For once in this crazy year, this past week I secured enough varied paid employment to keep me running from job to job, town to town, lawn to lawn for well in excess of 40 hours.
This has pleased Mrs P who has been suffering Briscoes withdrawal as a result of economies we have had to make stemming from my Covid-19-related redundancy, way back when it could be argued Donald Trump still had a few marbles.
Naturally, I like to keep the goddess who pegs my boxers out each week happy, so I suggested she should go treat herself, buy something on sale at Briscoes – they always have a sale – and add to that collection of never-used kitchen items in the third drawer down from the top.
So off she goes with a few bob in her pocket and I agree to pick up the chores on the list she was working through. One of which was walking George the dog.
It's always the way isn't it? Just when you think you've got a handle on your day and everything is in control, the phone rings or an email comes in and before you know it your easy day has just become chaotic. That's exactly what happened to me.
I was literally just heading out the door when the phone rang. I'd been working out a quote for a lady needing a fence painted and I'd completely forgotten to write it up and send it to her. She agreed to give me an hour and I'd redo it and send it.
The clock ticking, I put George in the car, and headed for the dog exercise place, all the while trying to remember the measurements of the fence and the prices I'd come up with.
The numbers were still on my mind as we pulled into the dog park and I let George out.
We set off on the walk with me still thinking numbers.
Some 30 minutes or so later I've managed to work out the quote and now I've got to keep it in my head till I can write it all up. I'm saying the numbers to myself over and over again.
Even when George does a poo.
Now I like to think of myself as a responsible owner. I pick up his poo in one of the special bags I carry for just that purpose and as I carry it over to the large wheely bin close by for dumping I'm still repeating the numbers in my head. . . "27 metres long by 1.8 metres high, both sides". You get my drift.
As usual the bin has got a fair amount of bagged poo in it. A few seconds later I've deposited George's bag and we're headed for the car.
Problem.
I've dumped the car keys in the bin with all the poo.
In my defence, as I say, my mind was elsewhere occupied with numbers and my hands were full. I was carrying the keys, George's lead and several other bags and my phone.
But having a good excuse wasn't going to solve my problem was it? I needed to get the keys back.
This is where it all gets a bit icky I'm afraid, dear reader.
I was hopeful the keys would be sitting on top of the pile in the bin and I'd be able to pluck them off the top with minimal interaction with the substances within.
Unfortunately, they'd slipped deep down into the bin and I had no choice but to lean in and "rummage" till I found them.
It goes without saying it was not a pleasant experience.
Luckily, Mrs P was back and in the garden when I got there and she took control after I quickly explained, keeping me out of the house and frog-marching me to the back courtyard at the end of a leaf rake.
Once there I was made to strip off.
Only then did I work out how she was planning to clean me up and get rid of the smell.
She said it was lucky she'd gone to the garden centre instead of Briscoes and bought a new jet spray nozzle for the hose.
It was about to come in extremely useful.
• 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 editor@northernadvocate.co.nz (Kevin Page in subject field).
