Matric- Farewell..... to money

Woe is me!
Last week my daughter, The MCM (Money Consuming Machine) attended her MATRIC DANCE. I spell it in capitals because Capital is what it's all about. A LOT of capital. EISH!

“It's like a bottomless pit,” I said to Mrs Ed one evening a few days before the BIG event. I was watching her stuff envelopes with one hand (to raise money for the matric dance shoes) and do someone's ironing with the other (to raise money for the matric hairstyling). I of course was busy on the couch with my TV data research which I intend to sell to advertisers (in aid of the matric dress) once it is complete.

Mrs Ed just grunted and, in that non-committal, I'm-too-busy-for-your-idiotic-banter way of hers, spat out a wad of chewing tobacco into her makeshift spittoon. She had to use the stuff because her hands were just too busy for cigarettes. She was already way behind in the magazine packing she had taken on to raise money for the matric nail treatment.

“Perhaps I could get another loan,” I thought out loud, kind of continuing an earlier conversation about how we could pay back the loan we had already taken for the Matric dress, should my TV research not come to anything, “Last time I met with the bank manager he was quite friendly.”
“He tried to run you over,” she mumbled through her beard. (Alas, there's just been no time for shaving or money for razor blades.)
“ No, I'm sure that big swerve he did onto the pavement was just a mistake. I distinctly saw him waving at me, in a most friendly fashion.”
“The man was waving his fist,” she sighed, spitting again, “Apparently the cheque you sent him to cover the overdraft bounced.”

I would not be moved (it is the World's Most Comfortable Couch after all), and instead decided to regurgitate a previous heated discussion.
“What is it about the Matric Dance, that everything has to be so darn fancy schmancy?” I asked. “In my day we had to go in school uniform. And I rode there on my bicycle!”
“It was MY bicycle,” she reminded me, “And you sat on the carrier and made me pedal!”
I changed the subject, not wanting to go down that road again (in case she made ME pedal this time) “But NOW,” I offered sarcastically, “NOW we have to buy a matric dress that costs more than a small aircraft. Will she ever wear it again? Should I get it insured for theft or are you going to donate it to a third world hunger scheme when the dance is over?” There was no stopping me. Of course she had heard it all before, so I wasn't surprised when she left the room to get the next bag of “And the shoes? You aren't going to even SEE them under the dress. Why she couldn't have worn her tommy takkies I don't know…..” But without an audience I lost steam, and eventually lay back and closed my eyes…. “How on Earth did a simple dance get so out of control,” I thought, as sleep crept in… “There must be a story behind it….”

Once upon a time, long long ago, in a land far, far away, the king decreed that young men should mark the end of their final year at school with a great feast .
“There shalt be a night of much music and dancing and general misbehaviour!” he said.
And so it was for some years, and the men didst enjoy, by themselves, the end of school celebrations.

But then one brave young man approached his head tutor, Sir Matthew Rick, with a humble request.
“Forsooth!” he exclaimed “Verily we implore ye sire. Whilst we thoroughly look forward to the imbibing of good mead, the fine platters of meat and of course the dwarf tossing competition, we gather that dancing with other men hath become somewhat 'last year'. Surely 'tis time whence one or two lowly maidens from the domestic training school should be summonsed to attendeth so that we may at least keep abreast with the eighteenth century?”

And so the head tutor decreed that young maids-in-training should be ordered to attend the celebration, but on condition that they fully covered themselves in sack cloth, so as to avoid temptation of the boisterous lads. And so it went, and a merry time was had by the young men at least.

But the following year one courageous young filly bespoke a request of her own to the head tutor, no doubt batting her eyelids as she did.
“Sire, this course sack cloth doth make us itch, and our erratic scratching movements will surely be off-putting to the young men. If it pleaseth thou, if only for their sake, may we not forgo such uncomfortable attire and rather drape ourselves in thick canvas or hemp, lest our dance moves deteriorate further?”

And, quite taken aback by her brazen attitude, the flustered man didst permit this to come to pass, not realizing what monster he was creating for the future.

Word of his weakness for a sweet smile was passed on from class to class, and as each year's celebration approached, more and more young lasses' presented their subtle and oft sly requests. Most were granted, and there was change in the land.

“Mayest we no longer be forced to arrive at the dance in the sewage transport cart, as it dost make us rather odorous partners for the young men?” suggested one damsel.
“Perhaps each of us could be assigned a partner so that the young men no longer injure their noble selves in the squabble over us lowly maidens?” another asked the following year.
“Alas, we useless wenches are shorter than most of the young men. Verily are we willing to bear the pain of wearing shoes built up in height to make us more suitable partners, should thou permit?” said a third the year after that.
“Lest the fine young men should find us ugly and unbearable to look at, would thou permit us to humbly sacrifice our dignity and allow the torturous application of paint to our faces and nails, and the use of heat in styling our modest locks of hair…..” a fourth offered generously.

And so, a new tradition of co-ed or 'Matric' school dances (named after that first head tutor), began. At first they blossomed into fun events, and a good time was had by all. But then, as each year further suggestions from the young lasses were met, the dances grew out of control.

For years parents knew nothing of the trouble that was brewing, but eventually the school could no longer afford to fund the ever-increasing costs attached to the maidens ever-increasing requests, and the lasses were forced to turn to their families for help.
“Papa, I beseech thee! Matilda hath been granted monies to purchase a bodice in the finest of imported woven cotton for the dance, and I wouldst not let anyone think that her father be more generous of heart than thee? May I have leave to visit the bank manager with your note for a little withdrawal? Pretty please dear papa?”……..

“Pater, I am bereft! Wendy and Michael hath been granted permission to arrive in his uncle's gilded carriage drawn by six of the finest Arabian stallions! Can we not arrange transport with more horsepower so that my partner and I may not dieth in agony of embarrassment?”…

But back to my daughter's Matric dance. Of course when the day arrived it was all SO worth it in the end. When my darling little MCM stepped out all grown up in her gorgeous flowing gown, I couldn't have been a more proud father, and must confess a tear or two did escape from my eye.......

Later on, when all the fuss was over and I was back on the couch, it brought to mind a Visa ad campaign I remember seeing on tv. (NB the prices are taken from memory, so might not be 100% accurate .)

“Matric shoes: R350
Matric Dress: A quarter of a billion Rand
Matric facial treatment, make up and manicure: 320 billion Rand
Hire of Rolls Royce to take my daughter to her Matric dance: 400 gazzillion Rand.

The look on my bank manager's face when he realizes I managed to extend my overdraft on the internet to 'pay' for all this…. PRICELESS!

But not all tales of princesses have a happy ending. Just when I was enjoying the fact that is was all over, bar the paying, a more experienced father chose to shatter my dreams.
“Ha ha,” he chuckled annoyingly, “You think the matric farewell is expensive? Wait until she gets married!”

I think I'm going to dig that bottomless pit and crawl into it for ten years or so, perhaps I might even look for gold?
I'd be mad if I didn't!