Carol’s Column

Raisins are tasty, but children are more filling

The lunatics on the far Left shout: "One settler, one bullet," while the screwballs on the far Right yell: "One Bantu, one bullet."

And this is liberation?

I'll tell you what liberation is because this week I experienced it in the true sense of the word.

It happened like this.

Right now, my three oldest unmarried sons, like dandelion seeds, are scattered worldwide. Barry in the USA, Ralph in England and Jamie in Cape Town.

Which left us with our darling daughter of the long eyelashes and ethnic sandals.

And then, on Sunday evening, with a group of friends, she left for Cape Town.

"That's our little girl going away," wept my husband.

I tried not to cry as the bus pulled out of Johannesburg Station.

Not because of my daughter's departure but because she was leaving in my Mauritian hand-embroidered shirt, my designer Tagliatelli culottes and my deerstalker hat.

In fact, probably my entire wardrobe was packed in her suitcase hidden in the bowls of the bus. Not to mention my hair-dryer and electric leg-waxer too. When we returned home, the house was like a mausoleum. The phone didn't ring, there were no bras in the breadbin, no bits of sailboard on the dining-room table, no doors banging and no shrieks of glee or sighs of passion because Johnny, Lyndon or Brett had phoned.

Even the goldfish looked depressed.

My husband retreated to mourn with a beer and I meditated in the kitchen.

"Oh, you sad little thing," I said to the dishwasher standing lonely and plateless in the corner.

Then I began to twitch.

There was no doubt, I was having withdrawal symptoms. Suddenly, my life had become an empty shell.

I was an abandoned mother.

There would be no more lift schemes, no more salami-and-pickled-cucumber sandwiches to make at the crack of dawn, no more matric dance dresses, no more messages to take from Sheryl, Kathy, Brian and David.

No more missed appointments with the orthodontist and no more listening to Nicky torturing the Moonlight Sonata on the piano, Ralph wailing on his guitar, Barry standing on his head and Jamie smoking in the mealie patch.

That night, I crept into the kids' rooms and kissed their pillows goodnight.

On Monday, I found myself at Mr Crusty.

"I'll have a health loaf," I said gloomily.

When suddenly, Hallelujah, I had a revelation.

"Stop, I yelled," I'll take the raisin health bread."

The assistant passed me a raisin health bread and I waved it victoriously.

"I am liberated!" I screeched, "liberated!"

"You're mad," muttered the man in the queue behind me.

"Do you realise what this means?" I said, thrusting the raisin bread beneath his indignant nose. "Each raisin is a symbol of freedom."

His moustache waggled non-plussedly.

"You see, for 24 years I've never bought raisin bread because my kids hate raisins, but now, the world of raisins is mine for the taking." Ecstasy is a raisin.

Suddenly life is interesting. Avocados, paw paws and spinach have re-entered our stomachs, as have tongue and tripe.

Accompanying my personal liberation are smaller, but no less important freedoms. The phone and the car are always free, as is the tape deck, and my husband is never short of underpants or socks.

Liberation is glorious.

And yet. And yet.

Given the choice of raisins or children, there's no doubt, raisins are tasty, but children are more filling.

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