Lost at one across; beaten by two down

Crosswords have drifted through my life like lamb's fry and American football, things I feel like showing an interest in once every five years, but can probably do without.

I enjoy a good puzzle and love words, but I have the general knowledge of a gnat, and it is the latter that tends to hold me back in a crossword.

Indeed, if a crossword was the game of 500, and who is to say it couldn't be that, Stephen Hawking would go 10 no trumps and me, a mere six diamonds.

My dad introduced me to crosswords accidentally by subscribing to a lightly scabrous magazine called Australasian Post.

In there was a giant full-page crossword called Mr Whopper, an ironic name in view of the preponderance of whoppers elsewhere in the magazine.

This mammoth thing was compiled by the beautifully named Mr Wisdom.

I used to fill in a few squares while learning about life from the whoppers, so if my dad burst into the room, I could say, gosh dad, Mr Whopper is hard going this week.

As a university student, thinking my brain was the size of Brazil, I occasionally dipped into the Listener crossword, but that was far too hard.

More recently, my father-in-law has introduced me to the Christchurch Press cryptic crossword, which he does every day, often before he has rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

Crossword done, he reads out the oblique clues, waits three seconds, then peels off his answer.

I can only shake my head in reply.

You get to know the way they think, he says consolingly.

A friend came round to visit last week and spied a copy of the Listener on the lounge table.

She suggested we do the crossword together.

I told her I don't do crosswords.

Rubbish, she said.

One across.

Who made their West End debut in Hair in 1968? This is another reason I am weak at crosswords, I don't understand the question.

Marsha Hunt, I replied, she had a child by Mick Jagger.