This is a fictional story:

WAITING FOR MY WIFE by Victor Kirwan

I was doing a bit of exploring and spotted The Men's Shed. It's out of the way, nearly hidden. Always curious, I wandered in. It was a hive of activity there. Old men mainly, were buzzing about, talking, talking. Didn't seem to be any introspective silences. I was standing, staring.

I suppose, then a couple of old shell-backs introduced themselves to me. They were welcoming and involved me in a discussion about their prostates. Riveting stuff. I saw an empty chair in a corner, made an excuse and headed for it. Maybe if I sat, watched and glared, people'll leave me alone to study and absorb the situation. Or the vibe, as the kids say. There's too much going on. Too busy. I wondered if it was always like this. Today was-um- can't remember. Gotta keep up with it. Time seemed to slip by me and that worried me. Heaven help me when I'm as old as these wrinklies.

My wife couldn't handle all this talking either, being an enthusiastic talker herself, as well as impatient and bad-tempered. She'd march out screaming. I knew that she'd done it to me.

A large meaty-looking old gent walked over carrying a chair and sat beside me. Meaty suited him, I thought, bald with a large meaty sorta face, his heavy meaty thighs were squashed and spread over his chair. “G'day Mate,” he asked, “you're new here?”

I didn't know whether to be polite and engage him in conversation or just grunt. No, I'll be friendly, so I said. “Hi Pal, how ya doin'?”

“Waiting patiently for the missus, as usual,” he said. “She was supposed to pick me up half an hour ago.”

I nodded and smiled; “Yeah, we blokes do a lot of that.” And that set him off.

“I swear we were set on this earth to wait for them and on them, women, that is,” He said, “and they're always late! They have no sense of punctuality.” He went on with some convoluted tale of waiting forever for his wife. “They exist in a parallel universe ---” he paused.

I stepped in. “They can talk ---”

He interrupted me. “Talk! My wife could single-handedly talk for the Australian Olympic Debating Team.”

“They all can, Mate. But logic ---”

“Logic!” He yelped with excitement and all his meatiness wobbled. “Hey, imagine you were being tried for a serious crime and half the jury were women. Do you reckon they would be logically weighing the evidence? Oh no! They'd be thinking - 'should I have peas or beans with dinner tonight.' Or a man's fate depending on some scatter-brained woman having a hormonal incident.”

“Yeah, I had a similar incident and that was a damned disaster.” I remembered.

“An incident? Their whole damned lives are disconnected incidents.” My new friend continued.

“Yeah, and they drive on our roads,” I urged him on again. This was fun!

“Don't get me started on women drivers.” He groaned, his great meaty jowls quivered indignantly.

“All women should be deported to New Zealand when they turn thirty,” I told him. “They could eat 'em. I believe they're still cannibals over there.”

He nodded, then paused and glared at me. “Hey! I'm a Kiwi, are you having a shot? Winding me up?”

“Nah Mate.” But I couldn't help myself. I laughed in his face and stood up. Time to go. But he grabbed my fore-arm with his large and surprisingly powerful, meaty hand.

“Don't do that Sport.” I warned. “Let go.” But he didn't.

Suddenly somebody grabbed me from behind. I twisted around. It was a bloody big copper! Two of 'em.

“Oh!” I said, “how did you find me?”

“You left the ambulance parked out the front, genius,” one of the coppers told me. “Anyway, what are you doing here, Mick?”

“I'm waiting for my wife. She's walking around the oval.”

He squeezed my wrist and my knife clattered to the floor. He said. “No she's not. That's why you're supposed to be in the secure wing of Lismore Psychiatric Hospital. For life!”

“Oh yeah.”

“So Mick, have you seen Nurse Jones? She seems to be missing.”

“Oh yeah, did you look in the back of the ambulance?” I asked and handed him the keys.

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