Carol’s Column

Husband or jacuzzi? Is there a real choice?

Surprises are highly lekker. I discovered this last week when, out of the blue, I received a phone call from a stranger.

“Hello, Mrs Lazar, my name is Newby,” said an unfamiliar voice.

“Newby? Scooby, dooby, dooby,” I replied. I thought somebody was playing the fool. It happens frequently.

There was silence. “Mrs Lazar, my name is Newby and your son Barry asked me to phone,” he said patiently.

Aha. I know these calls. They also happen frequently. My kids, presently scattered worldwide, are gregarious by nature and have made friends all over the show. Wherever they go, they sing the praises of Africa. Of South Africa, to be more specific. Naturally, they suggest their new friends come to visit. Accommodation is not a problem.

“Our folks love having our friends to stay,” they say. “They're deprived parents, they're missing us, so if you're visiting SA go and stay at the Lazars.”

Which is why in the past year we've had the whole United Nations dropping in. Lee from Beijing, Leo from Harare, Alexandra from Boston, Claude from Paris, Tubi from Tanzania ...

“Newby? Great, where are you from? You're welcome to stay. I'll be at work but I'll leave the key under the flowerpot. Make yourself at home.”

There was silence. “Mrs Lazar, I'm your birthday present,” said Newby.

“My birthday present?” First I was shocked, then, I have to admit, amused.

“How old are you?” I giggled.

“No, no, you don't understand.” I could sense a tone of agony in his voice. “Your son Barry is giving you a jacuzzi for your birthday.”

It was my turn to be silent. “C'mon, my birthday's only in December and anyway, nobody gives jacuzzis for presents. In our family, we give books or tapes. And my husband always gets me various bits for his drill. I mean, a jacuzzi is out of the question.”

“Mrs Lazar,” said Newby. “Barry phoned from America and he ordered you a jacuzzi for your birthday. He asked me to phone and make an appointment to come round to discuss where we're going to put the jacuzzi. Barry thought it would be nice beside the jasmine bush. And you must choose a colour. It takes three weeks to order and Barry wants it to be ready for your birthday.”

Eventually, I realised Newby was a real person and that, indeed, my son had ordered a jacuzzi for my birthday.

I phoned Barry to tell him I appreciated the thought but that really, I'd be quite happy with a Francois Hardy tape. I mean, a jacuzzi?

“Ma, it's done. All you have to do is enjoy it.” I was overwhelmed.

“You'll never, never, never guess what,” I hissed to my husband when he arrived home from work.

“Winnie Mandela is vice-president?” he said.

“We're getting a jacuzzi.”

“Over my dead body,” he replied.

I explained the Newby scenario.

“That's ridiculous,” he said. “We're not jacuzzi-type people. What on earth will we do with a jacuzzi? We've already got a bath.”

It's at times like this that I realise I should have married Donald Trump even if he does look like Batman.

My husband keeps telling me that jacuzzis are unhealthy, they give you athlete's foot and worse. Yesterday morning he gave me an ultimatum.

“This house is not big enough for me and a jacuzzi,” he said.

Jacuzzis are fun, relaxing, invigorating and they stay hot. It really wasn't a difficult choice.

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