Mrs P had been on the beach when the alert went. Photo / Corey Fleming
So, the other day when the gods decided an obscure part of Russia needed a shake-up and my cellphone should emit loud noises warning of a pending tsunami, I leapt into action.
At the time My Beloved was literally on the beach – at the water’s edge no less – blissfully unaware of the drama unfolding in the world around her.
Obviously she needed rescuing.
Leaping from my comfy seat in our caravan – well “leaping” is actually a bit of a stretch. I think what I did was “gingerly unfold” while still getting accustomed to my new hip – I rushed to her aid.
Eventually.
I mean, one has to be suitably attired for such rescuing activities doesn’t one. I had no shoes on. Therefore I needed to slip something on that was appropriate for the task at hand.
My “go to” Crocs are stationed permanently at the front door. Sadly, these are not recommended for running, especially if you’ve just had a big chunk of metal hammered into your interior leg space and don’t want to injure yourself.
Nope. What you need is a decent pair of sturdy shoes.
Thankfully I have just the pair. Sturdy, robust, lace ups. They live in a box by the front door. They’ll do the trick.
The only thing is they take a bit of getting into, especially with the new hip not quite bending as far as I need yet.
Accordingly, by the time I had pulled out the box, removed the lid, found a place to sit down comfortably, taken 15 deep breaths, bent over and quickly tied my shoelace, the tsunami had gotten 20 miles closer.
And I still had another shoe to go!
Luckily, that one was on my good side and I was quickly up and away down the path towards the beach, ready to face nature’s surging fury to bring Mrs P to safety.
I knew I wouldn’t have time to explain – I also knew she’d want to stand there and discuss (by which I mean argue vociferously) her removal from the sand – so I decided I’d manhandle her into one of those Fireman’s Lift positions – rear aiming up – where she’d be over my shoulder.
Naturally her bum would need, er, “stabilising” with my hand as I carried her to safety. That’s just the way it is. It’s the law. I read it somewhere.
Anyway.
As I walk briskly towards the beach I hear a familiar voice from the campground cafe. It’s Mrs P.
It seems she’d met up with some of the girls down on the beach. One of them had her phone with her and they’d all sensibly, and calmly, evacuated immediately the warning had come through.
Now they were having a natter – not a care in the world – about a couple of famous people who, rumour has it, might be dating.
Later I would ascertain she wasn’t that worried about the tsunami. The general consensus among the girls being we were at the other end of a very long wide ocean so we’d have plenty of time to get prepared.
Naturally we have a “go bag” – as we all should – just in case, even though (judging by comments online I’ve seen) the vast majority of people and some wine-drinking politicians thought the whole thing was a bit of a joke.
We enjoyed a relatively straightforward night’s slumber, our bag with important stuff in it by the door.
But then we got woken somewhere after sparrow fart by an ominous screeching alarm from both our phones.
This time we both leapt into action.
Now, somewhat stupidly, it seems the only way you can stop this noise is to press the screen on your phone. Unfortunately, this also deletes the message.
So, soon as Mrs P and I did that we had no idea what was happening.
Had the tsunami picked up speed in the 10 hours since the last warning? Was it now just a hundred metres offshore and set to smash into us? Were my Crocs still sitting outside about to be washed away?
Mrs P needed immediate answers to all these questions and demanded I go online to check as quickly as possible while she threw on some clothes.
I, of course, did what every bloke does when they first get up in the morning.
So, there I was in the loo, cellphone in one hand, something else in the other, scrolling for tsunami emergency details, while Mrs P waited nearby with go bag in hand to race up the nearest hill.
Thankfully, I was able to inform her the alarm was more precautionary than anything, possibly a glitch even, and there didn’t appear to be any big drama.
I presume that’s when all the adrenaline left her body and normal service was resumed.
It’s also when she asked me whether there was anything online yet about the singer Katy Perry dating Justin Trudeau, the former Canadian Prime Minister.
I guess it’s all a question of priorities isn’t it.