The frustrating task of digging a hole became a hilarious tale for Kevin Page. Photo / 123rf
OPINION
In the world of comedy, they say it’s all about timing.
It might be something as simple as a millisecond’s wait to deliver a punchline or a sudden, unexpected appearance coupled with a look of complete and utter confusion. Something that will turn an everyday situation into a laugh-fest guaranteed to have one and all rolling around in fits.
If that is the key element for a long and successful career on stage and screen, then I believe Mrs P should pack her bags right now. Broadway and Hollywood beckon.
But before I get my suit dry-cleaned for her next appearance on the red carpet, let me explain how we got to this point.
The other day Mrs P took herself off into town for a spot of retail therapy. While she continued her quest to drive me into the poor house, I continued my very own quest in the back garden.
I’m digging a hole.
Not just any hole, mind. This hole is deep and round. So deep it will come up to my shoulders and so round it will fit a couple of concrete soak-hole rings. I’m digging it because the clouds have been emptying their bladders a fair bit on my lawn lately and another drain in the garden will help before it turns into a haven for waterfowl.
There’s also the fact that, in a few weeks’ time, I will come to the end of my 50s. I’d like to know if I’ve still got it in me to do a decent day’s digging.
Or two days, as it turned out. There’s a lot of dirt to shift and my guidance counsellor, aka The Scottish Plumber, suggested pacing myself.
Naturally, I had sought his advice on my drainage issue and he had recommended said hole. He had actually suggested I might kill myself trying to dig the hole “at my age” and Junior Scottish Plumber could do it in half the time and probably not break a sweat.
He may also have suggested he and I could enjoy a convivial ale from chairs set up in the garden while we watched the hole being dug. Tempting as it was, I was still bristling from the ageist remark he had tossed my way – ironic as he’s only a year and a bit younger – and made the decision on the spot to do it myself and show him.
Anyway. The decision made and concrete rings, lids, pipes and grates purchased, I set to work.
Still bristling from the suggestion I might not be able to do it, I kept up a steady pace and eventually reached halfway. That’s when it got a bit tougher. Not only was I just digging, but as the hole got deeper I was having to squat down, pick up a shovel full of dirt, stand up and somehow throw the dirt onto a pile that was getting higher with every load.
Consequently, as the hole got deeper and the pile of spoil got higher, deeper squats and higher throws were required. As a result, muscles that had long been retired from active service were recommissioned for the battle.
It would be fair to say that eventually there was some grumbling within the ranks of these muscles and three-quarters of the way to their destination they gave up and demanded a cessation of hostilities and a hot bath.
It was while in the confines of that soothing bath that I recalled a previous occasion when The Scottish Plumber had advised me on digging a drainage hole.
It was 37 years ago, to be exact. Ironically, it involved a similar-sized hole at the end and off to the side of a short driveway.
To this day I swear he indicated it needed to be quite deep. If I didn’t get to China I would at least need to be able to hear the citizens singing, which was, by my recollection, the terminology used.
Naturally, way back then, I was considerably fitter and more supple and so by the time The Scottish Plumber arrived to check on my spade work I had sweated out about a dozen kilos and was so far down that only my hand and forearm were visible when I reached out high above.
The sight of me in the pit had him in hysterics, particularly when he informed me I’d gone way more than double the depth of what would have reasonably been required. Naturally, he swore black and blue he didn’t mean “that” deep when he gave me my instructions.
I swear I would have gone for him but I couldn’t get out of the hole. Still laughing, he marched off to get a ladder and rescued me.
Fast forward to last week and day two of digging. Mrs P has gone out and I’m back on the job.
It’s tough going and getting slower as I get deeper. But I’m pacing myself and I’ve got a water bottle on the edge of the hole and when I need a break there’s just enough room to kneel down. I’m down to shoulder height and all but done when The Scottish Plumber arrives to see how I’m going.
“Hop out,” he says, “and I’ll give you a hand to lower the soak hole rings in.”
That’s when I discovered my muscles, none of them, were strong or supple enough to propel me up and out of the hole.
The Scottish Plumber offered me a hand, I grabbed hold and he heaved.
Unfortunately, my hands were still covered in dirt and the grip was less than satisfactory. As he heaved, my hand slipped free and somehow managed to whack me in the nose, which in turn exploded into a full-on nosebleed any prize-fighter would have been proud of.
So there I am, pouring blood, stuck in a hole and The Scottish Plumber is laughing his head off above me.
We try again. This time we go for a two-hand grip. And to be honest, by this time we are both laughing like two mischievous schoolkids.
On the second go, he manages to pull me out but as he steps back he trips over a shovel and falls into the pile of dirt I’d dug out.
His momentum sees him land somewhere near the top of the pile and he does a complete slow-motion backward roll down the other side.
I see this about to happen and try to move forward to help but I’m only recently free of a confined space and full circulation has not yet returned to my legs and arms so all I can do is fall forward into the muddy pile in a show of solidarity.
By now we are in hysterics. So, basically, we’re a pair of silly old sods, covered in mud and blood rolling round in a pile of dirt.
And it’s at this point Mrs P emerges through the side gate to view this scene of utter chaos. Shopping bag in either hand, complete confusion etched across her face.
As I said way back at the start, timing is everything.
Gang patches can no longer be worn in public.