Carol’s Column

Fortunately for Livingston, I presume: it’s Christmas

Christmas spirit is getting to me. In the past two weeks, I have learnt that in the small suburb of Parkwood we have 87 municipal cleaners all with cards verifying the fact that they work for the municipality. I suppose it is possible that they labour for the Greater Metropolitan area; the Lesser Metropolitan area, the In-between Metropolitan area, the Walled Metropolitan area. Who knows?

What I do know is that they have all come knocking on my door for "Happy Christmas". They come alone or in small groups and occasionally there are enough people to field a soccer team. They all have one thing in common, they grin hugely and wish me a "Merry Christmas", wait expectantly, then: "Christmas box", they suggest.

I feel churlish refusing. For instance, when somebody tells you his name is Livingston, he works for the Norwood Cleansing Department and has been sweeping Glamorgan Road for the past year, how can I argue? Well, I can. Because I've noticed that our street sweeper who wears Day-Glo orange and a smile, is not a Livingston but a Livingstonia. Distinctly female.

"Livingston, I think you have made a mistake," I said to Livingston of the Norwood Cleansing Department. "I do not think you are my street sweeper."

"Hau, Medi," he flexed his muscles, "you can see I am your sweeper."

"Livingston, have you had a sex change recently?" I inquired.

"No, but I eat the fish and chips," he replied.

"Our road sweeper is a woman," I persevered.

He drew himself up to his full height. "Livingston is not a woman," he roared.

"Exactly," I replied.

He smiled. "But I am a good street sweeper man, even on somebody else's street," he added charmingly.

Livingston earned his Christmas box.

Christmas is a special time. It's the time when everything packs up. My car needs a new part, nothing serious, just an engine. "Next year," said the garage.

A pigeon fell down the chimney and flew around the lounge depositing soot everywhere so I phoned the insurance.

"Why did the pigeon fly down your chimney?" said a plummy voice.

"I think it had been celebrating Christmas and had too much to drink. It was obviously a tipsy pigeon and lost its chimney balance." I giggled. Mistake.

"Alcoholic pigeons are an act of God," said the insurance: "We are not responsible. Anyway, we're closing over Christmas and can only discuss this next year." Of course, of course, why should the insurance be responsible for a fallen pigeon.

There are 78 listed cleaners of carpets and upholstery in Johannesburg, all busy until January 1996. So what's a little soot among friends.

Christmas spirit means receiving Christmas cards from people you’ve never heard of and having anxiety attacks because you can't send them one in return. It's seeing herds of pre-Christmas party revellers wandering through parking lots looking for lost cars because they've forgotten where they parked.

And it's a never ending procession of strangers who have rendered me service during the past year. I've given up trying to remember who unblocked drains, caught rats, fixed the roof, delivered newspapers, letters and summonses (three different people).

Why, only yesterday, the bell rang. I opened the door and said: "I don't remember you but here's a small Christmas box."

"I’m your husband," said the person outside.

To tell the truth, he did look familiar.

■