OPINION

In a previous life as a newspaper reporter, I had cause to interview dozens of people who had done amazing things.

Sometimes their story involved the way they responded to some emergency or other.

For example, I recall an up-country bloke who delivered a baby in the back of his ute one wet and stormy night when it became apparent his attempts to break the land speed record and get his partner to the nearest hospital would fall several kilometres of dirt road short.

Then there was the lady who plunged into a fast-flowing river without a thought to save her dog. I recall the mutt peed on my foot as the lady and I sat on the porch of her neat little cottage the next day and she recounted her ordeal.

In both instances, the hero of the piece felt they had gone on autopilot. Adrenalin had simply kicked in and enabled them to do things they would not have normally been able to do.

I can attest to the surge of the adrenalin thing myself. I know I have written in the past of chasing would-be villains through the back alleys of the town where I live and also being run down by the car of a fleeing shoplifter.

But just when I thought I’d felt the last of that sudden rush of whatever it is that makes you do crazy things, an emergency occurred at our humble abode.

Let me explain.

So, a couple of weeks ago Mrs P injured herself quite badly. Ambulances were called, hospitals were visited and medication was taken, along with a decent chunk of sick leave.

The road to recovery at home is being bumped along but I’m sure you’ll understand things are a little edgy in our house at present. So much so that on Sunday afternoon, as I did some gardening, I heard a shriek from our bedroom.

My heart skipped a beat or two as I raced inside, fearing the worst. Again.

It turned out Mrs P had made a monumental discovery. Or at least certainly one that warranted a high-pitched sound to have made any Bee Gee proud.

Turns out Briscoes has a sale on — I know, Briscoes. Can you believe it, he says sarcastically — and breadmakers are heavily reduced.

More particularly, the one she wants — the one she has been keeping an eye on for what seems like ages — is so heavily reduced she simply must have it or apparently the world will end.

But there’s a problem.

It’s 5.30pm on a Sunday. Briscoes closes in half an hour and the sale ends today.

Nonchalantly (read: stupidly) I suggested we could leave it till the next day. Surely it would still be on sale and besides, if it weren’t, I was sure the nice folk at Briscoes would sort something out for us.

The look on the face of My Beloved suggested this was not the response she had been hoping for.

As I glanced at her, the old digital clock (can you still buy them?) on the dresser behind her ticked over to 5.40pm.

But what if they don’t, she said. What if women all over our town have been checking in with one another online about the pricing of this special breadmaker for the past week? What if other people who have injured themselves and were bedridden were doing the same thing? What if there’s a sudden rush on breadmakers and they run out?

All these what-ifs took some time to get out. So by the time they’d ceased and panic had really set in, the time on the clock was 5.45pm and I knew exactly how I should respond to this emergency.

I think the appropriate phrase is: Cometh the hour. Cometh the man.

“Stand back,” I said, like Superman about to charge into a burning building to rescue Lois Lane. “I’m going in”.

And I did. Sort of.

I raced into town shouting “dee, data, dee, daa” out the window of the car in best Granddad fashion in place of the sirens and blue-and-red flashing lights I didn’t have.

As I ran into Briscoes, the disappointment on the face of the lady behind the counter suggested she’d been hoping Brad Pitt or some other Hollywood hunk was going to turn up and make her day at the last minute.

Instead, she got a sweaty old bloke in gardening attire looking for a heavily reduced breadmaker.

It has to be said she handled the rushed assignment with aplomb and, as the adrenalin gradually subsided throughout my body and the clock ticked over to Briscoes’ closing time, I was able to relax on the drive home.

Back at HQ, Mrs P was very grateful. And yes, she would be happy to give me a suitable reward for my efforts. What did I have in mind? Perhaps a slice of the loaf she would be making immediately in the new breadmaker?

I didn’t actually get a chance to respond straight away.

It turns out she didn’t have all the ingredients she needed so I had to race back into town to get the supermarket before it shut for the night.