OPINION:

So there I am this week in the centre of a certain nameless town, doing a bit of work for my employer.

It’s a job that requires the appropriate attire to be topped off
by a brand-new high-vis orange vest.

Now, the thing about high-vis, depending on who you talk to, is that it can either greatly highlight your presence or it can make you blend in with the background scenery, and that, if you think about it, kind of defeats its purpose.

Luckily for me, the job I was doing did not require me to be anywhere near a grove of orange trees so there was little chance of me slipping unnoticed into the background.
In fact, the opposite happened.

I was approached by a gentleman of foreign nationality, I am guessing German, with a request for directions.

I must point out here I am not in the least meaning to be offensive with this next bit. The cold hard reality is the young chap spoke with a very, very strong TV comedy-like accent and writing it any differently, I think, would detract from the story.

Anyway.

There I am going about my business when this fellow came marching up and said: “Excuze pliz. Vair iz ze post office?”

The question presented me with two issues.

Once I’d deduced he was, in fact, genuine and not delivering some line from a Monty Python movie while all his university mates hid giggling in the bushes, I then had to work out exactly where the post office in this particular town was.

Luckily, I’d been to this post office some time ago so I knew exactly where it was and happily gave the fellow some instructions.

“You go across the road. Stay on this side and go down three blocks and it’s there right in front of you. You can’t miss it,” I said confidently.

My new friend thanked me profusely, said something about being “at ze wrong ent of ze town”, then made off in the direction I’d sent him.

He’d just crossed the busy main highway when a thought came into my head.

I’d got my towns mixed up and sent him completely the wrong way. As it happens the post office in question was about 30 yards from where I was now standing, watching him literally heading for “ze wrong ent of ze town”.

I felt terrible and quickly hollered out to him. He looked back, waved and then carried on.

There was only one thing to do. Go after him. So I did.

Now, at the moment I am coaxing an injured knee back to full fitness.

A slippery path leapt into prominence a fortnight or so ago and gave my knee a workout
it didn’t like. Consequently, I am now the proud wearer of a stretchy bandage-type thing until my grumbling joint settles down and gets back in line.

This means that as I’m giving chase to my German friend, calling out loudly as I go, I’m hobbling a bit.

Just what my attempts at catching up to him look like from across the road I’m not sure, but it was about to turn into something a lot more comical – think one of those madcap Benny Hill chase scenes from telly years ago (youngies try YouTube) – when my target caught sight of me closing in on him at speed and starting jogging himself.

By this stage I’m calling for him to stop while trying to explain my mistake, but he was having none of it.

In fact, the look in his eyes definitely said “Who ze hell is zis idyot?”

Anyway.

Eventually, he is stopped by traffic coming across in front of him and I’m able to hobble up alongside and explain.

He looks me up and down, presumably trying to work out if I’ve escaped from some healthcare facility, before thanking me for “ze new detail” and hastily heading back to where we’ve just come from but on the other side of the road, so he can keep as far away from me as he can.

As for me, I hobble back to my previous starting point, finish my task and then hop in the car and drive to Mitre 10 Mega where I need to pick up some odds and ends before departing for home.

As I pull in I’m completely cut off by, well, a jerk in a ute who causes me to brake swiftly as he pinches the parking spot I’d been casually steering for.

I’m not into road rage, but I have to admit I was a bit peeved as I parked up a bit further away and made my way back into the store.

I was also a bit distracted and completely forgot to take off my bright orange high-vis vest before I went in as I usually do because all their staff wear that colour.

I’m sure you can guess what happened.

No sooner am I in the store than a bloke who looks very much like the toerag who cut me off five minutes earlier comes up and asks, rather impatiently, where he might find interior wood screws.

I can actually see the screws he wants from where I am standing, but I can’t resist it.

“Go down this aisle,” I say, “then turn left and go all the way down to the very far wall of the building. You can’t miss them.”