It is six months since Justice Cudlip Trout was directed to cease harassing the innocent, and take gardening leave.
I have received his first findings on retirement:Housework damn and blast. I know a little about it from dusting the television screen during the ladies' tennis. But otherwise, I help Myrtle by making myself scarce, or resting my leg on the pouf while she vacuums.
One doesn't garden on gardening leave, and after a few months round the house I noticed Myrtle getting quite short with me. Three weeks ago, when I got in from golf, I found she'd left a note and a gingernut by the teapot.
She's gone to visit Anton, some cousin who coaches tennis on the Gold Coast. ''Look after yourself,'' she wrote. I'd never heard of Anton, but no, of course Myrtle hasn't left me! The old girl's just keeping in touch with family.
Her lot were Catholics, so they multiply like rabbits, and Myrtle's relatives bob up with their begging bowls regularly.
She once spent an entire summer helping some aunt do her cocktail waitress shifts in Las Vegas. Then there was a body builder nephew in Stoke on Trent, and _ never mind. Those were the days when she was a young Trout, and easily got her knickers in a knot.
While dusting around me, Myrtle sometimes quoted one of her heroes, the vintage film star Zsa Zsa Gabor.
''I am an excellent housekeeper. Each time I get divorced I keep the house,'' said the old witch. (Myrtle sometimes gets closer to the bone than I fancy).
I expect her back any day, but meanwhile it turns out that her ''look after yourself'' order includes learning housework stuff. It is trickier than you'd think.
I now see how people get terse about housework. It's dreadfully repetitive. You do the dishes, wipe down the bench, and three months later you may have to come back and start again.
I doubt many blokes could keep it up if they have brain taxing jobs like mine. I had a couple of lady judges on the bench with me.
They were good lasses - sound ''string 'em up'' girls when sentencing - but knowing what I do now, I'd bet they skipped the vacuuming.
Yesterday my colleague Harold Pugsley, Queen's Counsel, dropped by with a bottle of scotch. No sooner was he through the door, than I realised I had to say something about the state of the house.
''Burglars,'' I explained.
''It's been awful - they trashed the place.''
''And to rub it in, they've had breakfast on the job,'' observed Pugsley.
''Each day for a week.''
I must say Pugsley is an oddball. He shares a very tidy apartment with Cecil, a chap who's a window dresser. For some reason Harold has never married.
''Pugsley - I've noticed your place is always spick and span. Have you any hints on how bachelors manage?'' I begged.
''Certainly. You're an amateur so start cautiously. Abide by some time honoured beginner's rules,'' announced Pugsley.
''You learnt in science class that nature won't tolerate vacuums. So on no account use a vacuum cleaner - at least not until Electrolux launches the Ride On. Meanwhile, my advice is to sweep the room with a glance.
''What else? Nothing beats a coat of dust for protecting antiques. You ruin your shirts if you wash them too often. And when you're single, there's nobody to inspect your pyjamas.''
''Truly? So you think it possible one might also recycle one's underpants?''Sometimes Pugsley gets a tic. He gnawed his neatly combed moustache, and sighed.
''Cheer up, Trout - if the world didn't suck, we'd all fall off. The truth is I rely on Cecil, so I hope Myrtle tires of the Gold Coast quickly.
''When she does, kiss her boots and buy her roses every day. And meanwhile you should bear in mind the only bit of wisdom your mate Lapsley ever offered.''
''Really? He said something useful?''
''It seems so. He claims he's discovered the best housework saving device invented. It's called 'tomorrow'.''
John Lapsley is an Arrowtown writer.
