If a marmite shortage is Marmageddon, then surely Gareth Morgan’s feline frustrations must be verging on Moggiegeddon?
You’d think we’d have more things to worry about. Just stick a bell on Fluffy and get back to the real concerns of the day. Such as whether Facebook should step in to stop unauthorised use of Rachel Smalley’s hijacked photo in a weight loss ad. Or whether White Island is going to spew forth and rain down ash and lumps of smoking tourists upon us.
Apparently not, say officials. There is little concern for the mainland. Now when officials tell us not to worry, that is usually cause for worry.
So it was with some relief that we stopped worrying about volcanic magmageddon this week, when the RR hotline flashed and beeped. We had a caller.
Don’t ya just love it when a telephone canvasser rings, interrupting your busy schedule of worry, to sell you something you don’t need and didn’t know existed? “No” I hear 130,000 of you Sun readers simultaneously responding.
It’s one of our favourite pastimes, baiting telephone canvassers.
In my view, they have no right to intrude on the privacy of my home, sucking up valuable minutes of my private time, to try to foist something upon me that I don’t need.
If I want a product, I look in the paper to see who is advertising. I call them.
So I have taken it upon myself to launch a personal crusade to waste more of the telephone canvassers time than they waste of mine.
I figure that while they are entertaining me, my time is not wasted and I am getting a free show. We once convinced a caller that my wife was having a baby and she needed to talk us through it.
This week’s victim was a classic. Natalie, with an incredibly nasal Kiwi accent, was determined to sell me something to do with solar power. I think.
She asked for the householder. I said he was busy, holding the house. She was perplexed.
What do you mean, holding the house?
Well he’s the householder, isn’t he? He wouldn’t be much of a householder if he wasn’t.
I arranged that I would therefore go and hold the house, so the householder could take a break and talk on the phone.
There was a great amount of manoeuvring to get the householder to let go, momentarily, while the deputy householder took over, so the primary householder could get to the phone to talk to Natalie.
Putting on my best householder voice, I had a great conversation with her.
It seems that she wanted to sell me some sort of product to go on the roof. I explained we didn’t have a roof. She asked how we kept the rain out.
So I gave her the short version (about 15 minutes) explanation of our new experimental electro-magnetic moisture repelling system, which uses a forcefield of very, very excited electrons to deflect incoming raindrops away from the house, while maintaining great air circulation and adding immensely to the indoor/outdoor flow.
It doesn’t work for pigeons. It might work for seagulls, though. We aren’t sure.
Natalie confessed she was having trouble imagining how our roof worked and it would be difficult putting their solar thing up there, held up only by a forcefield of electrons.
I agreed, and reminded her, they are very, very excited electrons. However, I didn’t think the solar concept would work anyway, it was a fanciful idea and she’d been watching too many science fiction movies.
She assured me it did work. The solar thing would heat our water and save us power.
I said, “Get out of here… you can’t just have water heated by the sun. That will never work. Next you’ll be trying to tell me there are telephones without cords, people flying in space and machines for washing the dishes.”
Natalie said there were already machines for that and people have been flying through space since the sixties.
I reminded her that it is the tenth anniversary of the space shuttle Columbia exploding while re-entering the Earth’s atmosphere, killing all seven astronauts. So that space flying doesn’t work so well.
She then started casting aspersions on our forcefield roof, doubting its weather shielding properties. I said it was usually fine, as long my wife didn’t take the batteries out, to run her personal levitation device.
She said maybe she should talk to my wife, who might make more sense.
I said she couldn’t, my wife was levitating eight feet off the ground and couldn’t come down unless someone took the batteries out of the levitation machine.
Natalie said she’d had enough of talking to me. She didn’t believe I was married. No one would be stupid enough to marry someone that made as little sense as me. I reminded her I was The Householder, but that didn’t seem to carry much credibility now.
I said I had to go anyway, the deputy householder was getting cramp and I had to take over again.
Besides, I had to do something about my wife, who was bobbing dangerously close to the ceiling fan.
Natalie hung up.
Parting shot: I messaged a mate, who suffers ukephobia, to warn him of the impending Ukelele festival that the good people of Katikati are running.
He replied: “My partner bought another ukulele yesterday. We now have more ukuleles than cats. If it was only possible to refocus Gareth Morgan on society's true dangers.”