Kevin Page and little Miss Seven, ears and all.
OPINION
For most of the past 23 years, Waitangi Day would have seen me still recovering from my annual golf trip.
That it would usually have ended a week or so prior to Waitangi Day should give you some idea of the magnitude of the event regularly undertaken by myself and 15 other afficianados of the royal and ancient pastime.
Along with golf at different golf courses around the country each year, it would be fair to say the five day “tour” also included a lot of laughs with good mates, a multitude of dramas and, of course, an awful lot of, er, hydration, if you get my drift.
It would also be fair to say I have enjoyed every last minute of the last 23 years.
New members of our golfing group have come and gone but in the main we have retained a steady core. Unsurprisingly we’ve all aged a bit. These days our bus might also tow a trailer – full of all the anti-inflammatory medications some of us need just to get us to the starting line.
The trip is exhausting,if I’m honest, and over the last few years many of us have questioned whether we have the stamina to do another one. Invariably the pros win out over the cons and the following January we line up again like kids waiting to sit on Santa’s knee.
Anyway.
Last June I suffered an unexpected hand injury. An operation or two now beckons and as a result, golf is unlikely to be on my weekend agenda any time soon, if at all.
Naturally, I was a bit down in the dumps at the prospect of missing my first tour in decades but No 2 Son stepped into the breech with an air ticket and a demand to join him, his wife and two little girls for a stay in rural Australia.
To cheer me up even more he arranged my flights for the same time as my usual golf trip to help take my mind off what I was missing out on.
And so, as I nestled into my seat for the four-hour flight to Melbourne, I consoled myself with the fact while golf was off the agenda I’d get to spend some quality time with the grandkids and wouldn’t be anywhere near as tired the week following as I usually am after the golf trip.
Now I don’t know whether you have grandkids or not. If you do I’m sure you are smirking to yourself at that last paragraph. And you’d be 100 per cent justified in doing so.
Grandkids are exhausting.
For starters, just as you are starting to get circulation back in your legs after four hours stuck in a middle seat on the plane between two snoring behemoths, Miss Three-and-a-Half and Miss Seven greet you with a leg hug at the airport arrivals hall.
Miss Seven detaches herself after an appropriate amount of time for a “big girl” but Miss Three-and-a- Half stays firmly clamped to the limb all the way to the carpark and only lets go when it’s time to show you how she can climb into her own car seat now.
For the next three hours Granddad is treated to a non-stop commentary of all the things occurring in the lives of these two cherubs, broken only by a brief stop at a roadside cafe.
There a tired, aching and somewhat bewildered Granddad points to a purpleish coloured can in the drinks cabinet when a cold drink is suggested.
Naturally Miss Seven insists on opening it – after running over to the car – and she and Granddad are the recipients of a sticky, sweet shower.
At home a couple of hours later both girls show Granddad where he’ll be kipping, where the toilet is and where the light to the back door is if the cat wants to go out in the night.
Obviously, it was a very weary Granddad who crawled into his sack a few hours later.
Next day started much as the previous one had ended – with giggling littlies tapping on the door anxious to wake up their visitor at 6am and do something. Anything.
And we did.
For the next five days we visited every park in their little town. Went on every swing and slide. Had a swim at the local pool. Went on a bush walk. Watched three Harry Potter movies. Had icecream. Sang songs. Did silly dancing. Drew even sillier pictures and rang Mrs P back home for giggly chats.
I was well and truly knackered. By comparison I think my golf trip would have been easy.
On the last day we were sitting in the lounge late in the afternoon. It was too hot to go outside so we had played a game where we put on false ears and pretended to be pussy cats then started watching the last of the three Harry Potter movies we’d binge-watched.
Exhausted, I was drinking a can of the drink the wee cherubs had handed me on Day One. I had grown to enjoy it. So much so, No 2 Son, had got a couple of six packs for me. I’d taken one with me on each visit to a playground or another outing.
On this particular evening I’d ordered pizzas. Granddad’s last shout. That sort of thing. I was sitting on the comfortable sofa, sipping away at my can, Miss Three and a Half tucked under one arm, sun streaming in through the window.
I started to feel drowsy and before I knew it I was snoring.
A giggling Miss Seven woke me to tell me I was spilling my drink. Quickly I righted the can and glanced at the label. It turned out the drink I’d thought was some sort of refreshing fruit punch with an odd name was actually vodka!
Not exactly what one would class as an appropriate beverage while traipsing round the playgrounds of this particular town. Groan.
Anyway.
As I’m sitting there, still a bit bewildered – and possibly sozzled if truth be known – the doorbell rang. Pizza man.
Out I went with Miss Seven who took charge of the handover with the young guy delivering the goods.
“You’re not from here, are you?” he enquired, looking at me oddly, as the youngster paid for it all with her dad’s phone.
“How did you guess?” I asked, still a bit tired and bewildered.
“The ears are a bit of a giveaway,” he laughed as he bade us farewell.
By this stage I was completely confused and mentioned as much to No 2 Son when we returned to the lounge.
He roared with laughter and told me to go look in the mirror.
Upon doing so I discovered I still had the ears on from the previous Pussycat game.
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