A friend of ours, Lady Nurse, is on the move again. She's on her own so, like we've done four or five times over the past 20 or so years, we've pitched in to assist with the move.
Interestingly, the house she just moved from is the same place I helped move the Scottish Plumber into, and then out of, some 25 years ago when he was building his new house.
Back then it was an easy move.
The offer of a few beers at the conclusion of the shift was enough to bring out myself and the rest of the strong, fit blokes from our footy team and the job was completed swiftly and without hiccup.
Well almost. Our little halfback Dave did drop his end of a big table and Mrs Scottish Plumber wasn't happy and threatened to remove the beer privileges unless we took more care.
I distinctly remember having the strength to lift a tall, slimline fridge by myself up the three steps into the house. No problem. Washing machine? Easy. Give me a sec to pump up my biceps to impress the chicks then I'll get right on it.
So. Here I am decades later in the same house looking at basically an identical fridge. And I'm thinking I can still do it.
It came off the ground easy. My arms, shoulders and legs combining nicely as I bear-hugged the brute into submission and began the 10-metre journey to the waiting trailer.
About two steps in the muscles and tendons throughout my body got together and decided to send a message to the brain which suggested this may not have been such a good idea. I may have even let out an odd, involuntary groan akin to a set of bagpipes giving up the ghost.
It was enough to bring Mrs P and Lady Nurse running.
Now, my body may have been struggling with the task but was I going to admit it and basically have my manhood severed three metres from the end goal? No, I wasn't. And so I struggled on as the rescue party flitted from side to side like a pair of fantails suggesting I let them help.
It was a bit like the old map-reading days in the car before these new dashboard-mounted techno route planner things came out. No, I do not need help. I am a man and I know exactly which way to go and can do it on my own thank your very much. Ahem. Sound familiar?
Anyway, with a hernia threatening to dance a jig in the lower regions, I've got the fridge down the last step and I'm just trying to swing it round a bit to line up for the rear of the trailer and, you guessed it, I stumble.
And there's no going back now. The weight has shifted. I'm going down like the Titanic. Luckily it's all in slow motion and I can pick my landing spot and hopefully save the fridge from damage at the same time.
And that's how I ended up here. Laying back in the bush clinging tightly to the fridge.
Luckily the whole process has brightened the lives of the women who respond with equal amounts of concern as they pull the fridge off me (they are nurses after all) and glee, particularly on the phone later where they manage to sever my manhood anyway (figuratively) by relaying the story to all and sundry.
Next day, with my aching tail still between my legs we go round to check on Lady Nurse in her new place and make sure she's got everything where she wants it. But there's no sign of the fridge.
It seems all the grunting, groaning and falling was a waste of time. It won't fit in her new kitchen so she sold it within minutes of her arrival to the bloke over the back fence.
Apparently he's a nice, fit young man from the footy club who simply picked it up in a bear hug and wandered off down the driveway with it.
■ 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
