Carol’s Column

Clutch gets into high gear

THERE is a new man in my life. His name is Toko Hlatshwayo and he is a masterful painter. Well, that is how he described himself when I interviewed him to paint our house.

"I am too experienced, Madam," he said. "You will be overjoyed with your works."

"Please call me Mrs Lazar," I said, after all this is the new South Africa, "and I am sure I will be delighted with your works, Mr Hlatshwayo. But do you have a reference I could phone just as a formality?"

"Madam, my works doesn't need a reference, and you can call me Clutch."

"Clutch?"

"Yes, from Hlatshwayo. Whites say Clutch-why-oh."

"Clutch it is," I said. "And I'm Carol."

"No, you are Madam because you are a big mummy."

So much for the new South Africa.

Clutch, a tall young man, strode around making calculations. "This house is too old," he said shaking his head. "It needs big paint job.

"But don't worry Madam, Clutch is your man."

Whenever I need to consult with my husband about important things like painting the house, he's away on business.

After much muttered calculation, Clutch gave me his quote. It seemed reasonable.

"Right, Clutch, you're my man," I shook his hand. "When will you be able to start?"

"Clutch will be here at 6.30 tomorrow."

He'd given me a list of things from the hardware store and we cleared the lounge.

At 6 next morning, the doorbell rang. Outside stood a young man with a Rasta hairdo. I thought it was one of the kid's friends.

"Nicky and Jamie are away at the moment," I yelled from upstairs.

"Yo, hello, there, I'm Typewriter the painter's assistant," he answered.

Clutch arrived a little later and the two of them disappeared into the lounge.

I put my head around the door. "My husband says the most important thing is to prepare the surface properly," I said to Clutch.

"Madam, I can see that your husband and me, we are like one. I always say, if the underside is not perfect, the topside will come out shit," he smiled. "This will not be a shit job. This will be a masterpiece."

There are some statements that require no answer. But I am happy to report that the lounge is looking very good indeed. Clutch and Typewriter have been working on it for two weeks, scraping down walls, filling cracks, enlarging cracks and so on.

Wednesday was an important milestone. It was the first day of paint application. Clutch and Typewriter asked me to join them for a short prayer. "Dear God," said Clutch, "Let the paint spread evenly. Amen."

God must have been preoccupied, because when I peeped into the lounge at lunchtime, the paint looked decidedly streaky.

"Clutch, I'm not happy, it does not look right," I pointed out to him.

He and Typewriter stared at the blotchy wall. "There is damp," said Clutch. Typewriter nodded sagely. "I will knock through the bricks and see."

The secret of the New South Africa is negotiation. "No you won't," I screeched loudly. "I don't want walls knocked down."

"Madam," said Clutch quietly, "I have promised you a masterpiece. You will have a masterpiece."

Thank heavens it's not raining at the moment because you can see right out into the garden from the huge gap in the lounge wall. They've discovered damp and are working on it. Slowly.

My husband phoned last night. "How's the painting going?" he asked.

"You won't believe the preparation they're doing," I said.

With luck, there might still be a wall or two standing when he returns home.

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