If the (squeaky) shoe fits, then I guess I have to wear it
NICKNAMES are a real Australian thing. It seems you don't really belong in the Great Southern Land unless you've been bestowed with a catchy moniker rendering your given name redundant.
Some come easily as they're bleeding obvious. If your name's Hodgson you'll get Hodgo, if it's Campese you'll get Campo. If you have red hair, you'll get Bluey...oh wait.
Anyway, you get the point. Most have some logic behind them.
My children chose to nickname me "Chevy” and, again, from their viewpoint at least it makes perfect sense.
It's derived from the Chevy Chase character Clark W Griswold from the National Lampoon movies - apparently because my actions regularly remind them of the poor old accident-prone patriarch of the Griswold clan.
The kids refer to my "Chevy moments”, similar to Clark spending hours on a roundabout in London, unable to get left to exit, and giving the family repeated views of Big Ben and Parliament as day turns to night.
And then there's the time he backs the family sedan into one of the pillars at Stonehenge, creating a domino effect that sees the 5000-year-old monument tumbling to the ground.
Personally, I struggle to see the connection, but I guess there have been occasions when I have shown a certain brotherhood with Clark.
Like when I glued my sunglasses to my face. Long story (mine generally are) but the short version is I super-glued my broken sunnies and proudly positioned them on my nose before the glue had dried.
The fumes alone ensured an eye-watering experience, even before I ripped them off along with a decent chunk of skin. The scars remain to this day, both physical and mental.
Then there was the time I drove into the underground carpark of coastal holiday apartments late one night and had to call the caretaker to let me out.
Suffice to say, he was unimpressed with my explanation that I'd followed another driver through the automatic gate without realising it was the wrong property. He didn't agree it was an easy mistake to make.
Unfortunately, other examples abound, but I'll close with the "squeaky shoe incident” during the European winter of 2018.
I walked literally hundreds of kilometres in a new pair of shoes where every step involving my left foot (quick calculation...roughly half) was marked with a loud and extremely annoying "squeak”. Particularly galling to my fellow gallery visitors in Paris, who subjected me to looks of absolute disdain as I repeatedly broke the sacred silence.
It took far too long to work out that moisture was the culprit (#slowontheuptake). In fact, embarrassingly so, as the penny didn't drop until I was back in balmy Brisbane where I returned them to the store of purchase, only to discover the problem had "inexplicably” disappeared.
On reflection, like the offending shoe, I guess I'll just have to accept that if the name fits, I'll have to wear it.