Sand, surf and speed camera conversations

Cleansing the mind of its burgeoning algae bloom is no small task...

I’ve never wanted to live in a really hot country where there were no seasons, just constant unrelieved heat.

That sort of temperature does my noggin in, making the cogs whirl even slower than they already creek. Early on in the piece I realised I could never live in muggy Auckland or any of the Pacific Islands, and the idea of India makes me faint just thinking about it.

But how I enjoyed that hot spell concentrated upon us in the leadup to Christmas, when I had the foresight to garden in my togs. When I downed trowel, all I had to do was slap on the shorts, jump in the car and head off for a refreshing dip.

Beaches have their own ‘hoods and homies, and the one I have been frequenting this season is like a night club with all day sun. Normally I loathe popular watering holes, but a deserted stretch of sand was hard to find when the temperature was hotter than the hobs of hell.

I picked this particular beach because it is democratic. By that I mean there is no class system of body hierarchy operating where the toned and muscled rule the sand, while the lowly fat and flabby sprint from towel to brine so their all too too solid flesh has little time to be judged.

The water cools the fireworks in one’s brain as a year ends and another begins. In those unstructured days before Christmas and directly after New Year it can make you feel a little out of sorts, like that time when you only just stopped yourself from stepping into a lift before being greeted by an empty space and the sight of the top of the lift several cavernous floors down.

These days can be drop-out days that feel meaningless, without rhyme nor reason, a time of adjustment when you re-evaluate and try to reassure yourself that a life without major achievements is perfectly acceptable.

Cleansing the mind of its burgeoning algae bloom is no small task as you have the audacity to dare wish for a better year ahead and not tempt fate to send another blow.

So there was I trying to discipline the brain not to dwell on species-doomed thoughts when I overheard a banal conversation that transported and diverted my train.

A close-by fellow bather supine on his towel was informing another habitue of the beach that he had recently been pinged for speeding on a stretch of road notorious for catching motorists. He was so indignant about the location of a speed camera at such a spot that he had a good mind to phone radio talkback host Marcus Lush and alert motorists to the snag.

Having only just that morning incurred a $40 parking ticket in the metropolis, I was still smarting from the penalty. One spends so many hours of the day being mindnumbingly compliant to the system, or systems, that I become enraged when I slip up and have to give an authority any more of my hard-earned cash.

The conversation about speeding went on for some minutes before I felt an overwhelming urge to intervene and penetrate their conversation. I needed to know where this camera was before falling prey to its sneaky trap.

‘‘Excuse me’’, I waded in as their startled tanned faces looked over at the eaves-dropping interloper.

‘‘I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation about the speed camera and I would be most grateful if you could tell me where it is?’’

The chap was only too happy to oblige, revealing that it was on the rise of a hill just out of Hunterville where it was necessary to increase a car’s speed to climb the rise.

We agreed that the worst speed camera-pinging spots would make a great talkback show subject. I swerved the language of my body back to my towel spread only inches away and thought of dropping a line to Prince Harry, that most democratic of royals, fifth in line to the English throne.

After his privileged coup of interviewing President Obama, if Harry is to continue in his newfound career of broadcasting, he should have to do his time slumming it in the salt mines of talkback.

Dodgy speed camera collections of the British public would be just the ticket to win the hearts and minds of subjects before a royal wedding that will snarl up traffic and stop London in its tracks. I’m sure our Marcus Lush would be only too happy to show Harry the ropes to ease him into it.

Possibly not. My favourite quote of 2018 was uttered by Lush round the anniversary of the late Princess Diana’s death. No fan of the Queen of Hearts, Lush believed that the Princess’ finest hour was winning the egg and spoon race at her sons’ school sports day.