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Charles and I are in the dog box. Again. Just for admiring the wife’s new Persian rug. She bought it online. But not online in the true sense of the word.
One of our daughters was in the Free State town of Clarens, where she browsed through this quaint rug shop. Deciding that her mother needs a new rug, she called the wife – on a videocall – and took her on a tour through the shop. I lost interest at carpet number 37 and made a tactical retreat to my study.
Judging by the duration of the call, the wife eventually decided on rug number 276. The price was negotiated – via the videocall – and I was summoned to pay for the wife’s early Christmas gift. The carpet, I must admit, is beautiful – a work of art – apparently handwoven in Iran.
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When I was told the price, I thought my wife had bought a piece of fertile land in Iran. I enquired when we would get the title deed and what the land was zoned for. The salesperson was not amused.
If the price was for only a rug, I assumed it must have been personally woven by the Ayatollah himself? Does the carpet come with an authenticated autograph? The salesperson was now getting very agitated.
The carpet does, however, come with a certificate, I was told. An educated carpet then, I enquired. Yes, that would explain the price. Education is not cheap. Where did the carpet study – perhaps at the University of Tehran? What did it major in? And if I may ask, did the carpet attain its degree cum laude?
I could hear the salesperson mumbling something in what I suspect is a colloquial Boere-Arabic dialect. Short version: the carpet did find its way to our living room, all the way from Iran via the Free State. The furniture was rearranged, and this thick, soft, majestic floor covering is now the centrepiece.
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Taking a close look, Charles and I discovered that the rug also does make for a perfect wrestling mat. Now we’re both banned from ever setting foot on the rug again. Weird. I always thought carpets were for walking on. Why else would they be on the floor?
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