The George effect

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FOOTLOOSE
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Derek Almeida
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I cannot understand why anyone touching 74 years would want to fly a MiG 21.
I always thought people who are lucky to reach that royal age, after
surviving speeding cars, bus blasts, stray dogs and cats, chain snatchers
and real estate developers, would prefer to spend their time sitting on
garden benches eating roasted groundnuts.

It's quite obvious, our Defence Minister is not a bench warmer.  Instead, he
flew in a MiG 21, which, all said and done, is better than sitting at home
trying to watch TV through bi-focals.

I have no intention of dwelling on George's high risk extra curricular
activities. My worry is the spill-over effect of these tendencies on my
domestic life.  Let me explain. It all started with my elder son, who is a
George fan.

"Dad, will you test my bicycle before I ride it," he shouted from the
outside just when I had settled down for another quite day.  "Why do I have
to test it," I yelled back (yelling is an art that all fathers pick up from
their kids).

"George always tests air force jets and I was wondering why you cannot
follow his example," he argued.

So I went out and had a look at the bike. The steering bar was a little
crooked and one pedal was on its last legs. The brakes looked okay, but then
you never know until you have to jam them when a mindless
stray-dog-in-a-hurry crosses the road.

"Why me?" I asked hoping to talk myself out of the dangerous scheme that my
son has sprung on me.

"I can do it," he said, "but then if I fall and break a leg or rip a
knee-cap, you could get into serious trouble with mom." He had a point
there. Why would any husband with a modicum of common sense want to risk a
domestic skirmish with his wife, especially when he loses all the time. I
must say this bicycle test was getting dangerous by the minute.

"What if I fall and break my back," I asked him.

"In a family, somebody has to make the sacrifices," he shot back. Kids,
these days, have all the answers. They give answers even if you don't ask
questions. I gave him a sour, sad look hoping he would see the pain I was
experiencing.

"If you love me, you'll do it," he said testingly.  Trapped as I was by a
resourceful little boy with an awesome capacity for mind tricks, I said,
"Okay, what do I have to do." He was elated. "All you have to do is go up
the slope and zip down at 60 km per hour."

"Without a gravity suit?" I asked. 

He did not react.

"Wait a minute," I said, "I'll just go in and check if all the premiums on
my life insurance are paid." I dashed into the house and went straight to
the kitchen for some advise from the woman who had spent years training my
son.

"What's up with you," my wife inquired, "You look like a broken toy." I was
about to explain when she said: "The refrigerator is not cooling fast enough
can you stick you hands in and see if they freeze."

This wasn't exactly a frying-pan-to-the-fire situation. It was more like a
frying-pan-to-the-freezer-via-the-microwave situation.

When I failed to react she said: "What's the problem? George spends weekends
on the Siachen Glacier without complaining, you know."

I now found myself caught between a rock, and a hard place. I had to make a
choice. My brain was beginning to heat up which is normal when I have to
take simple decisions. Difficult ones usually knock me out.

In the end I chose the bicycle test over the freezer experiment and rushed
out.

I decided to take the problem head on and mounted the bicycle.  The seat
gave out a loud squeak and two nuts fell off. Fear gripped me. The
flood-gates opened and my self-confidence gushed out. I began to waver...the
lousy parts of my life flashed before me.....and I passed out.

That's how I lived to write this tale.

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