Feeling stink on a visit to the beach - Kevin Page

A visit to the beach creates a bit of a stink for the Pages.

Kevin Page is a teller of tall tales with a firm belief that laughter helps avoid frown lines. Page has been a journalist for many years and has been writing a column since 2017.

OPINION

Mrs P is concerned I may make her sound like an absolute crackpot in my warblings this week.

I will, of course, do my best to ensure that is not the case but, as I explained to She Who Makes Me Smile, I cannot force you, Dear Reader, to think one way or another.

It may very well be after reading this you come to the conclusion she does indeed need some professional help. Conversely, you may think I am an evil sod who is simply getting rich by making fun of my wife.

It has to be said the latter point could not be any further from the truth. I am certainly not getting rich writing this weekly column, though the McDonald’s Happy Meal vouchers do help feed the family.

I just thought I’d get that out of the way before I delve into what occurred this week and what has led My Beloved to that assumption.

Okay, so here we go.

We’re on a beach down the line with George, our three-legged 12-year-old pooch. We’re strolling. He’s hopping.

He’s also doing the odd poo. And, as a responsible dog owner, I’m pulling a bag from my pocket and scooping up the mess which will be deposited in a rubbish bin as we exit the beach.

We think that’s the polite thing to do.

Unfortunately, there are some on the beach who, quite frankly, don’t give a toss and it is those dog owners who have raised the ire of Mrs P.

Like the big, muscly guy in a black T-shirt with a huge German Shepherd. A beautiful dog it has to be said.

Unfortunately, it appears to have some sort of gastric issue because it has left a few deposits while we’ve been watching it run around.

And here’s the thing. Each time it does, the owner just leaves it and does nothing about removing it or covering it up.

Eventually, it proved too much for Mrs P.

In a very loud voice – read volume turned up to maximum – she exclaimed: “It’s just disgusting the way some people don’t pick up after their dog”.

Of course, you wouldn’t have heard a pin drop, it being a sandy beach and all that, but I swear even the gentle breeze held its breath and other beachgoers stopped in their tracks and waited for a response.

Naturally, I froze and groaned all at the same time.

I mean, don’t get me wrong, she’s absolutely right.

The big fella should have been picking up after his dog. But at that particular stage, all I was thinking was I’m going to end up with a whack in the gob very shortly.

The way I saw it panning out was the bloke coming over all intimidating and having a go at Mrs P. She, in turn, would transform from the quietest, meekest of sweet little lambs to a fire-breathing She-Devil and it would be all on.

Naturally, because I believe the age of chivalry is not dead, I would step in to protect My Beloved and that would be it for me. Bosh. One good whack. Goodnight nurse.

The reason I was so confident that was how it would all play out is because this is a track well worn by myself and Mrs P.

She is apt to become rather indignant sometimes and let fly whereas I’m maybe a bit more “considered”, which you could also take as discretion being the better part of valour. As I say, it’s not her who is going to get one in the chops for her trouble, is it?

As an example, a wee while back we were in a supermarket carpark and this young guy - clearly able-bodied – raced up and parked in the disabled parking space.

Now, Mrs P and I are related to a couple who both have only one leg. They both find it difficult to get around and such parking places close to entrances are a godsend. As a result, we are a little sensitive to their abuse.

So when the young fellow came out, Mrs P let him know of her disapproval in the same method as the dog poo incident.

“That’s disgraceful,” her voice boomed across the carpark. “He shouldn’t be parking there.”

Obviously, as before, the whole world stopped and the young guy found himself in the spotlight with numerous eyes on him.

It didn’t seem to matter to him one jot, to be honest, so I thought I might have a word. Reason with him. So I did.

Now I don’t know about you Dear Reader but sometimes you win, sometimes you don’t. A lot of the time I’d do what most of us do and just ignore it rather than come across like an old fart. This time I didn’t.

For a brief moment, I thought maybe the kid had grasped the point I was trying to make. Unfortunately not. He just told me to “go away” if you know what I mean. So I did, dragging Mrs P with me before she boiled over.

Anyway, back on the beach.

The giant in the black T-shirt has heard Mrs P’s comment and he’s heading our way. So I go into Tough Guy mode.

Now, I’m not sure if you ladies are familiar with this but, basically, it’s inbuilt in all us fellows. Sort of like when you buy a Smart TV and it has already got Netflix installed.

So what happens is we flick a switch inside of us, maybe 30 seconds from obvious trouble. We become like an airbed slowly being inflated.

Suddenly we start to get taller. That curve in our back we’ve had for years suddenly straightens out. People down below us can now see the hair up the back of our nostrils when they look up.

At the same time that carefully cultivated pot belly which has plagued our middle section for donkey’s years is redistributed to other parts of the body as we suck it so far in we risk passing out from lack of oxygen.

Our chest, which has been the happy resting place of man boobs since we stopped playing footy all those years ago, is suddenly thrust forward.

Even our stance is a little wider. Dodgy hips forgotten as we stand there like a gunfighter in the sun. The villain approaching.

And then, just seconds later, he’s there standing right in front of me, saying something. I can see his lips moving but I’m concentrating so hard on holding my stomach in and looking tough I can’t quite make out what he’s saying.

I’m waiting for him to make the first move.

Eventually, a familiar, sweet sound breaks my concentration.

It’s Mrs P with a voice far removed from the thunderous comment which started this gunfighter-style stand-off in the first place.

“Hun? Hun?” she says in the quietest, meekest of sweet little lamb voices.

“He wants to know if you’ve got a spare poo bag”.