I was woken by the sound of a dog whimpering and stomping round the bedroom. I got up and Pogo seemed to be rather frantic. He ran to the back door and was in the garden for some time. He went out again as I scoffed brekkie. I wonder what’s upset his stomach.
I watched another episode of “Inside Job” then had a look at the Internet. One of my ex-trainees (from fifteen years ago) was selling her house… for over a million quid. At the time she made a couple of comments about her job being more of a hobby as her boyfriend (now husband) was keeping her. If I had my time again I would follow his example and be a plumber. The photos from the estate agent blurb made her place look like a palace. I sighed, and looked round my (rather small) living room. They say money doesn’t buy happiness, but it does allow you to be miserable in extreme comfort.
Driving to work was rather sad this morning as my old car did that journey one last time. As I drove the pundits on the radio were spouting their drivel as they so often do, expelling so much hot air saying so much whilst saying so little which was actually worth saying. The most memorable part of a particularly unmemorable forty-minute drive was Pope Francis talking on the "Thought for the Day". He droned on (literally droned) in his native language whilst a translator repeated his words in English spoken with a frankly ridiculous put-on accent. I'd like to think that the Pope's speech lost a lot in translation as it really was "blah blah blah". I've got this theory that all the clergy know that whoever they are speaking to soon looses interest in them, and so they don't bother trying to make sense as they know no one will be listening after the first thirty seconds.
Work was surprisingly varied today; rather than having an allocated duty today, I was shifted from pillar to post as the need arose. In all honesty I quite liked it.
I
managed to skive off an hour early, and drove up to West Malling. I arrived in
the car dealership’s car park and phoned the bank. After what seemed like an age
I got through to someone who (quite frankly) barely spoke English and
after several misunderstandings she then transferred me to an English-speaking
person who told me I had half an hour in which to buy the car, after which time
they wouldn’t let me have my own money. So I went into the dealership and asked
if we could do the money bit right away. The nice lady laughed – they were
clearly used to the bank being difficult.
Once
it was all paid for I then had to tax the car. Another lady helped me with
that. I don’t know what was the most impressive – the fact that the new car’s
road tax is only twenty quid per year, or her chest. With her blouse unbuttoned
to her navel, her norks were certainly set to full power.
There
would be those who would accuse me of being a reactionary sexist about that last
sentence. I would challenge those people to sit where I sat for quarter of an
hour…
And
then I was given the keys and sent on my way. With the dashboar.d display telling
me the car had a range of ten miles I drove a few hundred yards up the road to
get petrol. As I drove, all the other cars were flashing me… The new car didn’t
have automatic headlights. How did the headlights work?
I
went back to ask.
I
set off again, and realised there was an odd scraping noise, The rear
windscreen wiper was on. How did I turn that off?
I went back again to ask.
From
the dealership it was only a short distance to the motorway. I had a plan that
thirty miles driving down the motorway would give me a feel for the car. As I
drove I heard all sorts of strange noises… that all came from passing lorries.
Once
home “er indoors TM” came out to have a look at the new car.
Eventually she got in to the car – only the driver’s door can be opened from the
outside. I need to work out how to change that. I’ll look at that tomorrow, eh?
Regular
reader of this drivel may recall that I got petrol for the old car yesterday…
that was sixty quid down the drain, wasn’t it?
No comments:
Post a Comment