Kevin Biggar - Escape to the Pole: Two Kiwi Guys Dodge Crevasses, Starvation and Marriage

Lord! Give me chastity and continence but not yet.

St Augustine

MY GIRLFRIEND IS LOVELY, charming and delicious. When I come to visit, she runs down the stairs and staggers me back with a two-footed jump into my arms, peppering my face with kisses.

She races me into the surf at Mount Maunganui, turning to laugh at the leadenness of my still-recovering legs. She is always first in the water so she can turn and splash me.

Now we have just run off a mountainside in Turkey and are hanging under two whispering parapentes, high above the perfect white crescent sand of Oludeniz. She laughs and squeals as she flies by, kicking her dangling feet as we float down to the turquoise Adriatic twinkling below.

Now we are walking along the cliffs at Makara Beach, near Wellington, in the afternoon sunshine. We press a blanket into the long grass and lie down out of the breeze listening to the waves suck and grumble below. We snack on pieces of fresh bread spread with tangy blue cheese and capped with a slice of warm, red tomato.

She lies back like fairytale royalty, blonde hair tumbling down over her shoulders, and a drop of ros on her lips. Drowsied by the wine and the sun, she falls asleep, her hand light and cool in mine. Time obligingly stops and life stretches out, a timeless, sunny, agenda-less dream.

Or is it?

At first the signs are subtle. She is reading a magazine article about a celebrity wedding and I watch as she trails her fingers down the photos as if feeling the taffeta and lace of a fussy bridal frock. Then there is the certain purposeful just-making-sure-you-know-Im-here snuggling during a movie wedding scene. Now there is a cooing as we pass a trophy toddler in a teddy bear suit being pushed by a glamorous mother.

As I am apparently deaf to these murmurings the volume is turned up. Now there is an accusing glance as she reaches for a tissue during those movie nuptials. Now there is noticeably more elbow in the snuggling. Now the overpackaged babies being pointed out are even further away.

An eyebrow has been raised, an unseen egg timer has been upturned. At some point no answer would be the answer to the question that hasnt been asked.

Mum is not so tactful. Shes not going to wait around forever, Kevin, she says, stroking the white ball of fluff sitting on her lap.

Chantelle the Evil Cat smirks through half-closed eyes, and gives a long, low, rumbling chuckle.

This should be an easy decision Im with a wonderful woman, why am I hesitating? Why is it so hard to get over the line?

Is it because Im worried that if I get married and mortgaged Ill lose the restless, driving, thrusting energy of the single man, and instead find myself falling into the abyss of emasculation, at the bottom of which is cardigans, pipes and slippers? Am I worried that instead of estimating the power-to-weight ratios of my hover car, or the decompression stops required to ascend from my undersea base, Ill be sitting on the sofa watching home-makeover shows, lobotomised by oxytocins and spending my weekends choosing between puce and mauve-coloured drapes and matching the doilies for the coasters for the glasses?

Yes. A bit.

Is it because Im worried that Ill lose that feeling of just being a short plane ride away from unleashing my whip-cracking fedora-wearing bad-arseness on the tomb robbers of the Central Asian Plateau, followed by steamy nights in the moody recesses of a felt yurt palace with grateful, nubile (and commitment-free) Mongoliana princesses? Is it because I know if I get married then these ridiculous fantasies that will, in all likelihood, never happen, will in fact never happen? Instead, will the wonderful menagerie of bizarre exoticness that populates my many potential futures be swept away and replaced with crushing ordinariness?

Well, actually maybe. Okay yes.

I know I shouldnt be concerned. Getting married doesnt necessarily stop you from having adventures. Jacques Cousteau sailed the world with Simone Melchior. Admiral Peary, the first man to reach the North Pole, travelled with his wife Josephine around Greenland. Han Solo had Princess Leia. The Lone Ranger had Tonto.

My concerns about monogamous commitment are nothing compared to my fear about what comes with marriage for just as a tsunami follows an earthquake there would be children. Those incontinent, demanding, noisy, perpetually overstaying, midget house guests. Quite possibly, only a few short months after getting married, I could be submerged in a sea of nappies, preschool, soccer practice, bagpipe lessons, Wiggles, Teletubbies, Hairy Maclary, and when I finally resurface I will be old, creaky and ready for a blanket on my knee.

I sound out my male friends, nearly all of whom are long travelled down this road. In private they discreetly agree with me that other peoples children are often badly raised demon spawn. But, they confide, with only a small application of commonsense parenting skills, I, too, can enjoy a wonderful and richly rewarding parenting experience with well-behaved children like theirs. They nod with pride as Junior upends his pudding bowl onto his head before smugly filling his nappies. After their eyes snap back into focus they equally fervently plea, I know! Why dont you have mine for the weekend?