A DOG’S LIFE Eggs Y said, double eggs
Ihate tramping. I despise puns. And my command of the Armenian language is embarrassingly weak. So when tell you I went tramping last Sunday with an Armenian pun-fanatic, I fear that some of you will be inclined to disbelieve me. But if you bear with me, I hope I can convince you of my bona fides. The story starts, like life itself, with eggs.
At the Lyttelton Farmers’ Market, the egg stall is run by a family of Armenian refugees, headed by the grandfather whose first name is as long as the egg stall is wide and who is, in consequence, known universally by his initial, Y.
Like most Armenians, Y is forthright. What he thinks, he says. “Vy Joe,” he exclaimed on Saturday as I bought a dozen free range lovelies, “you are getting fat.” He prodded my stomach with a firmness that made me gasp but brought an appreciative chuckle from other shoppers. “You should come tramping vith me tomorrow.”
I smiled a non-committal smile.
“But maybe you’re too fat already. Maybe you cannot keep up vith an old Armenian egg-seller.”
Well now, there are some taunts you can take and others you can’t.
“Y, my friend,” I exclaimed, “if I cannot keep up with you on a tramp, I will happily pay you twice the price you ask for eggs from this day forth.”
“Joe,” replied Y, his old Armenian eyes lighting up, “if you can keep up vith me on a tramp, I vill give you double the eggs you pay for every veekend.”
And we shook hands on the wager. The tramp would take us up the Port Hills at Sumner, along the Summit Rd and down at Cashmere. In deference to my ageing bladder I was allowed one toilet stop along the way, but otherwise no halting.
When Y arrived on Sumner High St in his tramping gear next morning, my heart, I’ll admit it, missed a beat. The old bugger was as scrawny as one of his broiler fowl, not an ounce of fat on him. His calves were like slugs under Gladwrap.
“Vell, vell, vell, Joe,” he said, as he looked me up and down, “shall ve be off?” And without waiting for my reaction, he was away.
“Vile we valk, Joe,” said Y, “maybe ve amuse ourselves with little puns on your English alphabet, no?”
“Uh?” I said, partly because I didn’t entirely understand, and partly because I despise puns, but mainly because I was short of breath.
“You know,” continued Y, seemingly untroubled by the climb, “ve make up sentences forming part of your pretty English alphabet. Like ‘a bee see me in the kitchen.’ Ha ha. A bee see . . . you get it? ABC. It is good, no?” I said nothing.
On the Summit Rd, Y doubled the pace, all the while rattling out a stream of alphabetic puns, each more contrived than the one before but all of which he greeted with his own maniacal laughter. Eventually we neared the Sign of the Kiwi after which there was only a short descent to Cashmere. But I was shot. My legs were gone. My vision was wobbling.
I was about to concede the wager when I remembered my right to a toilet break. There was a public lavatory at the Sign of the Kiwi. If I could somehow contrive a few minutes’ rest, then I could manage the final downhill stagger.
“Y,” I panted, “toilet stop. Sign of Kiwi. Just round corner.”
He scowled. “Very vell,” he said, “but no loitering. Just in and out.”
Round the corner we went. I could hardly believe it. A line of people waited to use the lavatory. I’d have minutes to recover. Y was openmouthed, clearly he grasped the implication. He let out a wail.
“Oh, pee queue! A rest to you! Ve double your eggs,” Y said.