SNEAKINESS IS A CRIME

NOW I RE­ALLY KNOW WHY I’D NEVER HAVE A CA­REER AS A PO­LICE­MAN OR SE­CRET AGENT, LIKE MY DAD AL­WAYS SAID

Life & Style Weekend - - MAGAZINE | TUGBOAT TALES - WORDS: ASH­LEY ROBIN­SON

Ial­ways wanted to be a po­lice­man when I was a kid or a se­cret agent, but was told by my Dad I wasn’t re­ally cut out for it. On the se­cret agent bit, he used to re­mind me that wher­ever we went, I was like a bull in a china shop or a baby ele­phant stomp­ing around, so it would be a bit hard to sneak up on any­one ... par­tic­u­larly when I had a voice like a foghorn to go with it.

As far as be­ing a cop­per goes, he used to tell me I reg­u­larly went into a bat­tle of wits un­armed, so solv­ing a crime might be prob­lem­atic.

There have been many oc­ca­sions over the years where he was proved 100 per cent cor­rect – the last just a cou­ple of weeks ago, at the end of one week and the start of an­other.

Sun­day night, old mate has head­phones on watch­ing Mar­ried at First Sight so I de­cided it would be the per­fect time to sneak out into the garage to the freezer and eat some ice cream that I am banned from do­ing.

Like Maxwell Smart on a case, spoon ca­su­ally in pocket, I head out and de­cide to leave the light off in case she tears her­self from the id­iot box for some un­known rea­son.

Good plan un­til I man­age to bite a hole right through my tongue, ob­vi­ously over-ex­cited by the salted caramel that I strangely thought had straw­berry through it un­til I re­alised it was blood.

Re­treat­ing through the kitchen and a hur­ried good­night with a dis­tinct lisp, I head to the bath­room be­fore bed to try and stem the blood flow.

Rinse, rinse, rins­ing and stuff­ing tis­sues in my mouth un­til it fi­nally sub­sides, it was not a great end­ing to the week.

The next morn­ing with sore tongue, I head to work to find out we have been bur­gled.

I get home from work and am a lit­tle stressed about whether the bur­glar may re­turn at the club, so I sug­gest to old mate that I might go back later in the night and stake out where I think he got in.

What fol­lows is laugh­ter, a shak­ing of the head and, “What the hell are you go­ing to do if you catch him? You are an old man. Any­way, you prob­a­bly will have a beer and fall asleep?”.

She then said, “On se­cond thoughts, the snor­ing and yelling in your sleep might scare him off”, fol­lowed by a don’t-be-an-id­iot look.

I woke up about 2am and started stress­ing so de­cided against good ad­vice to go to work and catch a crim.

I sneaked out of the house with shoes un­der my arm, phone, work keys and a weapon (walk­ing stick), locked ev­ery­thing be­hind me, got to the car ... bug­ger.

No car keys and locked out as my house key was in the car. Ge­nius.

Do I knock on the door? I wasn’t brave enough, so I de­cide to aban­don the mis­sion and sleep on the banana lounge on the front pa­tio.

I lay down, slightly de­pressed about hav­ing no brains and then it rains.

Did I men­tion rain from the north? House as­pect is north. Lucky me.

It didn’t last long – just enough to fur­ther dampen my spir­its.

And I spent rest of the week with a lisp, a cold and an ex­tremely happy other half af­ter she found me out there the fol­low­ing morn­ing.

“GOOD PLAN UN­TIL I MAN­AGE TO BITE A HOLE RIGHT THROUGH MY TONGUE, OB­VI­OUSLY OVER- EX­CITED BY THE SALTED CARAMEL...”

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