I don’t ask for much. Really, I don’t.
And as I am happy to testify, MrsDavy
frequently occasionally surprises me with her regard and attention, none of which I have earned. Which makes me think that this latest episode is simply her way of messing with my head, like the Wembley crowd booing the saintly and permanently innocent Richie McCaw.
Yesterday, Monday, I came home from an early morning at the pub watching the match and then going to the gym. I was full of the joys of life: reward and virtue in equal measure. So over breakfast I regaled her with all the relevant details of the match, which was all of them.
I mentioned in conclusion that my Man of the Match was Steve Hansen.
“Who?” said MrsDavy.
Sharp intake of breath: a little exhale of that joy I mentioned. Have we been even sharing the same solar system?
“Steve Hansen. The All Blacks coach.”
“Oh,” she said. “Is that his name? I thought he was called Shag.”
There’s a half glass full and empty moment just there. To know the nickname of the coach of a team in a sport that you don’t follow is a rare and precious thing, you might think.
BUT IT’S THE COACH OF THE GREATEST SPORTING TEAM IN THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD AND HIS NAME IS STEVE HANSEN!
Or as the man himself might say:
Monday, Monday, can’t trust that day;
Monday, Monday, sometimes it just turns out that way.