The Bells Have Made Me Deaf

Yesterday I wanted to see how close I could reverse to the wall while turning the van in the yard, so I gently nudged things backwards until the bumper touched. I was trying to gauge a better turning point by seeing where the front ended up when the back touched the wall so as to know where the mark was in future… seemed like a good idea to me.

Today I cant get the back door open. Or at least I wont be able to open it until I take a hammer to the bumper…

I was going dead slow…. honest, and that lump of render was about to fall off the wall anyway!

Six saintly shrouded men move across the lawn slowly, the seventh walks in front pants full of contraband…

and it’s

hey Dave the customs are waiting for yoohoo…

I get a bit irritated when a pretentious customer questions my working methods or even questions my capabilities. It’s fair enough in some cases to have a little bit of doubt if there has been no recommendation but when they got my name in the first place from a highly reputable business in their area who I also work for, then I don’t feel they have an excuse. The shop in question wouldn’t recommend me if I wasn’t up to scratch. It’s insulting to be treated like a child by some silly woman with delusions of grandeur. So, short of getting back in the van and driving off leaving her and her chair standing agape at the French doors, I bit my lip and took the insult with a grinding smile, reassuring her that there would be no problem and no, of course her shabby chair wouldn’t come back smelling of cigarette smoke and cat piss. It is, however, going to have at least a two week turnaround instead of the usual one week and I will no doubt have to charge through the nose for delivery/collection which is normally gratis. I hope she appreciates that she has an ill bred costly mouth.

I thought I had better get that all off my chest before I remove her furniture from the van into the workshop. I was having those satisfying mental flashes of slashed seats with the stuffing hanging out and a little voice in my head saying “go on… you know you want to”.

It’s the day that something is going to happen or then again it might be Friday. I was told this by a mysterious nomadic caller who at the time was stranded in the nations capital and furiously haggling with a greedy taxi driver over the fare home. Some would say that to listen to the ramblings of an unmet on the phone is unwise but barring once or twice, everything has come to pass just as he said it would and that is indeed a most unusual thing, for few there are who actually do as they say they will.

It is also the day that, according to my neighbour, something else is going to happen and as a result, had me up at the scrake in case it happened earlier rather than later but at the time of writing, it hasn’t happened and I am yet entrusted with the keys of the kingdom to allow access to the men who will no doubt be cursing and swearing while they try to get the new bulky sofa up the stairs which were designed at least a century and a half ago for furniture of a much less obnoxious size. I have a feeling that I was given the job to ensure that they haul the thing all the way into the living room rather than the standard few feet within the bottom door*. I am indeed blessed.

*That is the door at the bottom of the stairs, not the door to anyone’s bottom although by the time the delivery is complete that is possibly where they would wish to stick it.

I have been pumped so full of painkillers and antibiotics this week that I feel no pain which is not a good thing. Not a good thing if pain is a warning that you really should stop what you’re doing and go lie down until the swelling desists. Mrs Bartholomew of number 42, I hope you particularly enjoy your new loose covers since it has been nothing short of miraculous that they were done at all. I feel rather smug about that, now get your cheque book out dear.

This has also been the week of NW200 which I happily missed altogether. I had planned to take a run up to the north coast for the day today, to sniff the remains of two stroke in the air, for two stroke and leather is the only reason to want to be anywhere near a motorbike or a lawnmower for that matter. Work and a gammy leg put an end to that idea. Seen one race, seen them all, is fairly true of motorbike racing so my heart is far from broken at not having been there for the event of the year and neither is my neck stiff from watching bikes pass by faster than my head cares to rotate. Neeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeyommmmmmmmmmmm.

Busy few weeks it’s been, with more of the same to come. It’s hard to knuckle under when the weather is so fine. I hope you are basking in it, taking in all that lush sweetness that is May.

Day off today so it’s a toss up between the Game Fair at Dunleaths or a barbeque at a friends that will probably finish tomorrow sometime. Not a difficult choice really.

- Hear More

I am once again without transport and on opening the fridge tonight in the hope of dinner, I was confronted with one chicken fillet, the remains of a bag of salad and an unopened bottle of Mâcon Solutré. The cupboard wasn’t much more inviting, having two jars of Tahini paste, one tube of tomato puree, two tins of sliced peaches and a box of Cornflakes.

Can’t cook wont cook. So this evenings concoction is chicken fillet in a white wine/sesame sauce. I’m sure the two garlic pittas in the bread bin will really round it all off into a plateful of not haute cuisine. I will enjoy it, in a half starved all day cheese and marmalade experimentally excessive Mâcon Solutré sort of way.

Please mister mechanic, fix me altenator by tomorrow.