Heavenly Beverley : Boys Will Be Boys...

I have been reminded over the last week or so that some boys never really grow up. They may inhabit a man-sized body, but that is a cunning disguise. Inside are mischievous lads just waiting to push the limits, bend the rules or test their boundaries. And in spite of these escapades often ending in strife, they can't help themselves.

Take my beloved Michael for instance. Our latest Sundowner was a perfect example. On occasions such as these, he chooses to conveniently forget that he is a middle-aged bloke. Imbibing in rather too much vino, pinching more than a few fags and staying up until well past his bedtime does not augur well. And I would like to pass the buck of Michael's idiocy to Mister Lawrence Jones, as he cheerfully walked the same path as Michael. The problem being - they are both boys and were not under the supervision of any responsible adult.

Michael was not a happy camper the following morning. After his previous shenanigans at our Easter Sundowner, he had vowed not to repeat the same mistake. He didn't just replicate this same mistake. He surpassed his error of judgement spectacularly. Without a skerrick of sympathy, I frogmarched him out of bed at the extraordinarily early hour of ten o'clock. He lay low for much of the day, his constant companion an empty bucket...

I eventually took pity on him and doled out the anti-nausea treatment and headache relief. He remained subdued for a full two days. Will this episode result in the Getting Of Wisdom? Possibly. Until the next time.

I think Michael has always enjoyed, living ever so slightly, or occasionally teetering, on the edge. Vanessa remains gobsmacked at Michael's continuing insistence at pressing my buttons just enough, before heading for the hills. Every now and then, he miscalculates how quickly I can lose patience with him. This may lead to a saucepan being whacked on his shoulder, a placemat frisbeed at his head or a significant box of his ears. As he charges past our daughter in search of sanctuary, he always has a wicked grin across his face.

His nostalgia towards the riding of motorbikes is akin to women forgetting the God-awful pain of childbirth. He remembers with such fondness weekend rides into the Avon Valley, trips to the South West and longer escapes to the Batavia Coast or beyond. What he forgets is coming off his motorbikes at regular intervals and having to live with dimples on his bum caused by gravel rash or the ongoing ache of a cockatoo slamming into his knee at over a hundred kilometres an hour. Or insects flying into his corkscrewing pigtail and never coming out. Or sheer exhaustion forcing him to sleep in less than salubrious locations. Receiving move-on notices from the police. Losing his license for speeding. Failing to regain his license because the tester wanted him to ride in a particular way that Michael claimed was "riding to die".

Another act of sheer stupidity involved holding a stunt kite handle between his teeth. This only caused the unhappy flight of one of his front tooth. At other times, he believed he was could fly. Unfortunately, he fell downwards with all the aerodynamics of a brick. He ended up with a broken wrist riding off the end of a railway platform and splitting his skull open after diving headfirst onto a railway sleeper from three metres.

A very long time later, he tried to impress me with a handbrake turn on our first Goldfields trip. This only resulted in a tyre being staked. Taking a squizz up lonely tracks has almost led us becoming lost. Clearing a few rotted banksias through fire was nearly a disaster. And he has always had a habit of taking me to where dead things smell.

His lifelong friends are mostly as bad as him. They have created a Lost World for themselves that is reactivated the minute they join forces again. And they usually engage in activities they regret later.

Having said that, there is never a dull moment living with my husband. He is funny, brave, tolerant and forgiving. He has the patience of a saint. He is sometimes a steadying influence on my crazy schemes. We can laugh at ourselves and at each other without either of us taking offence.

And we are never bored. We are always up for a challenge. Maybe having a version of Peter Pan as my darling partner isn't so bad after all.