Kevin Page: Struggling to match Kiwi ingenuity

SPECIAL SKILLS: Mastering the practicalities in life is the measure of masculinity. PHOTO/FILE

I'VE long been a fan of the Kiwi No8 wire mentality. I'm sure you know what I mean. I'm talking about those clever Macgyver (remember him) type individuals who can turn a 4-inch nail into a penknife and carve a tree into a boat and sail across the ocean.

Sadly, being a pom I'm not blessed with such natural abilities.

I'll give most things a go of course but my brain doesn't extend far beyond getting it to a stage where I'm stuck and then generally looking on in wide-eyed wonderment as one of my mates, usually shaking with laughter, conjures up some solution and sorts it all out.

Generally those of us of the, shall we say, No4 wire mentality (get it? that's half of No8 wire. Though I realise I do risk sounding like even more of an idiot if there is no such thing as No4 wire) have to make do with looking the part and picking stuff up for the guys who know what they are doing.

I have mastered this if I'm honest.

I am the proud owner of a cap, old jersey, tight, tight shorts, crusty work sox and paint spattered workboots and I give them a trot out most weekends.

Sometimes I'll just walk through Bunnings looking like I know what I'm doing. Enjoying the look of reverence.

Anyway. Last week, suitably attired, I had occasion to go to a large timber yard to pick up wood.

This is one of those man places all us blokes would love to work.

Guys there walk around in shorts with proper tool belts on. They know what they are doing. They talk a different language.

This is man country. I wouldn't mind being buried here. Over in the corner please. Just next to the 4x4 tanalised posts.

But that will have to wait till I've shuffled off this earth. For now I've got timber to pick up and I've paid for it, got the docket and I'm headed back out to the yard to have it loaded on the trailer.

The forklift does its stuff and now I'm standing there proudly surveying my timber. Ladies try and imagine how you feel standing there surveying your nice clean bathroom. It's the same thing.

But now there's a problem.

Apparently the guys no longer tie the stuff on to the trailer for me. It's something to do with responsibility for loads etc. I have to do it myself.

"Okay," I figure, as I go and buy a cheap roll of rope.

"How hard can that be?"

Bloody hard. Especially when the 25m coil decides to unravel the minute you take it out of the packing.

So you tie off one end and pass the ever tangling mass of rope round the oversized timber you are hoping to stop sliding round.

You get there but the tangled coil left is now basically tight as a drum and useless.

You've still got the other end of your timber to tie so you shrug and go and buy another coil.

Flustered you walk into the trade shop where you bump into your mate.

You chat as you buy coil No2 hoping like hell the guy behind the counter doesn't say: "Didn't you just buy some rope 20 minutes ago?" He doesn't and you make your escape back to the yard and have a crack at the loose ends of timber.

Same result. Open pack. Open coil. Tangle like spaghetti. But you get there. Eventually.

And still flustered you try and hide the obscene tangle under the timber in the trailer as your mate pulls up alongside, all his timber neatly tied down with a couple of those professional ratchet-type strops.

"Geez mate," he says, casting an eye over your knots.

"You obviously weren't in the boy scouts were you? You should have said before. I've got a couple of spare strops in the back. You could have used them."

-Kevin Page has been a journalist for 35 years. He hasn't made enough money to retire after writing about serious topics for years so he's giving humour a shot instead.