OPINION

So, I’m enjoying a leisurely round of golf with some of the lads the other day and we’re approaching the midway point.

As any follower of the royal and ancient pastime will know, the
halfway point on a golf course is reached after nine holes and most courses ensure you are back at the clubhouse where you started to enjoy halftime.

There you’ll find the usual facilities like a shop where you can replace the three balls you’ve already hit into the creek and buy a new umbrella because the one you started the round with got ripped out of your hands in that squall that breezed through 10 minutes earlier and is now somewhere up in the atmosphere on its way around the globe.

Some of my mates have enjoyed golf on courses in the United States and they tell me quite a few of them offer snacks that are effectively the size of a three-course meal at the halfway point.

One of the boys recalled buying a roll at a course in Texas which, when it came out, turned out to be so big and unwieldy he had to pay a local lad a few bob to carry the thing around for a few holes before he made enough of an impression on it consumption wise that he could carry it himself.

Anyway. No such poshness at our chosen course the other day. But several of the guys did buy the good old Kiwi standard pie. And that’s where things got interesting.

Now any aficionado will know any pie left in the warmer too long is going to be a potential health hazard when you take that first bite.

For most of us, that is.

In our crowd we enjoy the company of a rather large fellow known affectionately as The Big Rig, on account of his propensity for fine food and drink and its subsequent effect on his shirt size, if you get my drift. He also seems to have a very high pain threshold when it comes to hot food.

So, as the boys were tentatively nibbling at the corner of their pastry, he’s gone full noise and chomped a decent bite out of his.

Steam shot out like Mt Ruapehu in eruption mode.

There ensued a discussion as to how The Big Rig was able to start scoffing thus. He explained he’d always done it that way because it let the heat out quickly which, if you think about it, actually does make sense.

Then someone said: “You could turn that into a business.” Indeed, The Big Rig could see merit in the idea.

Apart from the obvious hygienic and Covid-19 transmitting complications which we all basically ignored because it was too serious a subject to contemplate while enjoying a social game of golf – and a pie – we all agreed.

Yes, someone who stood outside the shop and offered to take a bite out of your scalding hot pie to make it safe for further consumption could do well. Such would be the perks of the job they wouldn’t have to buy their own pie either.

So, then someone said there must be other jobs like that where an enthusiastic amateur golfer with few skills other than being able to hit a ball 200 metres sideways could earn a few bob.

Mower Man who, well, I’m assuming it’s obvious from his name what he does, said he reckoned a good job for someone would be just trimming the edges when it came to lawn work. He would happily just sit on his ride-on all day doing the main bit if somebody could do that bit for him.

Our resident fishing expert reckons he would hire someone just to bait his surfcasting rod for him. When I remarked surely that meant all he would be doing was wading out a few metres and chucking a line in he fully agreed.

“I only go fishing in the summer and I like to do as little as possible,” he grinned.

Good point, I thought. Well what about a winter job?

“Car starter and heater turn-on technician” was a popular suggestion which made me think maybe I should be charging my beloved for that service back home every time it got a bit chilly.

I decided not to bring it up when I got home to Mrs P later in case she threatens to charge me for another little job she does for me from time to time: Picking the tomatoes out of my pizza.

She did come up with a couple of jobs along the same lines however. Answers on a postcard please if these sound familiar.

Apparently, the women of the world would welcome somebody employed to specifically rid trouser pockets of tissue paper before they go through the washing machine. Who knew?

But wait there’s more.

Back in the days when we worked very hard and had a little disposable income but absolutely no time, we got a lady in to clean the house once a week.

I distinctly remember the night before the cleaning lady arrived Mrs P would be up till all hours making sure the house was all clean and tidy.

So Mrs P reckons that could be a good job for someone. Cleaning up before the cleaning lady comes in to, er, clean up. Apparently it’s quite a common thing among the fairer section of our species.

I think I’ll stick to golf and hitting the ball sideways rather than trying to work that one out.

In the meantime, I’ve got a new task. I’m trying to untangle the mass of Christmas tree lights from last year and it’s proving quite challenging.

I wonder if anyone is looking for a job?