No, I haven’t touched an okapi or the Crown Jewels, but as this is written under lockdown I shall not venture anywhere beyond the confines of my property where, after thirty-seven years of living, you would think there would be no stone, sod or key left unturned. But you never know what’s out there.
First, a disqualification of certain items, like toilet brushes, bath salts and various baubles which I could, but would rather not touch: these I simply ignore. Let me go to what I have neither touched nor dared go near: the three EMERGENCY buttons of our alarm system, positioned strategically around the house. After all these years will they even work? Do I want to find out? No, their virgin presence protects them and ourselves. It might seem that I am not getting my money’s worth out of these under-utilised objects but I know better. When I hand the keys over to the estate agent I’ll give one a druk on the way out.
It’s not because of the lockdown on alcohol that “Strawberry Lips” stands unopened at the back of a kitchen cupboard: it’s been unopened since it arrived at our house after the death of my father thirty years ago, gathering a bloom of dust. No guest is tempted by the offer of the lurid liqueur – whether it’s the colour, name or the unfortunately-shaped bottle who’s to say? Perhaps they’re hoping for a tot of the R649,000 The Balvenie 50 Year Old I bought last year – that won’t be touched, for sure.
There’s another firewater I don’t go near: the hot water cylinder. It lives in my roof, another piece of my property with which I remain mostly unacquainted even though I paid good money for it. What bothers me about our warm companion upstairs is that, in some other homes, he has been known for making his presence felt by bursting in on the scene below. I know that I should do a check on his condition before he brings about a change to our carpeting, but I leave the dark spaces above to plumbers and electricians.
Such avoidance is not wise. Unlike the EMERGENCY buttons which stay untouched for good reason, not knowing the whereabouts of the stopcock for the water supply entering your property can be a disaster. The burst pipe under the kitchen sink won’t be remedied by a finger in the dyke: knowing where on my property the stopcock lies buried will. And what will help even more will be a stopcock that has been visited in the last few years and cleared of the weeds, sand and stones which have made their home in its little chamber, allowing the tap to be turned by hand, not a hammer.
One can end up paying a high price for not touching some things before it’s too late, but what about those things I’ve already paid a high price for but remain untouched? The expensive and unusual condiment brought back from a holiday that has been smouldering behind the other spices for years now. Sure, expiry dates don’t apply in its case, but they do in mine: chances are it will outlive me, just like that elixir in the medicine cupboard which for years has been promising me rejuvenated life.
Of course, there are things which one is given which, for good reason, remain untouched: that recipe book, for instance, which some friend had a good idea about. But what about that set of Harvard Classics which I was given and so happily accepted? It’s a treasure trove of books I have always wanted to read. Is it that a deeper coating of dust will establish them as real classics?
Finally, there are small things, very small things, I do not touch: 80% of the buttons on any remotes, the top row and more of the keys on my computer and any number of functions on the touchscreen of the smartphone. Touch them and I am taken to places I didn’t know existed and out of which I am unlikely to escape unless a young liberator stands nearby. I touch only what I know.
The Department of Health is now telling me not to touch my face, especially my mouth and nose. Why I find this so difficult when I am so good at not touching far more important things is a mystery. Life has its challenges, COVID-19 being one.
