My ego sufficiently stroked, I was already mentally packing my bags before I put the phone down. I hoped I'd get to go cover the swimming. I mean what better place of work than sitting in the sun at the open air pool watching the drama unfold?
OK, maybe there's the beach volleyball too.
Anyway.
My dreams were somewhat shattered a short while later when it was revealed I wouldn't be travelling to the warm, sunny GC. In fact, I'd have to make do with a heater and fluorescent light in my office at home as part of the team doing the "other stuff" while the Games are on.
Oh well. At least my new afternoon start time meant I could fit in some exercise earlier in the day. And if I couldn't go watch the swimming then I'd grab my togs and go for a swim at our local pool myself.
Now I've done a bit of swimming before. Consequently I have a bag, goggles and a special swimming towel which is specially designed to cope with the chlorine in the pool – which basically means its an old, crappy one Mrs P makes me take rather than ruin one of her good ones.
They are reserved for when the Queen or Rod Stewart come to visit.
Unfortunately today I can't find my special towel.
The cupboard is full of good towels. In fact it feels like I'm in a holding warehouse for Farmers, Briscoes or Bed, Bath and Beyond such is the variety of towels available. But I still can't find my towel.
I don't know why I'm surprised. I don't know about you but I can never seem to find a towel when I need one.
It seems that whenever I am in the shower Mrs P has sneaked in and removed stuff.
Obviously gone are my dirty, sweaty clothes from the work she's had me doing outside, along with my undies, and the good towel that I'm sure was on the rail when I stepped into the shower and which she planned to replace with one I can't ruin.
Then what usually happens is she gets distracted and goes off and does something else while I find myself with no clothes and nothing to cover myself as I go searching.
As previously mentioned our house is somewhat overlooked so I'm pretty sure by now the neighbours have become used to seeing me making the quick dash from the bathroom to the bedroom in my birthday suit looking for cover. Oh well. Probably cheaper than watching Sky TV.
Actually I remember now Mrs P has also been caught out thus.
A few years back in one of our first days in a new house she had to make the naked run from the bathroom to the dryer in the garage to get a towel. As you do.
We were young and wobbly bits were a way off so it was all a bit of a giggle until she realised a builder, just yards away on the site next door, was enjoying the free show through the garage window.
I swear next day at the same time there were three of them there. Just in case.
But I digress. So I'm looking for my old swimming towel. And I can't find it.
Eventually I've had enough so I reach over the back of the good towels and just grab something. It turns out to be faded brown and certainly not as fluffy as the ones in the front. I figure its some old, veteran towel I can't ruin so I'm good.
An hour or so later I've completed my 1000 lengths (ahem). I'm showered and standing in front of my kitbag ready to dry off, every muscle and sinew resplendent and positively glowing with pride. I reach into my kit bag and pull out a . . . hand towel.
Not big enough to even cover my, er, hand.
So I do the best I can and drive home (chasing some Russian spies at high speed along the way; there you go) to find George The Dog sitting on his chair on the front porch waiting for me.
And there underneath him is my nice old, welcoming towel.
So now it seems there are two of us in the house who share the towel.
Oh well. Needs must. I can accept the fact he'll probably lay on it after rolling in muck, possibly wee on it, probably lick his private parts on it.
He just better not take it with him when he goes swimming.
■ Kevin Page is a teller of tall tales with a firm belief too much serious news gives you frown lines. Feel free to share stories to kevin.page@nzme.co.nz.
