My experiences of Wales are somewhat limited but I am reliably informed that the Welsh are as accommodating as the Swiss only less affluent. Our barman last night were perfectly fine so it seems Welsh Waiter syndrome is yet to kick in.

If they are anything like their road system however, we are in for a miserable time. What with countless malls, bus lanes, one way streets and no left turns, navigating around Cardiff is like navigating the Hampton Court Maze. Blindfolded. We reached the deliveries entrance of the Marriott Hotel but then had to backtrack via about four blocks to get to the main entrance which, as the dragon flies was about 30m away and just round a (no entrance) corner. Finding the entrance to the Pyramid of Giza would have been easier.

Needless to say this situation generated a modicum of tension and relations between the front seat drivers (Cuz 1 and me) and the back seat drivers (Cuz 2 and the CB) were somewhat strained by the time we parked the car then removed it from the reserved Tabernacle Choir parking bay (£50 fine and tow away) and into a less belligerent parking spot.

So it was Welsh faggots (see my Facebook page if you have access) last night and it’s Cardiff Castle and various other Welsh rare bits today.

Incidentally, one thing I have noticed, and it is quite obvious, is that no one here is wearing a mask. Now Wales is somewhat insular but I’m pretty sure they get international news – I can see a BBC building from the hotel window – so they must know about the corona virus. But they obviously don’t know how serious it is and that’s not down to the paucity of masks. You can still buy toilet paper in the shops.

We are now at about the end of the daylight hours and it hasn’t rained once today. This is most unusual for this time of year. I’m surprised those whackos from Extinction Rebellion aren’t gluing themselves to the road protesting that this is because the end of the planet is nigh and Wales is at the forefront of climate action and must lead the world in ……. leadership or something. That’s what they say in Australia anyway. But if they are still stuck to Lloyd George Street on Saturday when Wales plays Scotland in 6 Nations rugby, they should expect to feel the full weight of coach loads of boyos from the valleys.

Well here we are, in the immortal words of Willie Nelson “on the road again”. Specifically, we are in Hong Kong Airport at the height (actually, that depends on who you talk to because it may have more legs yet) of the coronavirus pandemic or as the more technically inclined call it COVID-19 which I believe is the disease you get from the virus. There are more people here in the airport than I had been led to believe. I’ve seen pictures of it nearly deserted but maybe the not-so-timid are venturing outdoors and taking off again.

The best part of being out and about during a medical panic, especially in this part of the world, is that 90% of the people here are wearing masks. We have recently learned that the masks stop people with the virus from spreading it rather than prevent the wearer from catching it from someone else. So thanks everyone. I couldn’t be bothered buying one of those things but you have all made that consideration redundant anyway.

The coronavirus supposedly causes flu-like symptoms. Fair enough, but it seems to me that the thought of it causes insanity also. It must be like sitting behind your castle wall in Samarkand in 1219 thinking about and waiting for Genghis Khan and his 100,000 strong Mongol horde to come barrelling through the gates. That thought would be enough to send you on a completely unhinged toilet paper buying frenzy which is precisely what is happening world-wide at the moment. I can understand this happening if there is a real prospect of a nuclear holocaust and the bunker in the back yard needs stocking up with life’s essentials like baked beans, bullets and toilet paper. But a virus that causes flu symptoms? Sorry but you bum-wad hoarders have lost me there.

Our flight from Hong Kong to Manchester is the last one out – 1.35am. Beer has kept me awake so far but I may have to pour the next one over my head to stay awake.

On the plane now and all of the flight attendants are wearing masks – like extremely polite outlaws except they are offering us stuff rather than taking it off us.

Apologies for the paucity of posts but I’ve been rather busy. When I think about that statement I’m reminded of the great P.J.O’Rourke’s statement about healthcare – “If you think healthcare is expensive now, wait until you see what it costs when it’s free”. Various wannabe socialist politicians in the US (and elsewhere) should take note. No, my take on that quote is “If you think you’re busy now, think how busy you’ll be when you have nothing to do”.

So I’m supposed to be sliding out of semi-retirement after having fought the good fight for the mining industry for many years. But people keep giving me things to do. The best part of that is that I can choose to do the job in question, or not, as the case may be – back off lawyers with expert witness work; I’ve hung up my spurs. Working for myself affords certain other privileges also. One is to travel whenever the CB wants to travel.

Anyway, there will be a flurry of website activity in coming weeks. You see the CB and I are off to the UK to board our Celtic Caravan (comprising one cousin’s car and two hire cars). Incidentally, the CB doesn’t “do” caravans, as such, other than those kitted out like a house (as is the case with my cousin’s place at Conwy). Caravans in the conventional sense, as in those you tow behind a car, are too much like camping and that has been off the agenda since we almost desiccated to death in a tent on the Gold Coast in heat that would have qualified as a “climate emergency” if I was a Green or a Swedish teenager or an idiot. So it’ll be the aforementioned house-like caravan, hotels and B&B’s.

So a pub crawl round Wales with Cuz1 and Cuz2 will be the first order of business followed by a family wedding at which there will be no respite from doing the Swansea Swig. To finish off, the CB and I will take a leisurely drive round the top half of Ireland where I am reliably informed (by a used car salesman friend) there are no pubs. So get ready for Tales from the Celtic Caravan, coming to a website near you – this website actually.

A few years ago the child bride and I decided to forego country living and move to the city. I have mentioned this before, but to recap, we wanted to be able to pick-up and leave at the drop of a hat if an interesting (and cheap) travel opportunity presented itself. Also I got tired of spending all weekend, every weekend mowing acres of grass, trimming round dozens of trees and along endless edges and maintaining various items including a swimming pool. So we sold our sprawling house on acreage and bought a two story townhouse close to the city and the international airport.

One of the attractions of the place where we now live is that the pool is right outside our gate. So we can use it whenever we like but not have to worry about cleaning it. I did, however have to tell a bunch of (what I assumed to be) male flight attendants yahooing and generally talking very loudly at 6.30am one Sunday morning (a time that barely exists in my world), to pull their heads in. They obviously weren’t bikers or UFC fighters because they politely apologised and buggered off.

There is one disadvantage in being so close to a community pool, especially as we have a two storey house and I spend a lot of time upstairs in the multi-purpose room where I have my guitars and the big(gest) TV. This room also has a large window with a panoramic view of the pool. In winter this is not a problem. In summer it presents some rather unique challenges. Let me set the scene.

We also have a gym in our complex and I was on my way there yesterday, walking past the pool at about 11.30am. I couldn’t help but notice a rather attractive young lady sprawled out on her towel sans top and wearing a barely visible thong (not the Australian foot-wear type thong, the other one) because she had hidden most of it in her person. It is impolite to stare so I didn’t….for very long. On the beach this isn’t a problem. Here, it is and here’s why. If young ladies are on display around the pool below my window, standing at the window for any length of time, whether looking at them or not, is going to get me branded as a perve. Not being able to look out of one of your windows kind of defeats the purpose in having them.

Think how much worse this could be if it was a group of 10 year olds (male or female) in and around the pool and there’s “pedo guy” surveying the scene from the relative security of his upstairs rec-room with hands out of view below the window sill. The inadvertent consequences don’t bear thinking about. So what to do? Spend more time actually in the pool I guess.

Recently the child bride and I went to the theatre (should that have a capital “T”?). We accompanied my brother and his family to watch his son and our nephew star in a performance of Spamalot. For those not in the know, Spamalot is a series of Monty Python sketches and songs attached to a theme similar to that enacted in the movie Monty Python and the Holy Grail. So we had the arrogant Frenchman proclaiming “I fart in your general direction” and the coconut shells making the horse clip-clopping sounds from the movie. And we also had some old favourites from the TV show like the fish-slapping dance and references to the immortal dead parrot sketch. Which sketches and references are incorporated into the production I think, are entirely at the director’s discretion.

As this musical (for sing they do) is set in the dark ages of King Arthur and Camelot you would expect peasants dying ugly, horrible deaths as occurs in pretty well all re-enactments of that particularly nasty time in our history (despite chivalrous knights rescuing damsels in distress) but, no. Only the Black Knight suffers any sort of harm and even afterwards can still hurl insults – not a bad effort when you have been relieved of both of your arms and both of your legs, not to mention fingers, thumbs, toes, elbows and knees.

I can’t recall the last time the CB and I graced the theatre with our presence if you exclude things like flamenco in Seville and puppet shows in Hanoi and acrobats in Beijing, all of which were parts of various guided tours. It’s not that we’re cultural philistines. Heavens, we once bought a painting. From an art gallery. But I’m guessing a Led Zeppelin tribute band at the local pub doesn’t really count. Incidentally, you can read about that sophisticated trip down memory lane on this very website. Our cultural proclivities may be few and far between but it doesn’t mean bogan and cerebral are mutually exclusive (except at the same time). So off we went.

Prior to the performance, another trip down memory lane was warranted. In our youth, me, my brother and our other brother all played for a cricket club which used a particular pub in a not particularly salubrious part of town, as its club-house. We would go there before games to fuel-up and after games to top-up. It was called the Prince Alfred and was your typical Aussie pub with a public bar which housed all the drunks and loud mouths, a private bar which loud mouthed cricketers decamped to and what is now a complete anachronism – a rarely patronised ladies lounge. Plus a few rooms upstairs for the patrons who were unable to walk at closing time.

As the area gentrified, the “PA” or “Down There” as it was variously known changed ownership, changed décor, changed clientele, changed its name to something gaudy and hip and frankly, became an absolute disgrace. More recently it has changed its name to the Lord Alfred, a hat-tip to its past but still a “pub” with couches and craft beers. Its clientele is still loud but wears short skirts and loafers and hipster haircuts.

Notwithstanding all of this, animal instincts never change. While we were there a fight broke out. Just like the old days except it was a bunch of millennials throwing drinks at each other and falling about because they were too pissed to let fly. Not a knife or broken bottle in sight. And security came from everywhere to escort the miscreants off the premises unlike in the good old days when the barman would leap over the bar and toss the offender/s out into the street. Unfortunately the falling about involved falling onto my brother’s other son and his mate who were with us. No damage done but free drinks for the boys.

With some faith in humanity restored, we set off for the theatre, a couple of hundred meters down the street. As the CB has been know to assert, it’s sometimes more entertaining to watch the crowd than the performance (don’t get me wrong – the performance was very good). So a group of what appeared to be friends occupied the seats in front of us and the man and woman who sat immediately in front of us were obviously friends because he put his hand on her seat and she promptly sat on it. Instead of leaping up in fright, she hunkered down and settled in. The CB and I glanced at each other and we settled in to watch this performance. Sadly not much else happened. After a few minutes she removed his hand, directed it round her shoulders and snuggled up to him. After the interval he fell asleep and snored through the entire second half.

I wasn’t only gifted something to write about in front of me but to the side also. Now, I’m not about to disparage the afflicted but sometimes you have to make exceptions. I was reminded of a certain character in the Mike Myers’ Austin Powers movies – specifically a large Scotsman called Fat Bastard. He sat next to me that night. How this kilted (honestly) behemoth levered himself into the seat and more to the point, got out of it again is beyond me. His partner was of similar proportions. I really felt sorry for their bed. And I make no apologies because the fat mcbastard, when he sat down, spread his kilt across my leg and his arm took up a third of my space. Still, it could have been worse. We could have been on a flight to London.

We receive a plethora of newsletters from family and friends every year and in spite of fierce resistance over many years I have finally relented and due to this veritable avalanche of pressure have decided to do my own.

Generally these things take the form of retrospectives and we get to hear about things which happened during the year just gone. Having participated actively in said year, we already know a lot of the stuff we get to hear again in newsletters. But this is useful because we drink a lot and the memory certainly needs refreshing now and then.

I’m going to be a bit different and buck the trend by starting out with a piece of news which is yet to happen. The “one we avoid mentioning” gets out of the big-house in January, all being well, good behaviour wise and notwithstanding the accusations and abuse his mother someone has been hurling at various politicians recently about the lack of internet connections (let alone wifi), ipads, wet mess and subsidised (alright, free) housing on release. How is someone with no obvious talent and zero prospects supposed to get on in the world? A question we should all ponder deeply at this giving time of the year.

Norman had as good a year as can be expected in the circumstances. He does get a bit lonely but when his imaginary fiends, sorry friends (bit of a Freudian slip there) come to visit he bucks up measurably. We do occasionally worry about him running that hostelry all on his own; God knows he was never able to make his own bed let alone someone else’s and how he survives eating bark we will never know. One of Jimmy’s little playmates went up to see him in June. He hasn’t come back yet so we expect they are having a rollicking good time. And he does telephone us occasionally. He never says anything, that’s how we know it’s him. Either him or an Indian telemarketer on a bad line but we hope for the best and assume it’s him.

Speaking of Indian telemarketers, Deirdre broke her own record this year. She switched phone plans 47 times and managed 836 free long distance calls to Sub Saharan Africa. She doesn’t know anyone in Chad but figures you have to get your money’s worth and if those clowns keep offering, she’ll keep taking – pretty much our family’s motto really. She has quite a reputation in the telemarketing sphere although the timeshare people have stopped inviting her to their events, After the 8^th free holiday without buying into one of those things they decided she might be taking them for a ride. Never known anyone who can consistently say “no” under so much pressure. Still we know she’s a pushover in other things if you know what I mean. Deirdre’s little kiddies Abdul, Takahito and Adriana say hello.

Jeffery emerged from the cellar last week. We hadn’t seen him for a few months and it was nice to see his pasty face again. Can’t understand why he spends so much time down there. He seems like such a popular boy. People are always knocking on our door and asking for him, especially his friends in the police force. He seems to prefer night time to day time. We know he goes out at night because we hear him sometimes dragging things across the floor to the cellar door – nearly worn out the carpet he has. Whatever he’s making down there must be big because he’s dragged a lot of stuff. We are a bit concerned about his personal hygiene though because the smell emanating from down there can be quite overpowering sometimes. I’m sure he’s not using that bath we installed for him.

Duane, bless him, is in a bit of a lather. He turns 28 just after Christmas. Now this would not normally present a problem and hasn’t for 27 years. To put this into context, Duane and his chums have put their 3 songs on Youtube and they have had over 5000 hits (there’s a pun in there somewhere). Ordinarily this would be good except all of those hits were from the band and a few hangers on – their wives for example. Duane wanted to be a rock god by the age of 27 so now the only way he thinks he can achieve this is by doing a Brian/Jimi/Janis/Jim/Amy and join the 27 Club. So his wish for the season of goodwill and joy to all men is to drown in his own vomit. We suggested a Brian Jones exit via the swimming pool might be a bit more dignified but he insists so we insisted he buys his own booze and drugs.

We can’t leave Drako and Darth out of this narrative – wouldn’t be fair since the pets have contributed significantly to the absence of birds (“how’s the serenity”) and unwelcome visitors (any visitors actually). With a name like Drako you’d expect the attack poodle to spend a good proportion of his time on a broom stick. He does in a manner of speaking and when he stops crapping on the kitchen bench we’ll permanently remove the broom handle. Darth spends his time waiting for birds to fly into his mouth, lazy sod. Surprisingly, occasionally they do. Who said sheep were the dumbest animals on the planet. With the attention span of an amoeba and the wherewithal of gravel, dumpy Darth has the life of a hooker – hours of inactivity interspersed with short periods of intense activity when he has to chew. Poor old Road-Kill the hamster left us this year. He is now a skid mark on the underpants of Main Street.

Nearly forgot. Uncle Hannibal is coming round on Christmas Day. Said he might bring someone for lunch. He’s a bit of an intellectual is Uncle Hannibal and this really attracts members of the opposite sex (not sure which one in Uncle H’s case) so he usually brings someone quite tasty.

Just to finish off, we have the annual Christmas present wish-list. A bit of a pointless exercise really because we don’t get all of the things we want all of the time only some all of the time or all some of the time.

Elmer wants a chain saw and a large block of ice……no…hang-on….he just said a large freezer will do. Oh, and a bucket.

Harmony wants a tent so she can join the Occupy movement in the town square. She also wants tent pegs that are really, really sharp because the square’s all concrete.

Duane – see above.

Dion, Duane’s twin brother wants Duane’s wish to come true so he can replace him in the band.

Uncle George wants you to sit on his lap and talk about the first thing that pops up. He does this every year and cousin Penelope has fallen for it 16 times in a row.

Me, I want                               (that’s it – philosophy really is crap isn’t it?)

 

Thought I’d finish off with something a bit esoteric (that bit just up a bit) – we’re not all bogans, criminals and hillbillies you know.

Merry Christmas (none of that Happy Holidays crap here, mate)

You’ll be pleased to know I’ve started going to the gym again. Not for the first time have I started again. It’s been a fairly regular occurrence over the last 20 years or so  but I keep falling off the treadmill wagon. And if this sounds like an alcoholics anonymous meeting or a confession, it sort of is. My name is Chris and I confess that I have been going to the gym for two weeks and two days – round of applause.

Actually its only 10 times over that 16 day period plus one bonus round of golf but I have to admit to noticing the difference already. I’ve lost a few pounds, mostly from round the middle so when I run (slowly and not very far) the shuddering mass round my middle isn’t causing a crippling backache and the shin soreness that feels like red hot needles are being poked into my legs is easing.

The best part about gyming is that I can listen to my music. This is one of two things I use my phone for. If you can’t think of the other one you’re too far gone. And I’m not into muscly thumbs.

Of secondary importance but nevertheless significant is that I don’t believe I have to change anything about my lifestyle. Superimposing a gym regime over my red wine  and beer soaked diet can only be a good thing right? Why take a double hit when one hit should be sufficient for a net positive result.

The worst part about going to the gym other than the physical pain, is knowing that I used to be a reasonably good athlete to the extent that I won a couple of cross-countries at school and played a variety of sports to a reasonable level of proficiency so why can I only bench a pathetic amount of weight and why am I completely knackered after running for about four minutes. The four minute mark is about when I start feeling like those runners who lose control of their legs at the end of a marathon. To be fair though I can walk for hours but a stop-start stroll with the dog doesn’t really count.

I’m reminded of the last game of rugby I played when I was about 40 years old. I was playing for a team of past students against the second XV at my old high school. This was the perfect opportunity to show off to all the adoring chicky babes on the sideline. Well, showing off to the child bride who was actually too busy checking health insurance policies to care. Despite the fact I was only up against a mob of pimply high school students this was the occasion I knew my athletic career was well and truly over and here’s why.

The brain retains its sharpness much longer than the rest of the body but knowing what to do, wanting to do it and actually doing something of athletic prowess, taken together are somewhat problematic. In this case I could see the defender one out from my position was advancing too fast so I figured if I could move my defender a little to the right I could slip past him and behind the outside defender, get into the clear and streak away for a glorious match-winning try.

So the ball’s coming my way. Pass it now, pass it now, the brain’s saying. I get the ball and the brain says step off the left foot and pivot on the right. My defender reacts and moves to my right. The brain sees the outside defender on the left come up too fast as predicted so now’s the time to explode through the gap I’ve created and away we go. EEEEEhaaa. But then the legs say, not so fast brain, we’re not going anywhere that involves more than a leisurely trot. End result – face first in the dirt without a defender laying a hand on me.

When the brain and the legs are in such dogmatic conflict the only compromise is sort of what I’m doing at the gym now.

 

 

The CB and I have spent a large part of our co-existence living on acreages on the outskirts of Brisbane. It was an idyllic existence apart from the weekends of slave-like labour maintaining the grounds, the pool, the pumps (no town water where we were) and a plethora of other activities which someone else looks after in our current location – a townhouse complex close to the city.

Living out there occasionally threw some rather interesting experiences our way, many involving wildlife. With no David Attenboroughs in attendance to alleviate these situations (or at least film them and let nature take its course) while hectoring me about my skepticism regarding imminent catastrophic, man-made climate change, I had to manage whatever the situation myself. Please read on.

It was one of those days when the knight in shining armour was required to ride to the rescue of his damsel in distress. Having just returned from the weekly pilgrimage to the Bunnings hardware warehouse (care is needed here – if you spell this word with a “wh”, spellcheck will change it to “whorehouse’), I parked my trusty steed (“Mazda the Sixth”) in its stable and proceeded to repair to man cave 3 – the shed (man caves 1 and 2 being the music room and the media room respectively).

Before I even had time to breech the battlements and swim the moat, I was confronted by said damsel, both ashen faced and trembling of limb (enough of the medieval metaphors). “Come with me” was all she said. I obediently did as I was told (after decades of indoctrination, a man knows his place).

She led me to what used to be our daughter’s bedroom, now a repository of faded memories and other junk, and pointed with a torch, for a torch she was carrying in the middle of the day (I know to not ask why), at an upturned plastic box. “There’s a snake”. “No, it’s a plastic box”. I would not normally have gotten away with such smart arsery but these were unusual times. “Under the box. You know I don’t do reptiles”. Spiders, snarling dogs, burglars – no problem. Snakes – call the SAS. But who needs the SAS when someone perfectly capable of handling a deadly, poisonous serpent of anaconda-like dimensions is around (okay, he wasn’t so I had to handle it).

Now the CB isn’t a complete gibbering mess when it comes to our silently slithering home invaders. She did have the wherewithal to lob that plastic box on it. But that’s where her participation ended and mine began.

I carefully moved the box, exposing the animal’s tail. I grabbed it with both hands, shouldered the box out of the way and threw myself onto its torso, releasing its tail and grabbing for it’s throat. Steve Irwin would have been proud. (Child Bride here – it was about a foot long, barely thicker than a shoelace and with a mouth that would struggle to bite a match stick let alone a finger or a leg. Please continue). Okay, sorry for the over-dramatization. I picked it up by its tail and removed it to the bush. End of story.

Apologies to the reader once again for the paucity of posts recently. As I may have mentioned previously, every now and then I have to play the journalist. Journalist in the sense that this (once) noble profession is lumped with fire-fighting and prostitution because they all involve long periods of slothfulness interspersed with furious bouts of intense activity. I have just finished a bout of intense activity culminating in, well, read on…..

I’ve just spent a somewhat stressful time in the witness box, playing my small part in what has been a long and complex trial that doesn’t appear to have an end in sight. Suffice to say it concerns a coal mine that never happened and one of the owners is somewhat miffed that it didn’t. My role was as an expert witness as I am perceived by some to have a degree of expertise in a particular aspect of the subject at hand. I’ve been working in the industry for decades so expertise is an inevitable consequence of longevity.

Anyway, the day and a bit I spent in Court 21 of the Supreme Court of Queensland was the most stressful of my life I think. Maybe flying into Bandar Abbas in southern Iran for the first time just after the Iran/Iraq war and seeing “Death to America” plastered across the front of the terminal was marginally more stressful. Or perhaps the three times I’ve been convinced the aircraft I was in was going to crash causing the heart to pound like John Bonham was using it as his bass drum. But this was up there and lasted far longer.

I’ve negotiated with some of the most intractable, stupid and downright nasty people in the commercial world in my time. Some would qualify as smiling assassins and others would not have been out of place in the Kray gang. Animosity (both real and bogus) notwithstanding, we did both require and (most of the time) eventually achieve a mutually satisfactory outcome followed by handshakes all round and hundreds of beers later that night, except in Iran when I had to wait until I got to our embassy or caught the next international flight out.

But sparring with a sneering barrister who wants to not only destroy your opinions but also destroy your reputation and that of the sources you cite tends to focus the mind to the total exclusion of everything else. It’s not a pleasant experience because no matter how confident you are in what you are proposing nothing escapes a skilled and belligerent advocate’s forensic search for minor inconsistencies and use of semantic nonsense. At least in a negotiation you can come back hard (in the nicest possible way, you understand) at your protagonist whereas in cross-examination overt displays of frustration and anger are very much a losing hand.

Afterwards, over a glass of red, when my mind was acclimatizing with the real world again, I was reminded of the famous interview of Jordan Peterson by Cathy Newman on Britain’s Channel 4. If you haven’t seen it I thoroughly recommend you have a squizz (it’s on YouTube). She spends a lot of the interview prefacing her questions with  “So what you’re saying is….” and he invariably responds with “No that’s not what I’m saying” or words to that effect. Every statement (I naively thought I was going to be asked questions) that was put to me in court finished with “you’d have to agree with that wouldn’t you” of “that’s correct isn’t it” and many times my answer was simply “no”. If I was mortally threatening his line of interrogation when given a chance to expand and expound on my “no” he would occasionally seek intimidating reinforcements and disdainfully state  “are you telling his honour that blah blah blah?”.

Most of the time I struggled to tell anyone anything because of the wad of cotton wool in my mouth. It’s funny because I do actually know what I’m talking about but there are so many points of attack, real and imagined, that can be gleaned from two lengthy reports which are in response to two other reports, all of which cite numerous learned sources. and especially when I’m disagreeing with the opposition’s experts. In these circumstances the metabolism does funny things, one of which is make you talk like a frog.

Yesterday morning one of my golf mates rang from the course and enquired as to my whereabouts as it was a few minutes past our normal tee-off time. Apart from not realizing we were supposed to be playing, I had to say “Sorry, I have to be in court”, a phrase I had always hoped I would never have to utter. At least in this case I was being paid to be in court rather than facing the reverse situation for which I would have to pay my debt to society. Despite the privations I was able to repeat back to him a phrase he once said to me regarding a less than salubrious task but one which was nonetheless a nice little earner – it’s another cruise.

 

I’ve been to Ikea three times in my life. The last time was last Friday and hopefully it’s the last, last time because I had sworn an oath that my lifetime visit limit had been reached when I hit two. But it was not to be. The prodigal son has his own apartment that is only sparsely furnished so the child bride and I were required to accompany him into this maze of doll’s house – like rooms. And speaking of mazes, I’ve never been in the Hampton Court Maze but I am pretty sure I know how boring it would be and how difficult it would be to get out of so the analogy is perfect.

The only reason I was there was to be the assistant beast of burden. The CB was there to give advice on whether or not a particular ceramic dish was dishwasher friendly, or something. The son was choosing what he wanted (and paying for it – a novel twist on what had previously been a recurring theme) and was also the principal beast of burden as he is somewhat bigger than me.

Daughter and son-in-law had just returned the CB’s Subaru Outback after a brief three year borrow. Suitable transport for flat-pack bookcases was absent until the return of said vehicle so there were no more excuses not to go. The Ikea on the southside of town is 450 metres closer than the one on the north side of town (thank you Google Maps) so southwards we trekked.

Driving there and parking then unparking and driving back is a breeze compared to walking around once you are inside. The evil genius who designed these places made it impossible to take short-cuts. If what you want is right near the entrance you still have to walk past everything else in the store to get to the check-out. I know of some people who enjoy this style of shopping. They are deranged. I saw people, mostly men, who looked like they had been there for a week. Fortunately there are hundreds of bedrooms to choose from if you become trapped. The only peripheral benefit of traipsing round these places is the fitness aspect. I’m pretty sure I logged (this time, courtesy of Mr Apple) more steps there than the day before when I played a round of golf. And believe me, I have visited places on that golf course that have not felt human footsteps for generations.

The last time the CB and I furnished an apartment with flat-pack furniture, I couldn’t walk upright for a week. This time I was happy to assist in carrying the boxes to son’s apartment, depositing them in his lounge room and leaving them there, unopened.