Carol’s Column

The multitudes left us mauled, bruised – and grateful

This was the New Year of the multitudes. They came, they saw, they ate and conquered with their happiness.

It began at the familial dwelling, where several of my offspring and their boy- and girlfriends arrived from cold and inhospitable climes to grasp a few weeks in the African sun. Winter pale glistened on their skins, ghostlike they smiled their hellos and collapsed jetlagged into a stupor.

One day of sunshine and a hearty braai later there was colour in their cheeks, a giggle to their smiles and a spring in their ever-escalating limbs.

This visit was a first for American Melissa, but it took only hours before she became Africanised and uttered her first "ag, shame". She clicked with ease and sayings in various of our 11 official languages were picked up with enthusiasm, her favourite being an evocative command involving mielies.

My mother, a small but perky grandmother, almost swallowed her two false teeth ("the rest are my own and going strong") in all the excitement. "Do you think the boys are thinking of marriage?" she stage-whispered hopefully. "I want some great-grandchildren before I die and I only have 20 years to live." Fair enough, considering she’s 84.

I murmured: "Marriage is not necessarily a prerequisite for children."

"Of course it isn't," she snapped. "But it's nice."

Ralph's girlfriend Lisa came with a twin sister, Susan. "There's something in this cloning business," muttered my husband as he watched these two lovely young women floating briefly through his life.

Because the kids are scattered, I’d forgotten what it means to do things as an extended family. Such as hiring a bus or pantechnicon to transport everyone and everything to the beach, the Waterfront, the winelands. We booked the cablecar for a trip up Table Mountain, then hiked up instead as the new cable car could take only 60 or so.

We thought of hiring a catering service to produce on-tap breakfasts, lunches and dinners plus 24 hour room service for rumbling stomachs. Not to mention the acquisition of a cool drink factory and a dry-cleaning and laundry business to ensure that everyone looked immaculate as he or she shot off to here, there and everywhere.

Of course, real life isn't like that. We braaied morning, noon and night (it means no cooking utensils to wash), loaded everything into Basil the dishwasher, overworked the washing machine and developed the natural iron-free look.

And when the hot-water supply ran out, as it frequently did, we group-showered, four to six at a time. Which is a great conservation measure.

So the wonderful laughing, noisy, lively and energetic brood came home.

On a far greater scale, the hordes also descended upon Cape Town. On the beaches every available centimetre of sand was covered by large tonnages of men, women and children who brought even larger tonnages of cold chicken, samoosas, sandwiches and salads. The chaos was glorious.

In between paddling and swimming and surfing and sunbathing and beach batting, families relaxed and bickered, bikini-clad girls strutted and young guys rippled their biceps and other muscles they didn't know existed. Traffic was jammed throughout the city and the Peninsula, but it really didn't matter because everyone was in holiday mode.

Then overnight everyone disappeared. The kids went away, the holidaymakers departed for home and all around it's as silent as a tomb.

Having a shower all alone might be more comfortable but it's not fun. An empty beach may look beautiful but you don't hear the shouts of pure joy.

Come back everyone. All is forgiven.

■