Making big effort before World Cup
THERE’S NO job too big or too small.
That’s my general mantra around the house at present.
If there’s a mere mention of a creaking hinge I’m searching for the WD40 within seconds; if the grass needs mowing, the engine is running quicker than the flick of a kettle switch, and when the kids are craving attention I’m playing chase around the garden with more gusto than Usain Bolt in his hey-day.
I’m making cups of tea with the regularity of a main street café, and if something needs to be rustled up for dinner, I’m your man.
Hopefully the good wife hasn’t cottoned on to the fact that this wonderful show of willingness happens every four years; well, actually every two years if you throw in the European Championships.
Yes, you’ve guessed it, I’m on a single-minded crusade to garner as many brownie points as possible before the World Cup kicks off in a couple of weeks’ time - a simple case of short-term pain for long-term gain.
I may have a niggling ache in my lower back from all the strenuous odd jobs, and may be suffering from mental exhaustion due to giving the chislers my undivided attention, but it will all be worth it when I’m slouched on the couch watching Uruguay versus Saudi Arabia in the middle of the afternoon.
When you throw in the fact that the better half has no real grá for the ‘beautiful game’, you can see the need to butter her up more than the morning slice of toast.
Having the odd smattering of Gaelic games beaming into the sitting room every weekend is one thing, but enduring the sounds and sights of wall-to-wall soccer for the height of the summer is a different story altogether.
Shadow can’t exist without light and we unquestionably have the whole yin and yang thing going on - I’d watch two flies racing up a wall if they threw it on one of the sports channels, whereas herself would find it difficult to spend any significant amount of time viewing even the more mainstream events.
She doesn’t mind going to the odd club or county hurling or football match, given the added excitement of being there in the flesh, but sitting in front of the television to ingest a couple of hours of ‘entertainment’ is definitely not for her.
You could possibly twist her arm to watch a little bit of rugby or a frantic hurling championship game, but it would be easier to persuade Arlene Foster to fly the tricolour than to get her to sit through a game of soccer.
I can understand her thinking to a degree. A contest that lasts 90 minutes that can fail to produce a goal could be a harder sell than trying to off-load a duffle coat in the desert, and some of the 0-0 draws I’ve witnessed would be enough to turn you off the sport for life.
However, occasionally even a scoreless draw can be a thriller and you never know when a 4-3 cracker is going to come along.
Anyway, after ten years of marriage, there’s no point in trying to change her mindset now, so when she gently reminds me that the bins need to be put out, I’ll be haring up the driveway like Raheem Sterling up the wing.
The more pats on the back I can get at the moment the better, because in a couple of weeks time the bins will be overflowing and the lawn will resemble a sea of rastafarian hair-dos.
In fairness, doing all these outdoor chores with the sun smiling down on me has been a blessing.
It’s a real bonus being able to get a good helping of Vitamin D as I whistle while I work.
Lord knows I’ll could to with stocking up on the sunshine vitamin, because there’s soon to be a four-week indentation in the shape of my backside on the sofa.
Now, where did I leave that paintbrush?