Dem Bones!

Picture this. A friend of mine, living in London at the time, is heading to Gatwick airport to pick up his wife from a plane trip.

My friend -- known as X -- is in a hurry as his wife’s plane has already landed and he promised to be waiting for her. After several weeks away on business for the couple’s orthopaedics company, the wife is understandably keen to get home.

Nearing the airport, X whizzes (upon reflection, a little too swiftly) through a roundabout. Unfortunately, given that it’s only a few days since a terrorist scare in the vicinity of the airport, the place is crawling with police. Sure enough, Mr Plod pulls X over.

“’Allo, ‘allo, ‘allo,” says Mr Plod (well, actually he probably didn’t say that; I’m just setting the English scene here, folks).

“So wots the big ‘urry, Sonny Jim?” says Mr Plod, leaning in the car window.

“Well, you see, officer,” gushes X, trying to look appealing and innocent, “I’m late to pick up my wife from the airport. And you know how cranky these women can be if we’re late, don’t you?” X tries a conspiratorial wink for good measure.

Mr Plod’s not buying.

“Would you mind removing the keys and stepping from the car, sir?” he asks.

X looks anxiously at his watch and sighs. He opens the door and gets out. The Bobby checks his licence then motions towards the rear of X’s car.

“Do you have anything in the boot, sir?” he inquires.

“Nah…” says X automatically, before suddenly remembering something worrying. His heart rate quickens and his mouth suddenly becomes dry.

“Umm,” he squeaks, “ahh …..actually I do have something in the boot. But, um, it’s, well……..” his voice trails off as the Bobby raises a quizzical eyebrow and motions for X to open the trunk.

“But it’s not quite what it seems!” cries X, his voice now shrill and somewhat desperate.

“Just open it, Sunshine!” says Mr Plod (well, okay, maybe I’ve watched too many episodes of the The Bill; perhaps he didn’t really say ‘Sunshine’).

But anyway, X, looking paler by the second, reaches down to unlock the boot.
“I can explain!” he wails. “It’s not as bad as it looks! Honest!”

By this stage Plod is getting cranky. He reaches forward and hoists the boot open himself only to find he’s looking at every policeman’s worst nightmare.

Lying in the boot is a complete adult human skeleton!

“What the…?” shouts the policeman recoiling instantly from the car.

“It’s okay – it’s fake!” shouts X, trying to sound all perky; like he hasn’t just opened the boot of his car and exposed what appears to be human remains to an edgy policeman who’s been on an active hunt for terrorists and other maniacal killers.

“We’re in ‘orthopaedics’!” squeals X emphatically. “It’s a demonstration skeleton, that’s all!

Plod takes Xs keys from him and eyes him nervously for a few minutes while radioing in to headquarters. A few minutes later, he’s confirmed X’s story.

X heaves a sigh of relief and returns to his car.

“Thank God you didn’t find the drugs in the glove box!” he jokes as he’s about to drive off. Unfortunately Plod is not in the mood for levity.

“I think we’ve had enough hilarity from you for one night, sir,” he says gravely.

X concedes it’s probably not a good idea to be teasing someone who has a gun.

Not a good idea at all, Sunshine.

Winners are Grinners

I’ve always thought of myself as a fairly ‘non competitive’ person. Not for me the ‘stoush to the end’ for winners glory. “I’m a lover – not a fighter!” I would cry if challenged to any kind of sporting duel.

However, when I reflect more closely on my personal history of competition, I find that I was not, in fact, the little mouse who stood in the corner of the court/stadium/spelling bee podium and let everyone walk, run, throw, smash balls (or verbs) all over her. No, I could hold my own and did so in quite a feisty fashion.

First there was netball. After the insult of not being picked for the top Grade 6 team, I set about forming my own little team, known (perhaps somewhat unfortunately, upon reflection) as “The Way Outs”.

We were a motley little crew with more artistic than ball-throwing talent. What hope did we have – sickly looking in our pallid lemon-coloured tunics -- against the vibrant and physically superior ‘A Team’ resplendent in their royal blue shifts with snazzy gold lettering emblazoned on their bibs? Not much hope at all, seemingly, but that didn’t stop us -- and we even made it to the semi finals that year.

Then there was tennis. For years I played all around the district. On hard court and lawn, in all kinds of weather. As a young mum, I dragged babies and toddlers (and everything but the kitchen sink!) to stinking hot, dry, out of the way places -- just to play tennis.

But even though I could whack my way around the court pretty well, I never quite managed to work my way up to Number 1 pair in the Mixed round. Usually I ended up playing with my spouse (never a good idea if marital bliss is your ultimate aim) or got landed with the ‘fourth’ guy who always seemed to think he was John McEnroe but played, in fact, more like Elmer Fudd.

So why am I ruminating about my competitive spirit? Well, since taking up golf in recent times, I have played in several competitions; most recently in a Mixed 4 Ball tournament. Our team, two men and two women, headed out to the first tee with no real hopes of winning. However, as our Stableford score mounted encouragingly we realised we may well be actually in the race and started getting excited. With each extra point earned we hopped madly around the greens doing “Hi Fives!” and “Woohoo-ing!” much to the bemusement, no doubt, of our fellow golfers.

As we made our way back to the clubhouse, our Captain tallied up the score and excitedly informed us that we had 100 points. This, he assured us, was a very good score for Stableford. But was it enough, we wondered? Especially given that we were nearly all relative beginners (which kind of explains why our scores were so high; it’s not hard to be competitive when you have a handicap of 39!) Surely, we thought, there will be plenty of higher scores than ours.

However, when the announcements were later made at the 19th Hole, we found we did, indeed, have the top score. Unfortunately we shared the same score with another group and lost on a countback -- so even our rubbish handicaps couldn’t save the day.

But anyway, as I gathered up my prizes (six balls and a golf towel) I couldn’t help but feel pretty smug and pleased with myself.

“Watch out for us next time!” I whispered silently to the team who had pipped us at the post (conveniently forgetting that they are all on one figure handicaps and are therefore still actually much better players than us. My competitive tail was up!)

And now, my pretties, to figure out how I can keep my astoundingly high handicap and still win lots of golf in the future!

Cue ‘Evil Laugh’. Bruuhhhaahha!