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National News & Information >February 2008 Features
The idle thoughts of an idle editor by Jerry Flay
The Longest Drive
I should begin by stating this is not, contrary to what the title may suggest, a golfing story. It is a fishing tale, although perhaps a not fishing tale would be more accurate.
Regular readers (Hi mum) of this column will know that in recent times my fishing opportunities have been somewhat limited, curtailed by the arrival of two bonny wee children, bless ’em, and the restrictions that such progeny brings to a man’s life.
I say that not because I begrudge them the time, but more as a statement of fact, albeit one issued through slightly gritted teeth. Those of you who have yet to take the twin plunges of marriage and parenthood might want to bear this in mind. Or not, as the case may be.
Anyway, what this state of affairs does is to sharpen the mind wonderfully to the scenario that with fishing opportunities few and far between, the keen angler will always be prepared in case such an opportunity presents itself.
It was with this maxim in mind that I recently set off to drive myself and the tribe to Wellington, which from Waiheke is sufficiently far to force an overnight stop. It is an interesting trip, passing as it does a number of prime fishing opportunities. Unbeknown to the good lady wife I had, secreted in that space where the kit for changing the tyre usually goes, a basic but adequate rig out which would enable me to fish rivers and lakes alike.
This did of course mean that the spare tyre changing kit had to remain at home in the shed, but I felt it was a worthwhile risk, based on the track record of the trusty Bridgestone tyres with which my Subaru is fitted.
My plan, cunning and subtle in the best traditions of Baldrick, was to happen upon the tackle, just as we were enjoying a scenic break along the way at some randomly arrived-at (yeah right) riverbank, and see if I couldn’t manage a quick half an hour.
There is an old Hebrew proverb, which says “God laughs when man plans”. Oh that I had paid more attention in double Hebrew proverbs class at school, rather than idly staring out of the window and watching the First XI.
We had been travelling for about an hour when we had our first puncture. Our first, mind you. It presented me with something of a quandary for, as the patriarch of the family, one is expected not only to have checked that the maintenance side of the vehicle was fully operational before leaving on a long trip, but also to be rightly handy with the said equipment should anything go wrong.
“Oh dear”, I said, or words to that effect, “A puncture, and a bad one at that, by the look of it. I expect we’ll need a new tyre and the AA”.
“Nonsense”, said Lady Voldemort, who like many Kiwi women lacks that ignorance of practical matters which makes Poms of the fairer sex so delightfully gullible. “It’s just a normal puncture. Change it.”
Now, that left me in a somewhat tricky position. Yes, my harmless deceit was about to be uncovered, but should I attempt the surprised “how an earth did that get there” reaction, or go hands up and admit all.
In the end the decision was taken out of my hands, for she, fed up with my delaying, rolled up both sleeves, in the process revealing her elegant tattoos of Fidel Castro and Lemmy from Motorhead, and began to access the tyre changing tools.
For a moment I considered headlong flight. But to what avail? I would have to come home eventually.
She came up clutching at a rod. “What is the meaning of this?” she asked.
“Oh, er, I don’t know, er it must be oooorgh”
My explanation came to a halt mid sentence as she discovered for herself the immense flex in the new Sage rods.
As we waited for the AA, I could not help but notice that by absolute chance we had come to stop alongside a very fair looking bit of water.
Now I know some may say what happened next could have been prevented, by use of common sense or tact, but I was unable to help myself.
“The AA said they might be an hour. Would you mind if I just quickly aaaargh”.
This time it was a well aimed reel that took me just below the left ear.
My personal motto is forgive and forget; move on. I have had little success in having it adopted as a family dictum. So suffice it to say that once the man from the AA had changed our tyre for us, all the while looking at me in a sneering, ‘you useless tosser’ sort of fashion, my attempts to turn the conversation to the weather and suchlike fell on deaf ears. For a good three hours I was reminded that I was a useless, conniving idiot.
It was just then that we had our second puncture.
I won’t dwell on the minutiae of the ensuing conversation. I have not yet recovered sufficiently to bring it back to mind. If you have seen Picasso’s Guernica then you will understand.
The AA towed us to a garage where I was able to have both tyres repaired and also purchase a brand new jack etc. This would be financed, I was given to understand, by the forthcoming sale of various rods and reels on Trade Me.
The rest of the journey passed without incident. I did not manage any fishing, and the return trip was similarly barren.
“I hope you have learnt your lesson”, she ministered to me as we rolled off the car ferry back onto Waiheke.
I nodded thoughtfully. Yes, I said to myself, that’s one mistake I would not be making again. Next time, that cubby hole under the seat would be far more appropriate.
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