Carol’s Column

Who could afford to live to the ripe age of 309?

What a week of excitement this is. The new budget, the ANC top-dog list, Winnie bounces back, and the fact that research on the fruit fly has extended its life by 200% - the fruit fly's, not Parliament’s.

"There's a good chance that I can live to 309," I said to my husband as we chatted at breakfast.

"What a horrible thought," he said choking on his piece of wholewheat toast. One piece of wholewheat goes a long way, say the experts.

Right through your system in fact, cleansing it of toxins, combating constipation and ensuring a healthy, vigorous day.

I was terribly hurt. "Don't you want me to live a long time?" I said with a sob in my larynx.

"I didn't mean it that way," he replied. "I was actually thinking how awful it would be to live for the next 255 years as a wrinkly. Anyway," he added, "why do you think you'll live for 309 years?"

"Longevity," I replied.

"My uncle Borach was 103 when he died in Stellenbosch and they say the only reason he died was that he caught a cold while playing rugby with Paul Roos barefooted in the middle of winter."

My husband lifted his almost-wrinkly eyebrow. "Your Uncle Borach played rugby at the age of 103? Barefoot? With Paul Roos? The legend?"

"Absolutely," I replied. "While throwing a ball around on the Stellenbosch braak, he fell. It was a tragedy because he tripped over his beard which had come unwound. He injured his right knee and went to bed.

"Unfortunately, he caught a cold because his bare feet were chilled. This developed into pneumonia and he died. He was buried with full rugby honours in the Stellenbosch cemetery."

He looked unconvinced. "So why would you live to 309?"

"Logic. If the life of a fruit fly can be extended by 200% and they say the research can apply to humans, it stands to reason that I will possibly live until the age of 309."

It was time for a conversation change.

"Perhaps we should take a leaf from Trevor Manuel's budget book," I said cheerfully.

"Despite adverse circumstances, he's doing a very good job as finance minister."

"True," said my spouse. "Why don't you draw up a budget like Manuel, balancing your expected revenue with projected expenditure."

"I'll have to start from a heavy deficit base," I muttered darkly.

"So did Manuel," observed my husband. "The ideal scenario is for a government to run a sustainable budget deficit, the rule of thumb is deficit of 3% of GDP. Manuel would be bouncing for joy if he'd been working within those parameters."

"Me, I'll only bounce for joy when I have a surplus budget," I replied. "And, right now, the only surplus I carry is on my thighs."

Talking budgets, it's not easy to work out a budget for the forthcoming year especially when there isn't money around.

Not comparing ourselves to Manuel, but nevertheless taking note of his problems, we decided to cut down on our spending.

"We won't go to the movies until March and I promise not to go near a Woolies food hall," I vowed resolutely.

Then I noticed the film Elizabeth playing. I phoned my husband. "I've booked tickets for Elizabeth for tonight," I exclaimed with excitement.

"I thought we were on a heavy budget. That we were only going to the cinema in March."

"Be philosophical," I murmured. "Most countries in the world run deficits. I'm just taking a leaf out of Manuel's book. Call it pragmatic rationalisation," I added.

A good man, Manuel. One to follow.

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