My day started rather oddly, with this single sentence emanating from my clock radio, as the alarm went off:
'A bloke in Britain survived more than two days under a couch by sipping from a bottle of whisky'.
That was it. The radio announcer must have just drawn breath to speak when my alarm went off, and although I fumbled to turn off the alarm, I finally pushed the 'silence' button right at the end of the announcer's sentence. If I was schizophrenic or psychotic, I'd have been convinced that someone was sending me disturbing messages through the airwaves. As it was, I pondered over this unusual pronouncement, as I changed into running shoes, T-shirt and shorts.
For starters, why was someone trapped under a couch? How does one get stuck there? Was the poor fellow reaching to remove a dust bunny he'd spotted, and then erk! his arm was irretrievably wedged? Was he passing the couch, which was propped against the wall to make the living room appear more spacious, when suddenly the couch slipped, pinning him to the floor? The mind boggles. (Certain types of getting stuck, on the other hand, are completely understandable)
And secondly, how would sipping whisky help one survive? I mean, I suppose it might help get you in a better mood. You could tell jokes to yourself, slap your leg as you snort laughed, and then hiccup softly as you dozed, forgetting you were in actual fact stuck under a couch - but apart from that? Surely the alcohol would dehydrate you? Perhaps the man survived despite the whisky, rather than because of it.
These questions and more tortured me as I prepared to go walking with my friend Belly. I shook my head in amazement just thinking about the couch-squashed man, as I latched the dog lead onto the beagle and went out the front gate. But then beautiful Belly arrived, all smiles and morning cheer, and we strode off into the day, leaving all thoughts of couch-dwelling whisky-swiggers behind.