Carol’s Column

The power of the press strikes again

IT WASN'T a hug of passion. It wasn't even a clinch of desire. No, it was what could be called a mercy maul.

There he stood, Kitt Katzin, South Africa's top investigative journalist. A large, well-formed man with what my teenage daughter might call a rather hot bod. An athletic kind of man, one used to running at least 10 km every day.

He grimaced and twitched. "My back's so sore," he said.

Well, what would you have done? Like Florence Nightingale I leapt to his aid. "Would you like me to squeeze your back?" I asked sympathetically.

His eyes lit up and he accepted with alacrity. After all, what are friends for?

So, I positioned myself gently behind his muscular back, placed my arms around him and squeezed.

He gave a cry. Of ecstasy, I thought.

And then, he shuddered and stretched.

"Is your back better?" I asked happily.

He looked at me, his eyes glazed, and stumbled away.

As my grandmother the Turkish belly dancer always said: "Do one good deed and your place in heaven will be assured."

I could already see my seat in heaven, right up there in the front row.

The following day, a haggard-looking Kitt arrived at my desk. He was bent over double and his face looked tortured. He's embarrassed, I thought to myself. How nice.

"I've just come from the doctor," he said, "and he said I must commend you."

I was thrilled. "You mean I cured your backache?" I trilled with joy.

"No, you've broken two of my ribs" he growled, "but the doctor said you'd done a wonderful job. They're both cleanly broken, no splinters or jagged edges, just zap and clean down the middle."

"You're joking?" I whispered in shock.

It will suffice to say that he was not joking and the man who broke the Information Scandal, the man responsible for Muldergate, the man who has felled the mighty, had in turn been felled by a middle-aged midget mother of many.

I was horrified. "I'll bring you some chicken soup tomorrow," I offered, "the real thing with a feather floating in it so that you know it's not synthetic."

I was appalled, I couldn't believe it.

Which goes to show that a breakfast of muesli and cream cheese sprinkled with sultanas is good for you.

My family didn't believe it either. "But he's twice your size," said Nicky. "You're so little you couldn't possibly have broken Kitt's ribs."

I flexed my muscles almost bursting the seams of my batwing sleeves. The family looked at me with new respect.

But it was Jamie who was inspired.

"Ma, this is the beginning of a brand-new career for you," he said, his eyes flashing. "You can become a wrestler. We can call you Kalahari Carol."

As quick as a flash, the names flew from the Lazar lips seated around the table. "What about The Masked Mother? Or The Crusher, or Constrictor Carol, or King Kong Carol, or Killer Carol?

"What's wrong with Macho Mother?" said Nicky enthusiastically. "And you can wear a lurex leopard skin."

"You'll make millions," agreed Barry. "With a little bit of training and a lot of extra nourishment, we can build you up into something really big. Look at it this way, if you can crack Kitt Katzin's ribs with a gentle squeeze in just two seconds, just think what you could do to a whole body in 10 minutes?"

My mind boggled.

"We'll get Magnus Malan to teach you the grips," said Barry, "and for a finishing course we'll send you off to Japan to learn from the master himself, Hung Fong Wong."

Which is why I'm eating five steaks, eight eggs and 10 pieces of toast for breakfast, pasta for lunch and liver for dinner. I've enrolled at the local gym and I'm pumping iron to get my pectorals and maximus glutaei into trim.

If we can arrange 20 local wrestling bouts and then two internationals, I stand to make R247 000 in one year. Well, that's what Jamie calculated.

Little does Kitt Katzin know how he has changed my life.

PS ... anyone for a cuddle?

PPS ... sorry Kitt.

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