Carol’s Column

Even in a bath shocks can be lurking

THIS is a stressful time for South Africa. What with Inkathagate, F W de Klerk denying complicity, Pik Botha admitting it, Magnus Malan becoming South Africa’s Minister of trees and Adriaan Vlok dispatched to prisons, things are a little tense.

However, woman is a resilient creature. Time after time we are crushed only to rise, like wild swine from the truffle heap of life, to live and enjoy yet another day.

And, as we have evolved, we’ve devised mechanisms to cope with stress.

I thought of this as I lay in a hot scented bath, a glass of iced white wine at my finger tips and all around me blissful silence.

What joy, I was alone in the house. The kids were away, my husband was sweltering in the sun at Loftus watching The Game, and I was at peace in my bath.

This is, I thought to myself, the ultimate relaxation. I could understand why Margaret Thatcher bathed in ass’s milk each day — or was it Cleopatra? No matter.

I savoured the luxury and reflected that this was the first time in all these years that I’d ever bathed alone and in peace.

No longer did I have to share my ablutions with plastic quacking ducks, flotillas of boats and gay-painted fish.

No longer did gap-toothed strangers wander into the bathroom and say: “Hello, Mrs Lazar. I’m Barry’s friend David. Are you enjoying your bath?”

No longer did Nicky and six friends chat to me as I washed my toes.

And no longer did Ralph breed turtles or other strange creatures in my tepid waters.

Gone were the days of drama such as when I’d just climbed into my bath and Jamie rushed in yelling: “Ma, Ma, come quickly, Richard Stevens has fallen out of the tree and he’s dead.”

Naked and steaming, I’d flown downstairs to find Richard Stevens noisily alive with a broken wrist.

There was the time when I’d heard the ghastly sound of dogs fighting. Convinced that the late Henry-the-Hog was being ripped apart by some fierce hound, I’d leapt from my bath to find The Hog resting peacefully on the front porch. Then alack, the door slammed and it had taken me a naked half an hour to break back inside.

How often hadn’t the phone trilled just as I’d sunk under the water? And how often hadn’t the bell rang just as I’d soaped my elbows?

But not today. I sipped the wine, gazed through the steam at a smiling face peering at me through the open window.

Good heavens. A smiling face?

I disappeared under water then slowly reappeared. The face was still there.

“Good afternoon, Madam,” said a strange voice. “I am Kumquat and I am painting your gutters. Please don’t let me disturb you.”

“Kumquat?”

“Yes, my mother named me Kumquat because as a baby I had the sweetness and smallness of a kumquat.”

“Aha,” I murmured with just my head above the water.

“Do you use mineral salts?” enquired Kumquat solicitously.

I shook my head.

“They’re wonderful for backache and constipation,” he advised.

After a little chat, Kumquat regretfully removed himself to continue painting the gutters.

I have a new personal slogan. “Take a bath and banish stress with shock treatment.”

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