Last words from Karin Brynard

It’s awful to observe, says Karin Brynard, the disaster you know is about to unfold upon another man’s impulse buy.

IIt must be a small-town thing, I realise when I spot old Manie at the hardware store again. I don’t know Manie personally but I see him here regularly. Today, there’s a lady at his side – wearing a fleece jacket similar to his, displaying the same middle-age spread around the midriff. She doesn’t call him Manie, she calls him “Dadda”.

They’re looking at one of those ‘handy’ collapsible contraptions used for hanging wet laundry. Don’t ask me what they’re called. Probably something just as clunky and complicated and obstreperous as the contraption itself.

This particular demo model is standing there all pious and goody-goody, the ultimate quick-fix washing line for small spaces. Bring it on; the instructions on the box promise that it’ll accommodate all your panties plus all your socks, jammies and jocks – with space left over for a week’s worth of tea towels. Afterwards, it neatly folds back into the box – in a jiffy, easy-peasy. All lies, of course. For starters, you battle like hell to assemble the thing. It consists of a bunch of poles and masts that hook and link and screw together to become something closely resembling a satellite. And once it’s standing, you’d better approach it with caution like a cat stalking its prey. A sock on this side needs to be exactly counterbalanced on that side with the same size and sort. Otherwise, the whole thing tips over and collapses. Or worse, it bends. At this stage you might as well throw it away. It will never stand properly again. The minute a wet garment touches it, it’ll keel over – never mind getting it back in that confounded box again.

I’m watching old Manie and I’m holding my breath. I can see he’s very keen on that contraption.

“Looks a bit complicated, Dadda,” muses the lady, “don’t you think?”

One thing I’ve learned in this store is that old Manie is a man of few words. And he doesn’t like being told. He’s a man, after all. Rubbing his tummy one more time, he lifts one of those traitorous boxes off the shelf. With one hand, nogal. Chuck Norris of the hardware store.

Don’t do it, Manie, I want to call out. I’ve seen rock-solid marriages crack under the strain of these types of devices. Fold-up-quick-quick-laundry-drying contraptions. Those and collapsible-stretch-leg deck chairs. Not to mention tents. My dearly beloved late husband and I sampled all of the above and often came out the other end deeply damaged. One night in the Cederberg, for example. We’d borrowed a tent, as we were away with seasoned campers and didn’t want to be the only sissies renting a cabin. But we did everything wrong, like having a party right off the bat and then, in the dark for the first time in our lives, attempting to pitch a two-man tent. My old darling was a Hollander; a lover of Cape wines. All thumbs and after a few drinks, even more so. He would rather perish than ask for help. First off, he goes and hits his knee with the rubber mallet intended for the tent pegs. I reached out to help, but he snatched the mallet away, his elbow knocking over the only tent pole we’d managed to erect. He hammered in the pole again, but with so much rage he bent it. Then we couldn’t find the pegs. He swore in big, fat, Dutch words, putting the blame on me. The rest of the camp was already quiet and dark for the night. I bit my tongue as we fumbled and rummaged around in the dark like blind moles. But in vain. Not a tent peg to be found. And then it started to rain. Softly at first, so the Hollander muttered: “We ga gewoon onder het zeil liggen”. (“We’ll just sleep inside the canvas.”) An hour later we awoke. Floating on a pond. On our blow-up double-bed mattress, entangled in the death-grip of a collapsed tent. The rest of the night was spent in the car, arguing. At first light we headed home. After that, we had many similar visitations from Satan. The worst involved one of those fold-up-laundry-drying thingamajigs. The Hollander was going to set it up, easy-peasy, with no advice or comments, thank you very much. I’ll spare you the predictable details but suffice to say: in the end, he took a 10-pound hammer to that treasonable contraption before thrashing it against a wall and chucking it in the rubbish bin with bitter contempt. Fortunately, I was able to stop him before he set the whole sorry business on fire. I look at Manie with his box at the cash register. He takes out his credit card. A worried-looking Aunty Manie watches on. I can see it in her face: she’s looking at impending disaster. And a day of great marital challenge.