Having been back at work for a few hours in the last couple of days, I was kind of looking for a day in slippers around the house with Jyc* and Hly*. An afternoon away and I’m worried she’ll forget me. I mean, she’s only wee, you never know.
I knew Craig was planning a training run and was looking in about lunch time with Helen and a pal arriving on bikes at around the same time. Some folks are family regardless of surname or genes, so I was happy and content if a little distracted by tattie scones sitting next to the hob, beckoning me seductively with their tastiness.
The call came. Now I’m not blaming the caller who I have known for years and am slightly scared of, no she is only the messenger for others. The others who have breakdowns on Thursday night, or Friday Morning and report them on Saturday morning. Why. why do they do this? “Oh, we have no heating, and it’s pretty cold outside” “Will we phone up about it?” “No, no, Peter likes the 70 mile round trip on Saturdays to change an ignition probe in around ten minutes and drive home, bouyed by the knowledge of a good job well done!” ” Oh, okay then”
No you stupid bastards. Report it immediately. I’d rather work late on the Friday than turn out on a weekend. I’m supposed to have stopped all that after the crash and burn of last year.
Anyway after banter, cuppas and tatties scones with appropriate selection of side items (alright!), off I went. In the pissing wet, dark, busy road horror that is Saturday’s M8. Got there, fixed in seconds. Seconds.
Left for home listening to this which fitted the mood like my head fits and orange B&Q bucket. I thought it would be nice to pick up something to eat at the wee M&S food in the BP garage along the road, save hassle as I was late. Picked up some stuff and as an afterthought balanced a box of strawberry tarts on the top, then headed to the counter.
Now I’ll admit I am a bit tired at the moment. In fact, very tired today. In a not really thinking, looking, attention span of a Caramac sort of a way. At the checkout I’d forgotten about the tarts so put the other stuff down first, now the tarts did their best, they levitated for as long as they could hoping I would see them and catch them, but no. Down they went, and across.
“Bollocks” I split the silence of the garage shop with that eloquent statement. Definately statement, not exclamation. A silenced sniper shot of an outburst, not an American Marine running into a building on automatic fire style swear grenade.
The nice lady could see my distress, but to her apparent surprise I apologised and asked for some paper to catch the custard, pastry and dozen half strawberries strewn around my immediate locale. She obliged and I got to the task. I pushed it into a wee pile and started gathering it up, it was the blue industrial towel, so I was confident on the outcome.
I got the bulk pushed together in my hands and stood up with a flourish. Well nearly, I flourished to around waist height and connected with the protruding shelf holding the childs eye catchers by the till. I went straight back down. To shrieks gasps and in my mind anyway, some applause.
When you crack your head that hard it’s the teeth I fear for, the unexpected clamping sending white shrapnel or tongue fillet flying. Not this time, the top of my head took it. I pulled myself up the rack of Haribo and Revels. I could feel the trickle moving through what hair there is. I had to move fast, I wasn’t bleeding in M&S regardless of the colour fitting in with their Christmas decor. I hushed their attempts at help, displaying a foolhardy masculinity that should be viewed only in black and white. I retrieved replacement tarts with wandering steps and white knuckles, the trickle working it’s way down, paid, exchanged best wishes and headed for the door with my bag like Kyle Reese dragging Sarah Connor away from the T-800.
Got to the motor safe. Then home and a mirror, oh yes, the napper is all burst. My head pounding, I had a bit of a lie down.
But, I didn’t have to pay for the second set of strawberry tarts.