I’ve got an address but I can’t see any street signs.
Luckily, an elderly bloke is out walking his dog and we meet. Well, basically I walk into him.
Actually, now I think about it, I just assumed he was out walking his dog. He might have been lost too. Hmm.
Anyway. I apologise for walking into him and we start chatting.
Long story short, he’s lived here ages and knows the streets like the back of his hand. He’s happy to guide me.
Ten minutes later we stop in the fog and he says “This is it.”
I, of course, have no idea where we are or how he got me there but I thank him for his help and watch as he disappears.
Half an hour later, I’m back in the fog and being led back to my car by an equally pleasant elderly lady who takes great delight in telling me most men are directionally challenged, so she’s not surprised I can’t find my way.
By the time I have made it back to my vehicular sanctuary, I am well and truly feeling like a 7-year-old who has lost his mummy.
So, I decide never to go out in the fog alone again.
Now the interesting thing about all this is it’s not the first time I’ve come across such thick fog.
And, now that I think about it, it’s not the first time I’ve come across the mysterious old bloke either, though I am pretty sure they aren’t the same person. He would probably be 120 years old by now if it was.
Anyway.
Way back in my cub reporting days when a pie cost 20 cents and your choice was just mince, I was sent out to cover a meeting in the middle of winter.
I had to drive to this particular rural town and found it blanketed by the thickest of thick fog with a fair amount of coal fire smoke in the mix for good measure.
It was so thick I couldn’t see two yards in front of my Ford Cortina, so did the sensible thing and opted to pull into the kerb, which I found when I hit it.
Of course, I’d been to this town before, so I had a rough idea where I needed to be, but it was real one step at a time, one hand out in front of me, just in case stuff.
Eventually, I came across a handrail and let out a sigh of relief. I knew the venue for the meeting, one of those old rural town halls, had a rail leading up a ramp to the door. I’d obviously found it.
A couple of steps into my ponderous perambulation along the handrail, a voice emerged from the fog in front of me.
“G’day,” this male voice said. “Woof,” said his companion, who I assumed was a dog or a mate of his taking the mickey. I couldn’t tell.
“G’day,” I offered back, still struggling to make out a face. “I’m from the paper. Here for the meeting,” I said.
There followed a rather interesting conversation where he appeared to want to have a go about my newspaper’s coverage of bowls.
Naturally, I answered his questions and he seemed satisfied but then I decided I needed help.
Remember at this point I still couldn’t see his face, or the front door.
I’d stopped following the handrail because it seemed logical he was positioned at the front door, or at the very least by an open window.
So I asked if he could come out and guide me.
Like a flash, this elderly bloke in a bright red jersey – I remember it was more holes than jersey – appeared from the fog, took my arm, turned me around and began walking back down the ramp I’d just come up.
“Actually mate,” I protested, “I need to get into the meeting,”
“I know that,” he said, with a laugh. “It’s in the hall across the street. You’ve just spent 10 minutes trying to get into my pensioner flat.”
