A new pair of Crocs sets Kevin Page on a slippery slope. Photo / NZME
As you might expect at this time of year, Mrs P has taken full advantage of the January sales.
While I’m not 100% sure the good retailers of our fair land would have been dancing a jig of delight at the expectation of My Beloved hitting the shops, it’s reasonably safe to assume those who have previously seen her striding through their establishments, credit cards at the ready, would have been rubbing their hands together with glee.
Now usually I would rail against such activity. I mean we husbands do, don’t we? It’s all part of the game.
I’m sure you know what I mean.
Husband moans about how much things are costing this year and wife goes and buys it anyway - that sort of thing. Sound familiar?
This year I did the usual moan – more to keep up appearances than anything else – but tempered it a little in the knowledge Mrs P would be returning from an outlet sale with some new footwear for me.
A pair of new, ultra-fashionable Crocs to keep my feet super-comfortable.
This is because my old Roman sandals have gone beyond the phrase “seen better days” and have just completely given up the ghost.
And the end came basically just like that.
One day I was wearing them everywhere and all seemed well – in spite of them being old and tatty. The next day they were in the rubbish bin.
They found their way there thanks to an unfortunate occurrence at my little brother’s house.
We’d gone for a visit and I’d walked across the park next to his house. Part of the route was submerged in a bit of water thanks to recent precipitation so I just ploughed on through, as I have always, in my trusty footwear.
This time round, though, I didn’t realise the padded sole of one sandal had broken down and water, combined with mud, had gained access.
Two minutes later, as I hopped around on the tiles just inside my brother’s front door, trying to take my footwear off, I noticed a jet of muddy water was squirting out from the offending sandal all over his skirting boards.
That was when a horrified Mrs P cried “Enough”. If my memory serves me correctly, the sandals were thrown in the bin immediately after we got home that afternoon and she announced she was going shopping to “get me sorted”. Or rather get my feet sorted.
And she did.
Next day, there I was, walking or rather pushing George the Three-Legged-Dog in his doggie pushchair, the proud owner of some soft, comfy, greenish camouflage-coloured Crocs.
I’m walking along because Mrs P deemed it necessary for me to wear them in. Having said that, I think it’s more the fact they make me look uber cool and she just wants to be seen out with me in them.
So, as I say, we’re walking along this busy walkway and occasionally stopping for a chat with people. Having a three-legged dog is a great conversation starter, I can tell you. Especially a pooch in one of those carts cyclists pull behind them with the kids in.
It’s a pleasant day where we are and we are sharing the path with walkers, runners, cyclists and skateboarders. As a result, we have to move left or right occasionally to allow people to pass as the situation demands.
Into the midst of the throng of activity comes an elderly lady pushing a modest doggie pushchair. She’s got three other dogs of varying sizes and decibel levels bouncing around her as she comes our way.
Inevitably she ambles up, without a care in the world, and stops for a chat.
Conscious of blocking too much of the footpath, we move over as much as we can and engage.
Five minutes into the chat Chatterbox Woman has already filled us in on how she got each of her dogs, the history of the track we are walking on and the latest news about her friend’s bad leg.
Just as she starts to move on to the weather, a cyclist of similar vintage comes up behind her.
He’s not travelling too fast and, as he gets closer, I can see he’s struggling to negotiate the remaining gap between our party of people, canines and associated dog carriages.
“Can you control your dogs and move, please,” he says in a firm tone which suggests perhaps a military past. Or maybe he was a school principal. That sort of thing.
Regardless, it fails to sway Chatterbox Woman.
“Oh, get over yourself,” she yells at him in an equally firm tone which immediately causes all the dogs to stop, rooted to the spot. “Go round.”
Somewhat surprised, Grumpy Cyclist tries to do just that and veers off the track and across a patch of grass.
As he does so, wobbling as he tries to control the bicycle, he comes back with “No, you get over yourself.”
It has to be said it wasn’t the greatest of comebacks but maybe he wasn’t at the front of the queue when multi-tasking abilities were handed out. It was fairly obvious controlling the bicycle was his No 1 goal.
Unfortunately, he failed.
As he wobbled over the grass he hit a shallow puddle and down he went.
Horrified, I left Mrs P to hold George and headed over to assist.
Now I don’t know exactly what happened. Maybe it was me getting used to my new Crocs but as I trotted over I hit the same wet patch and joined Grumpy Cyclist in being upended.
It must have been quite an impressive flip because I remember seeing my new Crocs high up in the air above me as I went over.
Eventually, normal service was resumed.
Chatterbox Woman continued on her merry way without a care in the world, Grumpy Cyclist rode off muttering about “bloody dogs” and I trudged back to a smirking Mrs P, soaking wet with a bruised ego.
Unfortunately, the T-shirt I was wearing – the one Mrs P bought for me the other day at a New Year sale – was also wet and muddy. I had to take it off and drive back to base topless.
But She Who Keeps The Retailers Happy said she had a solution.
I’d be driving right past the shop where she got me the T-shirt, she said. The sale was still on. I could just stop outside and she’d rush inside and get me another one.
So she did. About 20 minutes later.
After she’d finally stopped shaking with laughter and regained some form of composure.