Sir and I had a little moment this week which I feel bears repeating. It was a little bit Perils of Pauline, thrown together with a modicum of Harold Lloyd and the Keystone Kops tossed in for fun.

Sir and I had a little moment this week which I feel bears repeating. It was a little bit Perils of Pauline, thrown together with a modicum of Harold Lloyd and the Keystone Kops tossed in for fun.

I had volunteered my services, and therefore, by extension, Sirs, in a quest to install two small metal registration plates on some sort of structure for my dear client, Squire. This needed to be achieved so that Squire does not incur the wrath – or indeed re-incur the wrath – of Lake Lotadrama, as we have thus named the town.

Squire owns a lovely property in that district, and we have found that there are more rules to Lake Lotadrama than a nudist colony trying to set up within a Boy Scout camp.

One of the rules being, of course, that he needs small metal registration plates to denote that a particular structure at Lake’s edge has been constructed according to the powers that be. Never mind that this can be checked on the computer at the offices of Lake Lotadrama – this would require far too much logic, one had to advertise the fact.

Armed with one (1) bag of assorted screws from my kitchen, and one (1) small yellow screwdriver cunningly concealing eight (8) assorted heads, and the aforementioned two (2) registration plates, we arrived at the house, taking an alarming amount of time to get the key-coded gate to open.

It being a precipitous piece of land, Sir decided to leave the car at the top, and we made our knee-shaking way down the irregularly cut stone steps down past the house, down through the garden to ultimately arrive at the shore.

The house, sitting prettily on a point, encompasses a number of lots, with each lot owning several boat-y type structures – swim docks and a boat house to name but a few.

Tools and map in hand, I decided that the only structure one could in fact install said plates on was the boat house – on the water-side of the boathouse. Along the stout wooden walkway we went, until we came to the point where the walkway turned in front of the boat house. This walkway was not as stout, and certainly decidedly narrower, so it became obvious that ‘room to swing a cat’ wasn’t going to come into play here. ‘Precarious,’ on the other hand, sprang to mind.

On the corner of the boathouse was a bit of filigreed ironwork just above shoulder height which had, on closer inspection, become the happy home to the neighborhood spiders who had taken up residence in approximately 1932 and who were naturally somewhat disgruntled to find Sir poking at them and their webs with a rather nasty looking stick. This was, after all, going to be Sir’s hand hold on life for the next few minutes, and he didn’t want any unwanted visitors or attention.

Inching his way around the corner, holding onto the molding with grim determination, he thence instructed me to hand him one plate, one screw and one screwdriver which he proceeded to juggle – rather alarmingly in my book – with his one free hand. I was absolutely convinced that some, if not all of his handful would end up in the drink.

Keep in mind, at this juncture, that back in the late 1990s when I met Sir, I was co-owner for a company that provided a myriad of entertainers for company and private functions. I hawked Sir out as a perfect Santa. Got the picture?

Feeling the need to contribute, I helpfully hooked my index finger through one of Sir’s belt loops. About as useful as a screen door on a submarine, if he’d teetered dangerously, either both of us would take a swan dive, or he would and I would be left ashore with a belt loop in my grasp.

With much heaving and grunting, Sir got the first plate installed and rather fled back around the corner to his much favored terra firma.  I inched out to look to see where plate number two could go, to find that it in fact couldn’t. There was a large swim-across-gap in front of the boat house (well how else would you get the boat out, dumb-bum, I thought to myself), so it became immediately – if a little tardily evident – that we, the Royal We, were installing the plate on the wrong structure.

Striding along the shore line, I thought I found where the plates were actually meant to go – and that this would involve far more butch devices – a drill, to mention just one – than we had in our possession, or indeed ever.

So redirecting Sir to his perilous perch, he disassembled his handiwork – again single handed.  He at this point, I must say, was muttering, which I found somewhat ominous.

Going into my ever-so-efficient-school-teacher mode, I packed the whole lot up and announced that I would get “the guy” to put them up next week, and we departed back up to the car. Oh and I do mean up – and up, and funnily enough, up.

Arriving at the car in a muck sweat and panting, we both fell into air conditioned comfort, and just a little bit of silence, as we headed out to dinner.

The only sound you could hear was Sir muttering, coupled with the scritch-scritch as he worried his many spider bites.

What a honey.