By all accounts, these days op-shopping is "in". Second-hand bargains are to be had – primarily clothing with this gang of girls - and various people, organisations and charities will be assisted financially at the same time. So it's a win-win situation.
It's a tweak on the old jumble sale-type thing you'll recall from the school gala all those years ago.
I eagerly await the day Mrs P or one of her gang unwittingly buys back something they donated previously.
It happened to a mate of mine down country years ago.
His mum found an unused T-shirt at the back of his wardrobe on a Thursday and gave it to the collectors for the gala on Saturday. He rocked up to the event, found this great T-shirt. Tried it on and what do you know? It fitted perfectly.
From memory he paid $5 for it and proudly wore it all that day. It was only when we got back to his house later that his mum filled him in. She even showed him the initials she'd put on the washing label.
Anyway. Back to Mrs P's girls. All sitting at our place waiting for her. They are just about to head out the door and I stroll through in my cycling gear, destined to head off on my own adventure.
Now, it has to be said, lycra is not the friend of the, er, ageing cyclist. Particularly those who like the odd pie. Or beer. Or chips etc. You get my drift.
But it is useful in keeping some wobbly bits contained.
I'm not completely clad in the stretchy fabric but it is strategically located under a normal pair of shorts and a T-shirt. It could be argued (well, I would certainly argue it anyway) I look a little "trim, taut and terrific".
And this is what Mrs P is alluding to as she responds to the girls' admiring glances. At least I assume they are admiring glances. They may have been open-mouthed looks of incredulity.
"He's a fit old codger," says my beloved, as the girls get up and head to the car.
The phrase is ringing in my head as I pedal away over the next hour or so, occasionally stopping to push a roll or two of abdomen back under the lycra.
But all good things must come to an end and my cycling for the day is to culminate in meeting Mrs P and the girls at the park where they will be enjoying a coffee at a spot we often congregate at.
I prefer my coffee from another place only a hundred metres away so I grab it and slowly pedal towards the group I can see in the distance.
It's a little bit of a balancing act. Sipping from the coffee cup in one hand and riding the bike with the other. There's the odd tricky bit of pavement to negotiate so I somehow rest the coffee cup hand on the handlebars while simultaneously holding the container, as you do.
I'm 10 yards away from the girls now and they call out as I near – there may even have been a wolf whistle or two.
There's one little bump to go over so I do the aforementioned cup-on-the-handlebar trick as I go over it.
Disaster.
The lid of the cup flies off and the entire contents of warm frothy, chocolately moccachino jumps up into my face. Eyebrows, beard, the lot is covered and my nose is running brown. Right in front of the Giggle Gang.
The girls erupt and I hear Mrs P say: "As I said, he's a fit old codger. But it looks like he's got a drinking problem."
• 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) .
