There I am the other day waiting for Mrs P and the biological ticking time clock in me goes off. It’s linked to my bank account somehow and it’s telling me it is time to go find her. Quickly. Photo / 123rf
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
As is her custom, Mrs P had gone into Dazed Auto Pilot mode as we entered the car park at the shopping mall and the sign advertising her favourite store came into sight.
The car had barely crawled to a stop when she was out and off in search of bargains galore or, as The Scottish Plumber describes it when we are chewing the fat, “all sorts of useless shite”.
I guess the term “useless” is debatable isn’t it but I’m sure you get my drift.
Anyway.
She’s gone and I’m left on Husband Duty in the car.
Having served this sentence before I’ve got quite good at passing the time.
It used to be on wet days you could fog up your windows and draw on them with your index finger. Many is the time I have won the Parked Car Noughts and Crosses World Championship while waiting for Mrs P.
There was also car cricket. Red car coming into the car park is worth six runs. White car is a single. Blue car means you are out.
I once scored a half century in a carpark and was loudly praising my ability on my own live commentary when Mrs P returned to the vehicle. Somewhat embarrassed, I told her it was the radio. Ahem.
For really boring times there were brain games like seeing how far back you could go naming All Black first five eighths or captains. Or what about songs with the name of an American state in them – California Girls, that sort of thing.
Fun times indeed.
These days of course we have the internet to keep us busy when we are left in the car.
So, as long as I’ve got enough data on my mobile plan – he says trying to baffle readers with a previously undiscovered appreciation of technology – I can go on Trade Me for ages and look at useless shite other people don’t want and I’ll never buy, all from the comfort of the driver’s seat.
Aah. One has to love progress.
Anyway.
There I am the other day waiting for Mrs P and the biological ticking time clock in me goes off. It’s linked to my bank account somehow and it’s telling me it is time to go find her. Quickly.
Coincidentally, at the same time, somewhere within the bowels of the store, Mrs P’s biological ticking time clock has also gone off and it’s telling her to scurry to a corner of the shop. Also quickly.
Subconsciously, she knows I am coming to find her so she’s trying to hide and eke out an extra few minutes of browsing before she is discovered and escorted back to reality - or the second session of car cricket with the Black Caps behind by 21 runs v Australia.
No need to worry chaps. That well-known top order batsman K.Page is preparing to stride to the crease. He’ll save the day. Again.
But I digress. Back at the shop
On this particular day Mrs P is one of perhaps two or three women in the shop. And today the Sisters have an ally. The Lady Behind The Counter. I’m going to call her Lady X from here in to save keystrokes.
Now, the thing about Lady X is she knows why us blokes are there. We’re not there to buy. We’re there to find our wives. The fact that if we find them and get them off the premises they won’t be able to spend any of our money did not even cross our minds.
Honest.
So, if you think about it, it will do Lady X’s bottom line absolutely no good at all if she helps us remove the Sisters from the premises.
That’s why when I go in she fixes me with a cold stare which means she doesn’t have to ask what I want.
I’m immediately thrown.
“I’m looking for a wife,” I stammer, trying to be friendly, and then realising I said “a” wife rather than “my” wife.
A simple mistake but what I’d said came out wrong and she pounces. It has to be said her retort was quite clever.
“You’ll find our Wives section in the far corner,” she says without batting an eyelid.
Embarrassed, I dutifully trot off to the far end of the shop where I find . . . nothing. Or nobody.
So then I have to plod all the way back to the counter where Lady X is folding something. She seems to have grown a full metre.
She stares down at me, a smirk creasing her face.
“Oh. I meant the other corner,” she says, casually nodding in the other direction.
As I head off – again, legs beginning to ache – it occurs to me Lady X has employed some admiral delaying tactics.
She’s slowed me down and bought time for Mrs P who I find in the right corner, absolutely transfixed by some item that is, apparently, a must to “tie in” our bathroom decor.
I can see the confused look on the face of The Scottish Plumber as I try to explain that one. Especially as he knows at present Mrs P and I are living in a caravan.
Anyway.
We head back up to the counter where Lady X is super cheerful and friendly – no doubt delighted with the fact Mrs P is about to swipe the eftpos card.
“I found her,” I said, trying to sound as enthusiastic as Mrs P was with her purchase.
“That’s one of our best-selling models,” said Lady X as we finally head for the door.
I was going to say something smart like “I’ll have a think about it” but I know when I’m beaten.
In car cricket terms you could say a blue car had just come into the car park and I was well and truly bowled for a duck.