Carol’s Column

Romance is alive and well and snoring happily upstairs

ALACK, Valentine's Day comes but once a year. What a pity.

"Valentine's Day is so romantic," I said to my family as we relaxed on the stoep enjoying the mosquitoes, our neighbour's highpower electric saw and the sound of motorbikes revving up and down the street.

"Ma, you're crazy," said Jamie, "the Romans started the whole thing with the Feast of Lupercalia. The men beat the women with animal skins, and the women actually loved it because they thought it would make them fertile. You call that romance?"

"Times have changed," muttered Nicky.

Then: "Actually, you can blame the whole thing on Claudius the Goth. In AD 269, clever man, he banned marriage and then lopped the head off a priest called Valentine who secretly married lovers."

Well, I still think the best thing about Valentine's Day is that it is an occasion for romance which is why I decided I'd prepare something special for the father of my many masticating mouthholes.

I booked an appointment at a beautician and asked for the total treatment.

"I want everything," I said bursting with such enthusiasm that my false uppers flew out of my mouth.

"Modom, you need everything," said a kingklip-faced receptionist with pointed nostrils. "The body's bad but it can be hidden, it's the face that's the problem. Has Modom ever thought of a facelift?" That was on Monday.

On Tuesday, I invested in an erotic perfume made from the leaf of the Venus flycatcher, on Wednesday I bought a pair of French knickers with Nicaraguan lace, on Thursday I had my nails done with rose glitter and on Friday, I found the cutest little black dress sprinkled with crimson hearts.

Yesterday was a busy day. I spent the morning creating a Valentine dinner that would turn the man in my life into a rampant Romeo and broke three rose-glittered nails on the oyster shells. Oysters were to be followed by an Arabian delicacy of borax, fruit of the mastic tree, cinnamon, milk and a goat's testicle. I skipped the last ingredient as the goat was not happy. The recipe promised that this would drive the eater "mad with desire".

Then came bananas grilled in their skins because reputedly, the cunning skin contains an alkaloid which has highly romantic properties. The finale was Eros pudding, a chocolate delight with a plus, as my culinary muse informed me that chocolate contained phenylethylamine, a mood-altering chemical reputed to give the body a feeling of bliss.

I spent the afternoon closeted with my hairdresser who turned my locks into a seductive masterpiece designed to make my spouse pant lustily into the champagne.

Then, last night, I laid the table, adding candles and roses. It was no good waiting for today, I knew there just wouldn't be time for romance what with tennis, schlepping the kids, mowing the lawn and manuring the dahlias.

I changed into my festive dress with the red hearts, lit the candles and waited for my husband to waft downstairs.

An hour later, the candles had melted, the oysters had curled, the Arabic concoction exploded and the mousse was almost dead. I dashed upstairs to find the object of my ardour snoring rhythmically in time to the swimming pool filter.

Just then, the doorbell rang. Outside stood our friendly summons man.

My grandmother, the Turkish belly dancer, always said "compromise".

Interestingly enough, the summons man had never eaten oysters before and he admitted he preferred boerewors. But he loved the Arabic delicacy and thought the mousse came a close second to ice-cream and chocolate sauce.

It just goes to show.

And a happy Valentine's Day to you too.

■