Carol’s Column

Boerewors is the bane of my life

THE business of living is so difficult these days. Oh, I'm not talking about money — or the lack of it — that's an endemic problem. No, I mean the fact that everything is a decision these days.

From that first moment when you jump out of bed you have to make a decision. Should I get up today? Or, should I cancel the next five years and stay here forever?

This mattress is uncomfortable. Perhaps we should buy a waterbed? Or firm foam for a bad back? Or a really hard mattress? In fact, we should have a soft one for me and a hard one for my spouse.

It doesn't stop.

Shall I shower or bath today? Dammit, which toothpaste should I use? Gel, foam or paste? The tingle tongue tartar fighter, or the anti-plaque menthol tasting, fluoride version with the breath freshener and gum stimulator?

I feel so despondent. How can I expect PW to keep South Africa going when I can't keep my own house in order?

Take this morning.

In the space of five minutes, I'd sprayed my hair with deodorant and my delicate underarm area with Whoosh and Cook. You might wonder what a can of Whoosh and Cook was doing on the bathroom shelf. It's simple really.

In an attempt to annihilate an army of ferocious toothpaste eating ants, I'd mistakenly used a can of Whoosh and Cook instead of Dreadnought Insect Killer. Similar in shape, size and colour, the Whoosh and Cook somehow jumped into my hand.

There was worse to come. "There's something wrong with this shaving cream," shouted my spouse, brandishing his shaving brush. "It's foaming not lathering".

By now, his face had completely disappeared. In place of his head, was a bubbling mass of foam, expanding all the time.

"Something's wrong," he gurgled.

Now, contraceptive foam has its uses. For instance, it makes the best snow on Christmas tree branches and it's great for writing graffiti on windows. Yes, it has many uses, but shaving is not one of them.

Of course, it could have been worse, he could have lathered up with the can of Instant Cement Tile Glue or the Clear Sealer, both on the shelf next to the shaving cream.

Life is one big decision. What to wear, where to go, how to go, with whom should you go? Where to go on holiday? What car to buy? Should you eat muesli or bran, fruit or rice popsicles for breakfast?

Should you support the Nats and disaster, the Progs and disaster or the ANC and disaster?

Some decisions have broken up marriages.

Take Gershon and Greta Ginkel who couldn't decide where their dog Fungus should sleep.

Fungus was so named because the Ginkels maintained that although a misfit in looks, he grew on you.

According to Gershon, the only suitable place for Fungus to rest, was the marital bed.

Greta, on the other hand, bought Fungus the most exquisite synthetic fur-lined basket in which she placed a goose-down dog duvet. She put the basket at the foot of the bed, as, she maintained, the Ginkel bed was not big enough for her, Gershon and Fungus.

A dogmatic man, Gershon slept in the basket for several nights.

Eventually, Greta complained that Fungus, unlike Gershon, snored so a compromise was reached. Gershon, Fungus and Greta would share the bed, with Gershon sleeping between Greta and Fungus to keep the peace.

One morning, the Ginkels awoke to find Fungus squashed and lifeless. Gershon never forgave himself, or Greta and, eventually, after much soul-searching, the Ginkels parted company. Greta ran away with a bank manager while Gershon moved in with a sheepdog.

I discussed the problem with my good friend Betty.

"I couldn't bear it this morning," she agreed. "My heart broke for my poor, overworked husband as I watched him make momentous decision after momentous decision. "Shall I wear my tartan underpants, or the floral? The grey suit or the navy?"

I could only sympathise.

The day is fraught with decisions.

At the garage it's the same. "Regular or super or Sasol?" asks the attendant.

"Petrol, I want petrol."

At the supermarket, it takes me an hour to decide which wors I should buy in order to fill the gaping stomachs of my family. Farmstyle, pimento, old-fashioned flavour, garlic, onion and pepper or curried?

The hairdresser is no better. "Long or short? Curly or straight?" he asks, brandishing his scissors.

At the library. "Thriller, romance, biography or science fiction?" she asks.

At home, I remember we have friends for dinner. I open the freezer and have to take a decision on 17 frozen packets that glare balefully at me. I pick the mince and concoct the most superb moussaka complete with vine leaves, white wine sauce and ground black pepper.

My appreciative guests ooh and aah and praise flows like hot syrup around the table. "How delicious, tasty, exotic, wonderful," they say.

"It was nothing," I murmur modestly.

Just then, there's an agonised cry from Jamie in the kitchen.

"Ma, what shall I feed the dogs?" he shouts, "someone's taken the last packet of pet mince."

Decisions.

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