# 125 aka The prestige of being a premature vegetable

Insight into the future, as it would be if I were a decrepit old man, came my way the other day. Here's the long and the short of it...

It was another gorgeous Sunday in the hills of Adelaide. My friend Edward III and his significant other made their way to the Kaufman abode amongst the gum trees from their 'hood in the eastern corner of Adelaide. Their chosen method of transportation was a trusty 4WD, not because of the treacherous terrain that awaited them across the 12 km stretch of bitumen up and over them hills nor because of the 100 km/h zones that were scattered in between points labelled "A" and "B", but because of the large kitchen table that they simply had to hand onto us, the Kaufmans, as a gift stemming from friendship and the need to clear a significant space from the confines of their front porch.

Following the transfer of said kitchen table from the back of Edward III's 4WD, Edward III says unto me, 'I've locked my damned keys in the cab of my 4WD squire.'

Blurts I in response with an index finger to the heavens, 'To the coat hanger room at once with you, dear sir!'

We tried and we pried and we tried again: zilch success in lifting the nob that secures the contents from would be thieves without a degree in unauthorised forceful entry. As the Gods of fate would have wanted, we (read: I) managed to align the makeshift metal lever so as to lift the door's nob. This stroke of combined brilliance occured some twenty minutes later.

Hearty backslapping was followed by a sickening dose of reality courtesy of none other than our respective partners, who, by way of astute logic, pointed out that Edward III's significant other had her set of keys on her person.

Calmly and somewhat begrudgingly we chopped the top off our respective first bottles of alcohol we would consume for the day.

As Mrs Kaufman, Bubba Kaufman and I positioned our bums in the Kaufman jalopy, while Edward III and his entourage of one followed suit in their 4WD, says I to the wife, 'What in the name of Beyelzibozo is that dreaded noise?'

It came from the rear of the car like a wake up call of unknown origin. I could see Edward III's headlights beaming into the rear view mirror.

'There's trouble afoot,' said I, adding with a wee twinkle in mine eyes, 'It feels like we have ourselves a flat tyre.'

Some several minutes later, as the Kaufman mobile was perched on a gadget which had lifted its rear left side towards heaven, I began the tedious process of exchanging the tyre which had been fucked by a two-inch screw with the good'un in the boot.

Crack went a part of my lower back that I had often used for more pleasurable aspects of life other than tyre changes.

As a wave of pain transcended through each side of my legs I stood up instinctively to enable the upper part of my body in on the unwanted trauma of having a nerve upended.

A few gasps were followed by the regular gamut of swear words. But the bigger picture remained clear: we had to get to the restaurant for pizza, vino and European Wasps.

Lunch was pleasant without being earth shattering.

The Adelaide Hills Wine Festival, aka Crush, was next on our list. We journeyed the remainder of the way to the blue chip town of Stirling where we parked our respective vehicular transportation devices and donned our ready-to-consume-liquor hats. I double checked with Mrs Kaufman that she'd be driving over yonder whence we came from. She handed two thumbs to me.

It was a go.

After our first glass of $9-a-pop bubbly red plonk from the swashbuckling year of '95, we decided to ease our feet on the brake pad of spending. A few other samples of locally grown, picked and manufactured grape products were enough to harness the limited power of the sun on the back of our necks until such a time came when our cheeks were as sparkling as the liquid we had consumed.

Edward III and his significant other waved as they departed for another urgent meeting involving friends and refreshments; the wife, bairn and I yawned as we were bound for the comfort of home aka sweet home.

I eased my rear into the sofa only to feel the pain of a thousand sharp tongues. 'Try this,' said Mrs Kaufman with a knowing heads-up command. I placed the hot water bottle betwixt lower back o' mine and two cushions. It was my first flawless magic trick in close to eleven years. And I did smile plenty.

Our eyes were transfixed on The Prestige until it was decided that sleep time it be. With what felt like a toe in the grave, I entered the sacred sanctum of sleep somewhat cautiously.

All was well until the chime of five when an unplanned turn to my left resulted in the most searing pain I have encountered since being halved by a car while pushing my bicycle up a steep incline. I broke out in a cold sweat as I made my discomfort known.

'Darling,' said I, 'would you be a dear and fetch me the bucket? I think I'm going to hurl.'

Several minutes later, as the terminal velocity of my innermost liquids changed course from exiting my mouth to exiting my rear, I was bent over leaning against the walls as I made my way to the trusted lavatory.

Without going into too much detail, I stayed there for but a brief period although I venture that I lost more than 2.5 % of my entire body weight.

A day off work and a $62 trip to the chiropractor later, it was revealed without mirrors or squashed canaries that I had indeed caused damage to a nerve in my lower back.

I guess the planned regime of dumb bells and pulleys will have to wait until Monday.

Good show, old chap!



PS I'm currently penning a fictitious version of these events with substantially more radical elements of bending the truth like Beckham. At this point in space and time I'm uncertain whether to publish.