Aida Austin: My legs aren’t working very well but at least they are still attached

FRIDAY night. My husband and I are in England, visiting family.

“You do realise you’ve made it impossible for me to visit you in Clonakilty anymore,” my brother-in-law says, pouring me wine at the kitchen table.

“What are you talking about?” I say.

“I mean, now that all the locals are all going to identify me as ‘Captain Pugwash,’ the sad, middle-aged loser, who thinks he’s a sailor but can’t sail.”

Credit where credit is due, I think, when it comes to family members offering themselves up for ridicule in my column - but first things first.

“I never referred to you as a ‘sad, middle-aged loser’,” I say.

“How come he gets to be ‘Bear Grylls’,” my brother-in-law says, pointing at my husband, “and I get to be Captain Pugwash?”

“Be grateful for small mercies,” I say, “I could have called you ‘Master Bates’.”

8pm Saturday. We have all shared supper and two bottles of very nice wine.

8.10pm. My husband notices a zip-wire in the garden. It is strung at great height at the top of a steep, wooded incline, between two extremely tall trees which are growing some distance away from each other.

“I’m definitely having a go on that,” my husband says, leaving the kitchen and going outside.

“That looks dangerous,” I say, following my husband, and watching as he clambers up the incline, “it looks like you might crash into that tree, there, half-way along, right beside the zip-wire.”

“We’ve had this zip-wire for ages,” my brother-in-law says, as my husband takes off, shooting down the wire at perfectly shocking speed above our heads, “the children got great use out of it.”

He suggests that I have a go.

I look at my feet; the time it will take for me to go back inside and find suitable footwear is, I estimate roughly, the time it will take for sense to prevail; right now, I am feeling foolhardy.

I like this feeling. I don’t know where on earth it’s come from.

Perhaps, I think, stumbling up the slope, it’s come from the wine.

“Just one thing,” my brother-in-law says, passing me a long rope with seat attached, “it’s a bit trickier for light people because they tend to swing about a bit in the air, so when you set off, try and push right down into the seat or you’ll swing sideways and crash into that tree you mentioned.”

“Just so you know,” I say, preparing to take off, “having a zip-wire won’t turn you into Bear Grylls.”

I launch into the air.

I hit the tree. On impact, my foolhardiness disappears but the zip-wire doesn’t know that, it just keeps zipping me along.

I have a choice; I can either meet my death up here, by smacking into every tree that I zip past, or let go of the rope and meet it down there. I choose to meet it up here. I’m getting used to smacking into trees - and better the devil you know.

Afterwards, I limp into the kitchen.

My legs aren’t working very well but at least they are still attached, which is more than I can say for my earring.

“You must have lost it outside,” my brother-in-law says.

“It’s old art-deco,” I wail, “totally irreplaceable. There aren’t many things I’d mind losing but I’m really sad about losing that.”

“No worries,” he says, “I’ll find it with my metal detector.”

“Your metal detector?” I say, “are you telling me you actually have a metal detector? Oh, this is too good.”

“Don’t encourage him,” his wife says, “or he’ll show you his treasure.”

“Show me your treasure,” I say.

My brother-in-law leaves the kitchen.

He returns, placing his treasure on the table.

We all look at it.

Things go very quiet.

His treasure is a spoon.

“Your treasure is a spoon,” I say.

“It’s real silver,” he says.

“I told you not to encourage him,” his wife says, “now he’s going to show you the hallmark.”

“In fairness,” I say, “some people just lend themselves to ridicule.”

“If I find your earring,” my brother-in-law says, “you can write me up as a hero. If I don’t, then you can write me up as ‘That Middle-Aged Loser with a Metal Detector’.”

“It’s a deal,” I say, “if you find it, I’ll call you Caesar. Or Spartacus. Or…”

“Just Caesar will do,” he says.

Sunday morning. My brother-in-law enters the kitchen, holding my earring.

“You found it!” I shout in disbelief, “with your metal detector! All hail Caesar.”

“Now tell him how you found it, Caesar,” his wife says.

“All hail Caesar!” I shout.

“I found it on the path,” my bother-in-law confesses miserably, “it was just lying there.”

“Just on the path,” I say, “plain as day?”

“Plain as day,” he says, “I don’t suppose that counts?”