It was a bittersweet morning phone call.
I was sitting on the veranda of my castle with dirt in my hair.
Defeated.
I called the parental hotline (still running hot after 50 years)
"Hello. What's wrong?" Mum asked.
"Nothing. Can you put Dad on?"
"Well this is highly irregular," she said suspiciously.
When Dad answered, I delivered the fateful words in my best Dale Kerrigan voice. "Dad, I dug a hole. Deb dug a hole."
After a brief snigger, the old man replied. "Well that's great love. What kind of hole?"
I explained to my Father that it was "a hole with a dirty great root ball in the middle".
I'd spent the best part of the morning trying to break the monster tangle of roots.
So, it wasn't your bog-standard hole. It was more like a moat.
But "Dad, I dug a moat" didn't have the same vibe.
The next day, the cavalry arrived in a ute carrying shovels, an iron bar and mattocks.
Feeling useless that I couldn't extract the menace by myself, I warned my parents that it would be beyond them as well.
I predicted that we'd need a Bobcat.
I reminded them also that they were getting on, and that I didn't want to see either of them "do a hip" or "pop an ancient knee".
My parents, who have never shied away from hard graft, always let these comments (uttered by a frequently desk-bound daughter with atrocious coordination) go through to the keeper.
My father said he'd have to rest his frail legs and have a think about what to do.
I disappeared inside to put on the washing, but not before instructing my parents to holler when they had finalised a new strategy, and I'd be out in flash to help with my superior, younger strength.
All was quiet. So, after about 15 minutes I wandered out to find out what Plan B entailed.
The gigantic root ball was gone. So were my parents. Clearly they, and the brute of a root, had been abducted by aliens.
Then Mum and Dad wandered through the side gate.
They both seemed fine. No broken bones or hint of trauma in their eyes.
"That's all done," Dad said.
"How the hell did you do that?" I demanded.
"We just jammed the bar through the root base. Yeah, it was a bit tough," he said.
"But once we had a good hold, your Mum and I sort of jumped up and down on the bar and - ta-da! - it broke through.
"Anything else you want done?"
Still confused, I said that was all, before formally dismissing them.
I made sure they made it safely back to their ute. I gestured to the giant boulder of roots and dirt that was sitting like Jabba the Hutt in the tray.
"So, I guess that is going straight to the pool room?"
The smug duo smiled politely and nodded. But, as they drove off, I'm sure I heard Dad say something.
I swear he said "suffer in your jocks".
But I could be wrong.
