Instead, I found her reclining on the caravan bed, fury etched deep into the lines on her furrowed brow and shaking the bunched-up pages of an obviously well-read second-hand book in my direction.
“Some ******* ripped the last few pages out,” she said with enough venom to suggest she was, er, shall we say, rather cross.
That was a couple of months ago.
The book in question is called Apples Never Fall by Liane Moriarty.
As I understand it, it’s about a family who are a bit odd and most of them seem to have one secret or another.
Mrs P’s life is basically over if she doesn’t find out what happens in the end.
For a quick comparison, it would be like us blokes watching the All Blacks in the World Cup final.
We’re all tied up and there’s seconds to go. We’ve got a scrum on the Springboks 10m line. We’ve won it. The ball comes back to our ace drop-kick exponent. He shapes to kick and ... poof! The screen goes dead.
When it comes to the book, we can’t locate another copy.
“What’s the issue,” I hear you say. “Buy a new one.”
But Mrs P is determined to save the planet. She is of the opinion every action, however insignificant it appears, will help.
New is out. Second-hand or used is in.
And that’s resulted in a few issues.
For starters, Mrs P and I have been a bit mobile these past few months, heading for a destination down south. As a result we have only been able to scour op shops at places we’ve briefly visited on our way through.
We’ve had a go at advertising on a variety of online groups associated with locations we’ve been at with mixed success.
Apparently, there’s a whole heap of books back in the North Island, but by the time we pay postage etc Mrs P says she may as well have bought a new one. Which she won’t.
So, now it’s also about the principle of the matter.
A few weeks back, literally just as we crossed Cook Strait, a second-hand book cropped up online in the opposite direction from where we were headed in the South Island.
Naturally, I couldn’t resist the pleading eyes. So, I set sail that way so Mrs P could find happiness again.
This time she acted decisively and agreed on the asking price and pick-up. There was even a cordial email discussion with the lady selling it that included the comment, “Oh, I think you’ll enjoy the last chapter. It really explains everything.”
So, thankfully, equilibrium was restored to our world again and Mrs P began rubbing her hands together in delight and anticipation at finally discovering what happens in the end.
But, like the present climate, expectations can prove disappointing.
Since that email conversation the seller has disappeared, taking the book and its elusive last few pages with her.
No response to our knock on the door, left note or numerous querying follow-up emails. Nothing. Thank goodness we didn’t fork out any cash.
So, now we are very much back to square one. We are possibly in an even worse position if you consider we drove 50km out of our way and back to our starting point to get a copy of this blasted book.
Come to think about it, all that extra diesel exhaust from our ute won’t have done the planet much good either. And if it happens again, who knows what will occur up in the atmosphere.
I did quietly mention that to Mrs P as we meandered through a town with a certain red barn where I am sure we could have bought the book new for $20 or so.
“Why don’t I just go in and buy you a copy,” I said, trying to sound helpful. I think I even promised not to tell anyone.
The look I got in response indicated rather firmly her principles were not for sale and a radiation-admitting hole in the ozone layer immediately above my head would be the least of my problems should I stoop to such a level, however practical I might consider the option.
The point we remain at now is still no book and still stuck inside thanks to the summer where we are essentially being as chilly as winter.
