Carol’s Column

I'm the Queen of the crumbling castle

THEY say an Englishman's home is his castle. I understand that because my home has become a castle with a moat.

It happened this way.

"I think we should renovate our house," said my husband as he cracked his head for the 74 009 time on the kitchen door which only allows people under 1,65 m to pass. He is 1,84 m tall which creates a problem if he does not remember to bend his head as he enters through the kitchen.

We have an old Parkwood house built in 1907 which we bought because I could see the oak trees through the crack in the bedroom walls and it made me feel at home. All Capetonians love oak trees.

It has many rooms which is fine as we have many children. Euphemistically described as a character home, it has plumbing that sings, eclectic electricity and a gas stove born at the turn of the century.

Nevertheless, when my husband suggested we alter the house, I didn't take him seriously until Monday morning two weeks ago when I dashed out to do the early-morning-swimming-training lift and fell down a hole. Six large men were channelling my garden away from under my not small nose.

"What are you doing?" I asked with much aplomb. I am a great early morning aplomber.

One, an Arnold Schwarzenegger clone, introduced himself as Ernest and smiled. "Good morning," he rumbled, "we are the builders." We shook hands and I checked to see if my hand was still attached to my arm, so hard did he squeeze.

I was thrilled. "What do you think of that?" I trilled to my youngest unmarried daughter on the way to school.

"Well, he's got a hot bod," said my daughter with the critical eye of a teenager.

"I mean the building," I snapped.

"I think it's crazy," said Nicky. "Our house is fine the way it is."

"Rubbish, it's going to be transformed from a dilapidated slum into a magnificent mansion," I enthused.

"Who said?"

"Pik Botha," I answered which kept her quiet all the way to school.

Our builders were keen. On Monday they smashed the sewerage pipe while digging the channel in which to lay the herds of new pipes that had collected on the pavement outside. Next to the pipes were mounds of bricks, sand and stones.

On Tuesday, just as I'd finished applying bleach to my moustache, the bell rang.

"Good morning," said a stranger with a clipboard and a large black book clutched under his left armpit. "I am the building inspector and you are causing an illegal blockage on the pavement outside.

"And, while I am here, I have noticed that your carport is an illegal construction because it does not comply with building regulation 321 as it only has three legs and therefore I shall have to issue a summons and you will have to pay a fine of R5 742,96 or pull it down. Unless of course, you put up a fourth leg. In which case the fine will be reduced.

"However," he continued, "if you go to the sixth floor of the Civic Centre and get a hoarding permit I won't fine you for causing a blockage on the pavement."

I dashed off to acquire a hoarding permit. On arrival, the clerk, a small kipper-faced man, leaned forward and beckoned me closer. Perhaps he wanted a R2-million bribe. "Madam, you have some porridge on your upper lip," he whispered.

Good heavens, the bleach. I paid for the permit and rushed home to remove it before my face dissolved only to find a queue for the upstairs bathroom as the downstairs toilet was still out of action.

On Wednesday it rained and I pitched a tent in the bedroom as the electrician had fallen through the ceiling while rewiring. On Thursday it rained into the kitchen and the freezer floated out of the door and was last seen bobbing down Glamorgan Road.

On Friday there was a 5 m-wide and 2 m-deep trench surrounding the house. Then came a torrential downpour and we were cut off from the world. We ferried supplies across in a dinghy while Nicky and her friends windsurfed.

On Saturday we imploded three chimneys and the noise pollution inspector called to say we had to have a special permit before further implosions could take place. On the same day as we sat down to lunch the builders broke through the diningroom wall. Of course, we asked them to join us. It was only polite.

Only today, we moved the beds and the piano into Jamie's tree house. However, there are problems. It is cramped, it's still raining and the dogs find it difficult to climb the tree.

"How long do you think these building operations will last?" I asked my spouse as we ate dinner under the piano.

"Two or three years. It's not a big job," he murmured.

Was it Shakespeare or Ronald Reagan who said the means justifies the end?

■