National News & Information >December 2007 Features

The idle thoughts of an idle editor by Jerry Flay

“Show them where you go”; five little words, yet when spoken by the good lady wife in that tone she normally reserves for errant painters and absentee builders, enough to strike mortal terror into the heart of any man.

She was talking, of course, about the children. Take them to the golf club with you. Show them the river. In other words, sacrifice the last remaining vestiges of your privacy. Expose yourself to the world as a doting father.

Now don’t get me wrong. I can’t wait for the day when Pippa and Thomas carry my bag round 18 holes, but they are currently 2 ½ and 16 months. I can’t see them lugging it round 9.

I eagerly anticipate the day they stand beside me in the river, casting away merrily and saying in awed tones, “Gosh, Daddy, you are a great fisherman” as I bank yet another keeper. Such is the stuff of parenting dreams.

Now as all married men know, when issued with such an edict, argument is impossible, foolhardy even, as it will not work, and could very well lead to loss of privileges and other ghastly consequences.

I like to think of myself as a practical type, so I quickly negotiated a compromise solution. I would teach them to cast, I offered, knowing full well that their attention span of 3 minutes and 9 seconds respectively (they take after their mother) would mean an early curtailment of the lesson, and a likely abandonment of the plan altogether. What could go wrong?

What is it they say? “God laughs when man plans”

Living on Waiheke, one is surrounded by wine. There is a constant pressure to drink the stuff, and the night before I had perhaps been a little too zealous in succumbing to the said pressure. In short, when the morning of the lesson dawned, I was not at my brightest and, grabbing at the first two rods in the shed, handed over my two Sages, the pride and joy of my modest 38 rod collection.

Within seconds, Tom had neatly converted my 2 piece 9 weight into a 5 piece 9 weight, by the simple expedient of thrashing it against the garage wall. I think perhaps he thought it was a golf club. Pippa was more imaginative. She spotted one of the cats idling in the sun, and jabbed the poor beat in the backside, causing it to take off somewhat speedily, and in the process neatly severing the tip of the rod. She then threw it down and went to watch TV. Tom, meanwhile, was still thrashing away and seemed close to setting a new record for a rod with the most pieces.

Now, as we all know, the government has secretly spent its enormous surplus on a chain of satellites which orbit NZ on the lookout for parents who spank their children, so that option was out. All I could do was say “well done Tom” and sadly gather together the rubbish.

It was of course my fault, I was informed when I showed the boss the remnants of what had once been magnificent fishing tools. I was able to heartily concur that it was a stupid idea in the first place. Yes, they were much too young dear. Golf would have been a better idea, my love.

And that’s when I played my masterstroke. “Why don’t I take them to the golf club tomorrow – we could use your clubs -  a bit smaller and lighter than mine. More suited to toddlers”

“What’s that? The beach? Oh OK, if you are sure, then.”
Ha ha! And the rods were insured! Tackle shop here I come.

Happy Christmas
Jerry

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