?" I answered.

"Having an affair," she said.

"Oh, great, great," I replied as I tripped over a stray hosepipe breaking the heel of my seven-year-old real suede Hush Puppy boots. "Tomorrow I'm going bike riding at 6 am, then I've got to make the kids breakfast, take them to school, take Motorcat to the vet, meet the carpet man to show him where the carpet's lifting, buy the vegies, go to work, dash home to take Nicky to athletics, dash back to work, fetch Jamie from play practice, fetch Motorcat from the vet, then dress to kill to go off to the all-sports dinner at school. I can't fit an affair in tomorrow. There's no time."

Betty nodded despondently. "My day's worse," she said.

We both sighed.

"Anyway," I added, "my husband doesn't take me for granted."

That night I looked in the mirror. It was horrible so the following day I booked an appointment with a plastic surgeon, bought neck, face and eye cream, had my hair cut in a Nastassja Kinski style and trotted off to Josette for a total wax, massage and body treatment.

It wasn't that I was looking for sin, you understand, it's just I wanted to give the book club girls something to talk about.

The end result was quite spectacular, I thought.

That night I waited expectantly for my spouse to return from his long day at a business lunch.

And then in he sailed, ruffled Liquorice-the-labrador's head as she sat in her usual chair by the door and said "I like your new hairstyle."

Suddenly he caught sight of me in the opposite chair. "I thought Liquorice was you," he guffawed.

"So, did you have a good day?" he asked as he sat down and opened the paper.

"Yes. I was feeling drudge-like so I went and had a complete renovation job," I said loudly.

"Hair, body, face — the lot. I've enrolled at flamenco dancing classes, I'm learning to paint, play the guitar and sing. Tomorrow I'm going to Arthur Murray to have fun. In fact, perhaps I'll meet a local Baryshnikov who does ballroom dancing to loosen up and he'll sweep me off my feet and take me to Tahiti where we'll live happily ever after making glorious love under the palm trees with my new hairdo, cellulite-free thighs and waxed legs."

"That's nice," said my husband as he turned the page, "I'm glad you had a nice day."

Baryshnikov, Baryshnikov, wherefore art thou?

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