If I get Lost it’s Andy Murray’s Fault!

 

Can't believe how blue the sky is after yesterday's gloomy clouds. Hopefully it will be a good day for travelling.

A carapace of items is waiting to be packed into the car. All that is needed to sustain life. Things like rice cookers, bicycle locks and a jar of Marmite.

Now I am really grateful the the exhaust fell off when it did, on a long trip like today's that would have been disastrous. I am hoping that the garage has done a good job. When the exhaust last fell off in Ireland many years ago and I went to the Kwik Fit garage in Dundalk to get it fixed, it fell off twice afterwards. Perhaps it was because I was English. Or perhaps I was just very unlucky. Irish sheep in remote rural areas still bleat about that day when a car like a grounded rocket disturbed their munching of wet grass.

Hopefully it won't fall off this time and disturb any English sheep.

The only trouble is that the youngun was up until two-thirty listening to the American tennis open. Andy Murray may well be the reason that we will set off late. Looks like my navigator will soon be fast asleep, once the car is packed and we finally hit the road.

 

Uninvited Guests

 

I don't see them, but the youngun does. He becomes more uneasy. Scratchy in his skin, until he can bear them no longer.

"Take them out. Take them out!"

He is white and shaking.

"Take them out."

He means of course the uninvited guests: the spiders.

He has by this time become away of their every move. Tracking each one to its lair with an unerring radar.

But by this time air traffic control has gone.

The spiders oblivious, are humming their soft spidery tunes as I notice them for the first time. They are thin creatures on thinner articulated legs. There is one in every corner of the kitchen. One in every high corner of the window. I catch them in a wine glass as they jerk awake from mesmeric sleep, and set them loose in the garden.

In the small garden room I find the fattest. It has gorged on many tiny flies that have been attracted to the table lamp. In the darkest corner beside the desk I discover a myriad of webs, a spider larder in which it has stored suspended tiny meat.

The spiders outside have broader bodies and are firmer in shape. I fear this one will now starve. It steps onto a leaf which does not bend beneath its weight and disappears.

Seven spiders have been thrown out.

A quick whisk around inside with the feather duster and all the cobwebs have gone.

"All gone. You can come back now," I call, hoping that the spiders will not think I mean them.

How do they get in?

 

Craigie Hill by Cara Dillon

 

 

Cara Dillon

 

It has been ages since I've been to a folk concert. This summer we went to 'Folk by the Oak'. I wanted so much to see  and hear Cara Dillon.

Things have changed greatly since I last sat on a blanket in front of a stage. For a start people don't do that any more... they take camper chairs. So it wasn't too long before our perfect view of the stage from our lowly blanket became a view of the backs of people's chairs and their obstructing backs.

I hadn't noticed chairs being carried as we walked to the site, so I was amazed when they were suddenly unfolded all around our island blanket, making us feel like lowly citizens.

We suffered.

I had also forgotten, after this year's persistent rain, to bring sun-cream and hats. Our chocolate iced cakes melted in the back pack and our sandwiches cooked. Even when we caught a glimpse of the stage, though we were near the front of the chair area the figures on the stage were minute. You couldn't see faces. A grainy screen gave us a better glimpse of what was going on, but it felt very much like second best.

The performing acts all kept to time, and I felt mounting excitement as Cara Dillon's time slot approached.

By this time, I had managed by judicious craning of my neck to achieve a good view of the grainy screen. Which was probably why a couple suddenly appeared out of nowhere and placed their camper chairs, ones with holders in the arms for drinks, at that exact spot. Still at least I could still watch the airplanes passing overhead.

All the previous acts had started on time, but the minutes were now ticking. Cara Dillon was late. There also seemed to be people on stage from some of the previous acts.

You should never go to a concert to see someone you really want to see. I had compounded this by really wanting to hear her sing a song which had become a favourite. It had been a long time since I had felt so excited and looked forward to something so much.

There was an announcement. The music began more instrumental than vocal. Cara Dillon was ill. Gamely she sang a few of her songs despite being so poorly. These were interspersed by instrumental medleys from previous performers who had gone on stage to help out. All very impressive... but for me oh so very disappointing.

I started to think about how much money I had paid to get there, and the long journey there and back, all for a grainy glimpse of a singer mostly obscured by people's heads.

She did not sing any of the songs I so wanted to hear. But I do so applaud her for still turning up despite feeling so ill and for singing so beautifully.

Rescue

 

I'm sitting in my car when the rescue vehicle finally appears.

I make no more than a small movement of my hand and he has spotted me. He draws to a halt further down the road, and then walks back. He is a cheery fellow. He's the sort of person who knows exactly what he is doing.

"Exhaust fallen off?" he says, as if that's my name.

I nod. I've been called worse.

I waited so long for him to appear that I have almost lost all power of speech.

"I bet that made a racket," he says. "Bet it made a terrible noise," he adds, as if trying to tempt me to make a noise of my own.

I nod silently as if the experience has rendered me mute.

"I'll just tie it up with bungee ropes," he says, taking control of the situation.

At this I feel so cross with myself. Why didn't I think of using bungees ropes? We have them for the bicycle. I had thought of using gaffer tape, but all the time bungees were the answer. I could have got the exhaust all tied up and have had it in the garage hours ago. So I fume silently.

Within seconds he has secured the exhaust. He then takes my car keys, readies the ramp and then drives my quiet compliant car onto the back of his lorry. By now I am really annoyed. This little excursion the car is about to enjoy has cost me forty quid.

Within minutes, he has negotiated a three-point-turn in a situation not for the faint hearted. This man is clearly a thrill seeker, but still I am fretting about my feebleness about not even thinking about bungees.

"Could I have tied up the exhaust like you've just done and then driven it to the garage?" I ask. "Did I really need a rescue lorry?"

We are dodging cars in the narrow street like tenpins and it was probably not the ideal time to ask such a question.

"No," he says, reassuring me. "You did the right thing. People don't realise how hot exhaust pipes get. It would've melted through gaffer tape and bungees. Then the exhaust would have fallen off, especially on these speed bumps, twisting the metal back and doing even more damage to your car."

He has such a vivid way of describing things that I can visualise this scenario clearly.

"Nope, you did the right thing calling me out," he says, making a right turn at the top of the road where even the brave only dare to turn left. He then swings into a non-existent space in the stream of traffic and accelerates. I'm in for a white-knuckle ride.

He grins. He has an oily complexion; his face looks part machine.

"Love it," he says. "Love the challenge. Every situation is different. I sometime rescue upturned cars in fields. I like trying to work out how to do that. I've got a wrench. Haul them in," he pauses, as he drives over the middle of a mini roundabout. "One though. One stays with me. It was upside down and full of blood. Never seen so much blood."

"Did they survive?" I ask horrified.

But it's clear he loves rescuing cars more than rescuing people.

"Here we are," he says.

And before I've had time to speak to receptionist my car has already been off-loaded, and he has driven away.

 

The Delights of sitting on a Front Doorstep

 

There is something wonderfully freeing about waiting for a rescue lorry to come and pick up your car.

My car sits looking serene on the road, and only the most observant lying on their backs would notice the exhaust pipe which dangles down from the front of the vehicle.

I'm feeling a bit of a wimp. I couldn't reach under the car far enough to reach it. So my plan a) to bind it with gaffer tape and then to drive it slowly to a garage has not been possible; and Plan b) call the £40 rescue lorry is in place instead.

They had said that they would be there in half an hour, but that was over an hour ago.

I've been sat on the front door step all that time waiting.

It is wonderful sitting on a front door step. Everyone should try it at least once in their lives.

You get to see all sorts of unusual things. The invalid car for example which drives up the road negotiating the speed bumps as if riding the big dipper. The secondary school children walking home after their first day back after the long summer break; looking, despite the bad reputation of this particular school, subdued and studious. Perhaps this effect mostly achieved by the newness of their uniforms and their freshly ironed shirts, but even so the ones who walked by looked as if they were certainly going to give education a chance. No way were they ever going to end up sitting on their doorsteps!

People passing by don't know what to do with a person sitting on a doorstep. It is an aberration. A departure from the norm. They don't know whether to make eye contact or whether to look the other way. Most look the other way. This is great for the person sitting on a doorstep. You can observe characters, what people are wearing, and also the comings and goings of all sorts of unusual people. Spies should adopt it as a tactic! James Bond could have given up all those great death defying feats and learnt all he needed to know just by sitting on his doorstep.

When you are waiting for a rescue vehicle to arrive you realise just how many other vehicles travel down your road. One pulls into a nearby parking space. Its occupants, two people, stare at me.

I listen for the sound of a lorry, looking by turns both up and down the road.

The shadow of the house is creeping towards the kerb. It is getting cold. Once it reaches the gutter I will go to my own car and sit inside it. It's amazing how quickly the shadow moves. I'm now thinking of being an insignificant dot on a huge turning planet whirling through the solar system.

"Are you waiting for someone?"

The woman startles me. She was one of the ones who had just been watching me from the parked car. She leans over the door of her car as I am jolted back from outer space.

"Yes," I answer.

"You're not Valda, are you?"

This is one of the delightful thing that can happen if you decide to sit on your doorstep, you can be asked all sorts of unusual questions. People will eventually talk to you. The world opens up. I wonder who Valda is. Could this be some kind of covert operation? Is 'Valda' the code word which will open some sort of secret world?

"No," I'm not Valda, I confess. The woman is disappointed, I am too. Though I can also see that she is relieved; Valda, I am certain, would have gone down in her estimation if she had actually been discovered sitting on some front doorstep.

The shadows creep.

Lower down the road the real Valda arrives for her rendezvous, but the meeting is too far away for me to witness their cause, which leaves me curious. By now the last school child has long since passed by. The invalid car returns down the road, its driver this time waving a cheery acknowledgement. I have sat there so long I have become part of the scenery.

It is cold. As the minutes tick into the second hour I go and sit in my car. Missing already the delights of sitting on my front doorstep.

 

All is Perfect!

 

All is perfect.

The wonderful computer people ring me to say they have fixed the computer and that there will be no charge.

I drive all the way out to the airport to pick it up and then bring it back.

The youngun is in the bathroom by the time I get back, so I sneak up into his room and get his computer all set up and ready for him as a surprise.

The computer people tell me that the fan had been stuck, and so they had wriggled it a bit and then cut off some of the baffles. This probably accounted for the sound it made once all the connecting pieces had been attached and the power switched on. It was rather like a jumbo jet coming in to land.

"Bit loud," I warned, as the youngun, delighted with the return of his computer, went off to investigate.

"It will be fine," he says with his usual cheery optimism.

“It’s a bit loud,” he confesses.

Having expected to pay hundreds for the repair, I then calculate that this month I could at least now buy some bedding plants to brighten up the rather dull and dilapidated tubs outside.

So off I go.

But there is too much choice, and of course still euphoric about the computer, I indulge my indecision by buying blue as well as pink, yellow as well as lilac.

So all is absolutely perfect in my world as I reach the corner of the road and am just about to turn into my street.

An afternoon of happy gardening awaits me.

Oddly, there a strange confluence of events taking place at the corner of the road. The bin men's lorry is slowly making its way down with rubbish rattling in its innards, as nearby a car signals to allow me out, but suddenly as I do so a huge four by four begins to make a three-point-turn completely blocking my path. It is as if all lives have suddenly been focussed on this tiny point of Google Earth.

I slow as I turn the corner and, then bang!

For a second I wonder if a bin man lies underneath my car, or if I have been clipped by the four by four, or some other vehicle. There is now a roar like a jumbo jet. I knew the youngun’s computer now sounded loud, but surely not that loud!

I pull over onto the side of the road and park. Finding a lucky space just across from my home.

By now, the bin men have gone, the four by four has vanished, and the friendly driver who let me out of the side street has also driven away. The road is deserted as I get out to peer beneath my car.

Resting on the road is the front part of my exhaust  and with it also dangles my perfect day.

I console myself: at least it broke as I arrived back home and not on a busy road somewhere; and at least I can now get a cup of tea as I think what to do next.

Upstairs the is the sound of a jumbo jet permanently taxiing on some internet super runway.

The cat from three doors down comes and purrs loudly.

Thinking? Hah!