It has been a busy month for a 111-year-old slab of oak like me.
The last time I had this much action was in 1994 when former Canterbury lock Chris England stripped me down, applied a dose of physiotherapy to my centrepiece, fused a few splinters back into place and gave me a decent polish. However, I felt rejuvenated then. Now I'm just exhausted.
Crikey, for starters I was mugged by some Otago players in a Queenstown cafe and marched to the Remarkables to cover the nether regions of Marshall Suckling while other players blasted me with snowballs. Charming ... and after all I've done to motivate these blokes over the years. Still, I was getting sick of those Hamilton malls.
Next thing you know I was tucked under the arm of a Hawkes Bay player and heading to bed. It was a relief to head north to new digs.
This week I've needed earplugs whether it's travelling through a funnel of people in King St, Pukekohe, or being plonked down alone in front of the entire roll of Papakura Central School. They promptly launched into a cacophony of cheering. I'm not sure the school hall had seen the likes of that before but hey, it's the sort of street-cred I generate. Those kids were rather kind, too, suggesting I might only be 67 or 68 years old. I'm still on the hunt for the rascal who suggested I was 128.