My Evil, Short-Arsed Twin

Have you ever had your mug-shot taken, been finger-printed, and then found yourself banged up in a cold, dank, hard-benched cell to rot? It's not at all nice, you know.


Not to mention undignified.


Particularly when you are wearing nothing but a police jacket over your basque and fishnets.


Well I was innocent, of course. Seriously, I was (well, "ish", anyway)! Let's just say the crime didn't fit the time, okay? It was all merely a terrible mis-understanding.


(Honest Guv'!)


Oh, my cheeks still burn as I type!


Despite being in-between Chauffeurs boyfriends, I was sensible enough to leave the car at home that night, managing to hitch a lift from a friend. One of our mates had hired the back-room of Smolenski's Balloon, (a then trendy little London venue) to celebrate her twenty-fifth birthday bash in style. She'd themed the evening as a "Vicar's and Tart's night", and knowing most of the crowd she hung with, it promised to be quite a party.


And it was, except for the seating arrangements. At the sit down meal, good old Yve (the birthday girl) stuck me between this recently divorced, middle-aged woman and her son. I think they used to be her neighbours, or something. Oh, they were pleasant enough, I made nice. But he was nothing short of drippy, kept brushing up against my thigh whilst peering down my cleavage, and here, on the other side of me was his dear old ma, she who didn't stop to draw a gasp of breath, for all her talking at me. I guessed she didn't get out much, it was nerves that made her prattle, but that didn't make her any the less wearing to be lumbered with. Once the plates cleared I was happy to lose both to the dance floor, and mingle on.


Several hours, and more than a few glasses of wine down the line, I made to get ready to bid my goodbyes, the friend offering me a lift home had signaled she was set to depart. That's when Yve begged a favour of us. Jackie and her son were finding it difficult to find an available cab. If they could hitch a ride with us, would I mind letting them call a taxi from my place? It was on their way, and finding a cab would be easier once we were outside the West End.


It seemed the decent thing to do.


"Sure," says I, "Not a problem."


So off we hauled on our merry way. My friend duly deposited us outside my flat, and we waved her off with thanks.


You need to understand, it's now fast approaching 3am, and the buzz of the party is slowly wearing off. I am tired, a little parched, and can feel the faint promise of a pulsing hang-over starting to ferment. Jackie hadn't stopped jabbering her jaw from Piccadilly to Putney, and was showing little sign of letting up. Lurch had been copping a sly feel all the ride back, if I'd had found the energy I might have clocked him one. I simply couldn't wait to load them both off on their way.


However.


What the stupid woman had neglected to tell me (I didn't expect her son to, he obviously had much too much trouble tripping over his sticky, lecherous tongue to attempt burdening it with speech), was that she lived almost a further thirty miles on from me. That's why they couldn't get a taxi, no London cabbie wanted to touch the fare. I think I must have phoned through the entire telephone directory before I was done.


Forget sleeping over, no way was I waking up come the morn to face pervy Lurch-boy and this demented mother of his.


Shit.


There was nothing else for it. Kicking off my killer-high, shiny-red stilettos, I donned my fluffy slippers, grabbed my car keys and grudgingly marched them back down to the street. I had no idea where we were going, neither it appeared, did they. I only carried an A-Z of London in the car (even then it was only for show, I can't read a map to save my life), and as they lived somewhere in the depths of deepest Surrey, it proved little help.


After what had to be at least a year, and then some, of taking wrong turns, finally, that gormless lump of a son of hers proved worthy of not being drowned at birth, and spotted a recognisable landmark. He signaled by digging me hard in the back from behind. I bore no grudge, I knew it was the only way to alert me over the full blast roar of Jackie's (now near-hysterical) cackle. Catching on to his excitement, she followed his flapping arms and agreed.


"Oh, yes! Yes, Pete's right! Oh, clever boy, Pete!"


Thank God I had set off with a full tank of petrol, it had never occurred to me to take my purse along. By now, 5am, I am so relieved to get shut of them, I don't give a damn that it may take me a week to find my route back again. I cranked the music up and wound a window down, following my wheels for a sign of where to go.


Okay, I admit it, I may have taken my eye off the speedometer. But hey, the streets were deserted, and I just wanted to get home. Well, almost deserted, there seemed to be a plank behind me driving far too close up my bum for comfort. From the periphery of my eye, I saw him draw alongside me at the traffic lights. Oh, pul-eeeze, I am not in the mood here. He was obviously trying hard to attract my attention.


I darted a sideways scowl.


OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD - SHIT!!!!


I hadn't heard the sirens above the music, but I have no excuse for not recognising the fluorescent-striped Panda car.


He signaled me to pull over to the cemetery on our left.


"For a moment there, I thought you were trying to lose me, Miss." Said Mr. Smiley-Policeman.


"Uh, why would I want to do that?" Innocently said Ms. I-am-so-fucked-and-I-know-it.


"Because after chasing you for over ten minutes, you just took the last roundabout at over eighty miles an hour."


"Oh, surely not, officer? Really?"


"Would you mind stepping out of the car please, Miss?"




(Sure, I would just love to step out in broad daylight by these cemetery gates, freeze my arse off, and model my pointy little "raunchy-whore get up" for you, going so fetchingly as it does with my stare-of-the-art, Nora-Batty-style, fluffy slippers.. what's there to mind?)


"Have you been drinking at all, recently?"


"Oh, just a wee, small glass of wine.. or, er, maybe two."


I know, I know, I know, how daft can you get? I'd be useless under real interrogation, so's I would.


In actual fact, I felt as sober as a judge by now, so I wasn't in the least bit fazed when he pulled out his little Breathalyzer kit.


To my defence, even he said I was unlucky it chose to fall so marginally over the limit.


Unlucky?




Here I am at 5am, outside the cemetery gates in this ridiculous get-up, my fluffy slippers growing soggier by the minute in a puddle of rain (did I mention it's raining, now?), and despite being convinced I am as sober as a judge, I find myself arrested on the suspicion of drunk-driving.


Could life get any better?


As I didn't even know exactly where we were, I took great umbrage at having to leave my car behind, especially as I was forced to hand my keys over for the Mr. Smiley-Policeman to better park up.


I arrived at the little sub-station to be processed by my arresting officer and his desk Sargent. The first order of business was to hook me up to the big brother of the little breathalyser I'd just failed. Theory is this one gives out a more accurate reading.


"Awww, how unlucky is that, eh?"


"Yeah, it's the closest call I've ever seen.."


"Yup, me too."


I was starting to feel I'd gate-crashed a skit from out of "The Secret Policeman's Ball". Now, if their sympathy could only run to handing me my keys back, I'd be happy to up and leave without so much as a harsh word.


Truly.


Seems it doesn't work that way. Now they want to draw blood. My blood. Not only that, they want me to pay them for this privilege. Seriously.


"I strongly advise you allow us to call our duty doctor out for a blood sample."


"Why would I want do that?"


"Because between you and me, by the time he gets here, you'll almost certainly read under the limit again. If you don't give a sample, we'll have to accept the machine reading. It'll lose you your licence for a year, plus you'll be fined £200"


"Yeah, it's automatic, see.."


Oh, for the love of God. I needed a cup of tea. They made the phone-call, and Mr. Smiley-Policeman stuck the kettle on, as I allowed Mr. Less-Smiley-Policeman to take my fingerprints.


"Do you want to call anyone, let them know where you are?"


I explained I was still working on teaching my dog to pick up the phone. I imagined the poor mutt was probably evacuating her bowels as we spoke.


This opened the conversation to an exchange over our mutual pets, the breed, age, and names of which now escape me. I found myself peering at cute wallet photo's (is it just me, or is there something tragically sad about placing pictures of a dog in the space allocated for your nearest and dearest?). Once the pleasantries and tea were drained, I found myself ushered in front of a white backdrop.


"Can I brush my hair and apply a bit of lippie, first?"


"Aw, go on then, there's a mirror out the back."


Shit. What a time to remember you've left your lippie and all other worldly goods behind at the flat.


I wasn't allowed to give them my best side, they wanted my sunken sockets face on, then an equally unflattering shot of my pointy nose in profile. Thankfully, at least I was spared the indignity of holding out a number plate.


"Do you have any previous arrests?"


Bloody cheek! Who did they think they were dealing with here? I had them know I wouldn't receive the annual licence I needed to trade if I held any criminal record. Okay, it was perhaps an unfortunate wording in light of the fishnets and leather basque, but still, I didn't think it was that funny. I hurriedly explained that, no, I've never been arrested before.


I asked them where the loo was (the tea was taking it's toll).


"Er, I'm really sorry, you'll need to go in the cell for that."


I'm not proud. Well, I wasn't until I got there.


"You are having a laugh, aren't you? I'm not peeing in there!"


The loo faced straight on to the door, where a huge letterbox-shaped peep hole was in place.


"Oh, c'mon, we're not going to look."


Yeah, right. (I was not a happy bunny.)


The doctor finally turfed up to stab me. I was told I would be written with the lab results when they came through. I was offered a lift home, but opted for a taxi instead, knowing I could grab some cash from home to settle the fare. By now I was shivering, goosebumps had set over my flesh, I was cold, weary and just desperate to get myself away from there.


Mr. Not-So-Smiley policeman disappeared out the back, as Mr. Smiley-Policeman explained I could leave in a minute, they were just running my details through the computer. Ten minutes later, Mr. Not-So-Smiley-Policeman reappeared, except he had now turned into Mr. Frowning-Policeman.


Pulling Mr. Smiley-Policeman out of my earshot, they had a private word. Whispering together, they shook their heads and shot rather ominous looks in my direction .


Huh? (I wasn't daft, there was a definite shift in the atmosphere here.)


"Hmn, you've been a very naughty girl now, haven't you Shrinky?"


What?


"What are you talking about?"


"Scotland has several outstanding arrests out for you, seems you've led us a fine old chase, haven't you?"


I was last in Scotland when I was only sixteen, now although I confess to some fuzzy memories of the time, I do think I am pretty certain I was never that bad.


They checked my full name, birth place and date of birth again, and Mr. Frowning-Policeman instructed Mr. Now-Losing-The-Smiliness Policeman to return me to the cell I had just recently christened.


This was ludicrous. Surreal. Straight out of a George Orwell novel. I protested it was too bloomin' cold to freeze my arse off in there, and was granted the huge favour of a spare jacket to cover over my shivering frame.


The door clanged shut.


I considered yelling out for my Lawyer. I did have one. He managed the legal side of my business. But I had a feeling I might need a more specialist kind of a one for this. My brain was hurting too much by this point. I reckoned I'd figure it out soon enough, bugger the lot of them. Settling my head down, I laid me down to snooze.


I don't know quite how long passed, but it must have been a while. I woke to a mug of tea and a bacon buttie thrust under my nose. Like I say, I'm not proud, I was hungry and happy enough to scoff it down.


Between bites, I asked his retreating back, "What is it you think I've done?"


"How tall are you?" Said the Mr. New-Policeman (the shift had apparently changed).


"What?"


"What's your height?"


"Five foot, seven - why?"


"Hang on."


The door clanged shut. Two minutes later, it re-opened.


"Okay, you can go now. Sorry about that."


"What?"


"It was a case of mistaken identity, sorry about that. Er, 'fraid we're going to have to take the jacket back, Miss."


"Can't I just hang on to it for a bit, drop it back later?"


"Sorry."


As he dialed me a cab, I peeled it off. "So, what was I supposed to have done, then?"


"I'm not at liberty to say, miss, sorry. But you sure were unlucky, talk about a coincidence.. there is someone wanted out there for some pretty serious stuff, you know, and she has the exact same date of birth, place of birth and full name as you do! Amazing, isn't it? Mind, you are five inches taller. If you ever get arrested again, it might be worth you mentioning that the next time. Oh, that and your fingerprints don't match, a lucky break for you, eh."


He even had the temerity to wink at me as he said this.


Lucky? Lucky?


I'm nothing short of fuming.


The next day my arresting officer called asking for a date. I told him, if it was all the same with him, I'd sooner see him in court.


I didn't as it happened.


The blood results proved negative, and the charges were withdrawn.


A week later the bill for it landed up at my door. I paid, bearing no grudge, figured it was a fair enough trade for also losing the speeding charge.


In the cold light of day, I can't complain at my treatment. I didn't want the blood test, it was only down to their urging that I was persuaded to go for it. It could have turned out a whole lot worse.


I often wonder what ever became of my evil short-arsed twin.


Footnote: A few years back, my mate, Yve, invited me back to her fortieth. Guess who was there? You can rest assured, I kept well clear of both Jackie and of her (still tongue-tied and every bit as much as pervy) son that night.

I know, I know, I am such a lazy, crappy blogger, and YES the Re-Post Queen has only gone and struck yet again,   What can I say?  Anything worth publishing once, is always worth the thrusting out of again ('specially when I'm so busy writing The Great Novel, as I am right now..)  I'll make it up to you next time round, promise!  xx   

Me and My Big Mouth

The teenagers confiscated my laptop this week for knocking all of theirs off-line.  I didn't mean to.  Besides, we already had a dodgy connection, that's why I got the Mr. Fix-It guy out in the first place, wasn't it?

Ungrateful urchins.

He was a proper darling too, he even upgraded my router for free - how's that for service?  So seeing as how he was so  easy to take advantage of considerate and helpful, I thought I might as well chance my arm ask his advice as to how to secure my network.  I guess he figured he'd save himself a second trip out by doing it for me (dumb blond's sooo rule!).  How was I to know I should have mentioned all the other laptops..?

Oops.

Anyway, all's well now - this morning our Mr. Fix-It guy did that second trip over he had hoped to leave out, and managed to put it all right once again.  Seems the security settings were set too high for the older laptops to cope with.  Must say, I am well impressed with the service, he came out within a half hour of my call, and I haven't been charged a penny for either visit!  In fact, I was so impressed, I decided I'd ring his boss-man to tell him.

The last thing I meant to do was get him in trouble.

(Sigh.) 

Seems he's not allowed to give out free routers willy-nilly, and he's certainly not meant to be frittering his time away by setting up my security levels, never mind throwing in all these free call outs.

(Good thing I never got around to mentioning how grateful I am about him cleaning up the hard drives, eh?)

Poor lad.  I feel terrible now.

But I do seem to be jinxed as far as machinery goes, and you can bet your sweet arse that whenever anything does go wrong, it's always got to be on the week when hubby is on the mainland.

Take that car I scraped in the college car park the other week.  Okay, I suspected it was my fault, 'cos it was parked up and empty when I hit it.  The woman who initially flew down the steps, in readiness to launch herself across my bonnet, well, she turned out to be really decent in the end.  I got out and apologised profusely, we swapped phone numbers, and we've had several long conversations since.  Turns out her brother works in a paint spray shop, and will fix it up for free.  I'm taking her out for a thank you lunch next week.  Funny how things work out, eh? Seems she had me down as some sort of a nutter, when I first got out  in my fluffy slippers.

I have to confess, most folk over here are pretty obliging.  Remember that ever-so-posh Jag-lady I had to flag down the other week?  She drove over ten miles out of her way after I leapt in her car.
 
Then, again at the college, when I was parked up waiting to collect Sam, one of his tutors whom I barely even know, well he came all the way over just to tap on my window.  I had been wondering what had held Sam up for so long.  He was kind enough to remind me Sam doesn't come to college on a Tuesday, he goes to a work-placement, a further ten miles along the way.

Sam wasn't too pleased, but as I reminded him, it could have been a far longer wait for him had his kindly teacher not pointed me on my way.  Guess it didn't much help when I snapped the passenger wing-mirror off on his side, on the journey back (oh relax, it's electric, so the wires held it on).

His parting shot each morning now is to remind me where I'm picking him up again.

(I like to pretend to myself he's just being sarcastic.)

It's unfortunate I'm the only driver for five when hubby is off the isle, 'cos I'm the first one to admit I'm not all that good at it.  I was nothing short of delighted when His Lord and Master removed the left concrete post from the top of our drive, least now when I pull down there, it's doesn't bite the car anymore.

Wish we lived near public transport.  So do the kids.  You should just hear them, talk about a chorus of back seat drivers, I've never known such a paranoid bunch of cowards!

But I digress.

What I am trying to say is thank God for the kindness of strangers, there are a lot of good folk out there, it's just a shame I had to run in to a nasty one today, when all I was trying to do was to give a little thank you back.

(Hope Mr. Fix-It understands.)

A Fishy Tale

We usually eat fish and chips on a Saturday lunchtime, a ritual my sixteen-cum-six-year-old and his daddy have shared ever since for always. The guys at the fish-shop know them well, making time to engage with our lad, they slip him the odd sweet or sticker, ask him about his week and generally fuss over him. They are a good bunch of guys that work down there.

My youngest enjoys her battered cod, but she also has a tender heart. Ever since I placed two fish tanks in the kitchen (one tropical, the other for cold water fish) she refuses to eat her fish lunch in there. Oh, don't get me wrong, she still happily scoffs it down, she just won't do it in the kitchen. She worries about stressing them out.

This is the girl who insists upon a full-blown garden funeral should any of our fish die (cries real tears, too). Our cat has taken to frequently spot checking down there, and often gets lucky. I wish she'd stop digging them up, repeat-funerals are so tedious. One tank (the tropicals) is Abby's responsibility, she feeds, filters and cleans it out every week.

One day disaster threatened. (Funny how these things always seem to coincide on the week when daddy is in London.) Abby came running through to find me, apparently the heating pump in the tank had seized up, and all her fish were about to die.

I know better than to argue with a drama queen.

After a cursory check I reluctantly agreed. We needed a new pump, no doubts about it. The problem was, the shop that supplies these things is a twenty minute drive away, and according to the clock, it was due to close in less than thirty. I loaded three of my four darlings up into the Tardis, with the hound somehow managing to smuggle himself in too (not an easy task for someone shaped like a pit pony). No matter, I let him stay, just hoping he didn't get too vocal (his baying to the radio drives me nuts, every time I up the volume, he does too).

Off we flew on our mission of mercy, no holds barred. We made good time, the traffic light fairy sat on my shoulder, it was green lights all the way. Wheeeeeeeee!

I couldn't believe it when this skinny guy leaped out from nowhere and pointed a gun straight at us. (WTF??)

My first instincts were to floor the pedal and mow straight through the bastard. Thankfully, having my spec's on, I did clock (in the brink of time) the police uniform. He started waving and pointing to the entrance of the church car park. Still a bit clueless, I grudgingly braked, (effectively shutting the hound up mid-howl, as he found himself ricocheted into the gearstick). Ever the obedient one, (what? Well, I can be) I pulled over.

For those Brits amongst us, did any of you ever watch the series "Goodnight, sweetheart"? Do you remember the Bobby in it? I swear, this is the very guy who inspired that character, except the fictional one is far, far more toned-down than the real life version, believe you me.

Tapping on my window, he motioned me out. Naturally, the kids and hound came too, eager as they were to see what the nice policeman wanted.

"Do you realise Madam, that your were driving at 47mph in a 30mph zone?"

"Really? No, I had no idea." (I didn't. I thought I'd been going much faster.)

I quickly explained it was a matter of life or death, hoping he'd stop rabbiting on and offer up a police escort. Did he heck! Fifteen blooming minutes he had us out there, lecturing me on the evils of playing Dick Dasterdly in the Wacky Races (I bet Dick's side-kick, Mutley wouldn't have so shamelessly slobbered all over the nice policeman). I made a mental note to starve the hound of biscuits for a week, and tried not to keep sneaking a look at his watch.

God, did he go on.

I wouldn't have minded quite so much if he didn't have such a smug grin plastered all across his face. He decided to do me the enormous favour of letting me off with a caution. Of course, I didn't have any documentation on me, so this would involve having to trot down to the local cop shop within the week to produce them. Did I mention this was during half-term? Fair do's, I loaded everyone back in to the car and set back for home. we had a tank-load of fish to nurse. (As it turned out, by topping the tank up with warm water every couple of hours, they managed to survive the night, no harm done.)

The next day I geared myself up to turn myself in. See, there was a slight problem. Not a big problem, just a teensy-weensie technical problem. One hubby had been nagging me over for years.

I didn't actually have the right licence.

Oh, I had a clean UK driving licence, no worries on that. But there is a daft rule over here that after a six month residency on the island, you have to swap your UK licence over for a Craggy Island one. Mad, huh? Anyway, I'd never got around to it. That's not to say I was driving around illegally - well, not really.  See, I could claim dual-residency, on account we still have a place in London, but in truth, with the amount of paperwork this entails, it would probably be easier to simply swap my licence over to a Craggy one.  Like I say, I had been meaning too..

I decided the best defence was to play the dumb blond, and just get it over with.

The kids thought it was a great day out to have a tour round our local police station. Honestly, what a fuss. First we were made to wait for ages as the civilian clerk behind the glass screen went off to "supposedly" photo copy my documents (I just knew she'd gone off to rat me out).

Mind you, I was impressed I warranted the actual wrath of the big boss-man himself. The Sergent, no less, escorted my little brood and I through to a back room. He quizzed me about how long I'd lived here. I'm no good under interrogation, besides the kids wouldn't back me up. So off we went again. Another fifteen minute (sterner) lecture about the evils of driving around without a valid licence. At least he had the good grace to let my sixteen-year-come-six-year-old wear his police helmet throughout (well, it was the only way to shut him up). It took a further ten minutes to wrestle it from his head again, but eventually we persuaded him to trade it back it for a bunch of pens and the notepad warning him against drug abuse.

I was firmly advised not to drive until I switched my licence over, and he waved me back to my car. (Yeah, I know, he turned out to be quite a sweetie, all things considered.) Just as I was loading up, who should walk by but the original copper who had pulled us over the day before. Unlike his boss, I wasn't too keen on him, so I decided to stick my nose in the air and ignore him. Sadly, sixteen-come-six-year-old is much more friendly than his mother is, and besides, he fancied his hat. Long story short, I made polite, peeled my son off, and eventually escaped.

The downside to living in a place that has a virtually nil crime rate, is that the bobbies over here get a wee bit bored with themselves. I guess it's not quite what they had dreamt of doing when they'd first joined up. Unlike "Cops," we don't get many high speed car chases, kidnap ransoms or armed robberies. And let's face it, there are only so many talks you can inflict upon a class-load of hyperactive kids every month. So I don't know why I was so surprised to receive a phone-call from my nemesis later that evening.

Yup, it was Mr. Jobsworth again, the guy who had pulled me over. He was outraged to have witnessed me pulling out of the cop-shop, driving without a valid licence! (I'll bet his sergeant finds him a right pain in the arse). He ranted and ranted, promising me he'd arrest me on the spot if I got behind the wheel again without first having a correct Craggy Island drivers licence. I was well and truly fed up by now. I'd tried being nice. I  pointed out it was half term, told him it could wait 'til next week, and put the phone down. Enough was enough.

The following morning, I went to take the kids to the beach. Reaching the top of the drive, I checked the road both ways for traffic, and stopped. The slimy little toad was only parked (illegally, I might add) in his Panda car, right opposite my house! Can you believe it? He'd put me under surveillance. (Isn't there a law against stalking?)

Sweet, suffering Jesus!

All sodding week he sat there. It became a joke, I'd send a scout out to check the top of the drive, and there he would be, waving back at them. We were effectively under house arrest.

Nice to know the taxpayers money is so well spent, eh?

Crappy Cowboys

Happy all year round, she's never once given us so much as one spot of bother. Reliable, loyal and trustworthy, I felt our central heating system had well and truly earned her annual service. so I duly trawled through the phone-book and called out a professional. (Yes, I know, I'm trusting and naive, okay? Um, alright, well maybe that's a wee bit of a stretch, but all the same you get my gist.)

The following week my much valued and hardworking friend had her private parts thoroughly tickled and tinkered with, was awarded a clean bill of health, and duly received her royal stamp of approval. All bright, shining and sound, I looked forward to yet another trouble-free year of steamy hot water and warmth on demand.

Yeah, right.

The very next day she only goes belly-up and has herself a nervous breakdown, doesn't she?

With a nagging mis-giving, I call the (now seemingly less than professional) Fix-it-Man back in again.

It being a Saturday, he decides to arrive complete with his two kids and a loopy dog in tow, the latter of whom promptly shits in my garden, a fact I am blissfully unaware of at this present point.

As Mr. (allegedly) Professional takes off to pay his respects to the boiler, I herd his brood over to the kitchen with the promise of juice. Simply placing the stench down to a rather unfortunate hygiene problem, I never even guess there's a trail of fresh poo tracking through my carpets. It's not until the eldest kid skids across the the kitchen floorboards that my eyes catch on to the smear of crap left in his wake.

Oh, for the love of God - ugh, ugh and double ugh!.

A quarter of an hour or so later, Mr. Professional (A.K.A. Dad-of-the-Poopy-Kid) pops his head back round the door to announce, "It's your pump that needs replacing."

Funny how he missed picking up on that on only on the day before, eh?. Still, being a tad distracted, seeing as how I was still endeavouring to scrape the icky-crap from off of his son's shoe (with his foot still so stubbornly attached) I grudgingly allow to let this pass, and tell him to just get on with it.

He sucks in his gums.

(You always know you're in trouble when they suck their gums.)

"I'll need to order it in."

Bloomin' brilliant.

It's Sunday tomorrow. I believe it's written into the by-law's or something, because apparently our island doesn't ever stock in any spare parts over here. The earliest (if he remembers to) he can place the order will be on Monday. Assuming this is shipped on the same day, (something experience tells me is highly unlikely) we're looking at an optimistic Tuesday at the very earliest before I can count on my nose and other extremities to defrost.

"I don't work Tuesday's, it's my day off."

(Why am I not surprised?)

Naturally, we have snow forecast for the evening, and it's the coldest day of the year. It's okay for hubby, he's off toasting himself in the cozy flat in London all week. As for my little darlings, well they at least have their snug, warm little classrooms to serve their detentions out in, don't they?

So we fast forward through to Wednesday..

It hardly inspires confidence when I see Mr. Professional has had to draft his mate in for a second opinion, especially since, before eleven, they both reek of beer. I offer them coffee, well I feel it's the least I can do.


The boiler being in the garage, I happily plan to ignore them until they get through.

Actually, in truth, I soon clean forgot all about them.

As luck would have it, this was also on the day of one of my children's school parents evenings. Being the only parent mug enough available to go, the honours fell to me to admit she was mine claim full credit for her behaviour. Beccy's parents evenings are generally terrifying interesting, I never thought I'd actually look forward to attending one, but on this occasion, the prospect of being severely depressed was largely outweighed by the hope of perhaps finding a working radiator to park my bum against.

Trouble was, I got so busy blog-surfing scrubbing the house from top to bottom, that before I knew it, it was already a quarter to seven. Argh, I just knew I should have warned my youngest to wrestle the laptop mop and bucket out of my hands by 6.30. Now I only had ten minutes left to transform myself from scruffy house-slob in to a posh, yummy-mummy.

Damn, damn, damn. I flew into my frock and grabbed my Bette Davis coat, not even stopping to pick up so much as a hairbrush en-route. (Don't worry, I do have a scrap pride still left, I ran a comb through my hair and applied a slap of make-up first before leaving).

Legging it to the car, I was caught up short - I couldn't believe these two guys were still playing about in my garage. Worse, their two transit vans were firmly boxing my Tardis in. Oh, for goodness sakes, as if I'm not late enough as it is!

Now, when I asked them to shove up a bit to let me out, I didn't expect them to take me literally. I am a wee bit spatially challenged in the reversing department, as anyone I've brushed against will attest to. I can just about get from A to B, but don't ask me to do anything fancy in between. Reversing my car uphill, around a corner and between a gap my very own thighs can barely squeeze through is simply not in my job spec.

"The Professionals" decided (after ten minutes of watching my manoeuvres, and peeing themselves laughing) to help me out. I happily hurled the keys at them, and slammed out to the drive. Give the boys their due, one buzzed the window down, and the other gave guidance. Irritatingly, they managed to somehow zoom the car towards the right direction in less than a nano-second.

Asking them not to disappear before giving my eldest an update as to where and in what state the boiler was left at, I grudgingly thanked them, and sped away.

It wasn't until I got to the roundabout and tried to put the driver's window back up, that I realised they'd only gone and bust the sodding control button on it. I tried and I tried, it was permanently stuck wide open. Oh joy. Did I tell you it's a twenty mile drive to my children's school? It's dark, freezing cold, windy and now it's starting to rain. My hair is being sucked outside and plastered to the roof by now.

Knew I should have brought a hairbrush.

I reckon most of Beccy's tutors decided to take it easy on the crazy-lady with the haystack hair-do and panda eyes, for fear I had come off the meds. Some parents even bumped me up ahead of them in the queue (maybe I should cultivate this look more often?).

Naturally, eldest daughter was mortified when she finally glimpsed me there. She was in the throes of pretending to be very engrossed in what the handsome, sixth form army recruiting cadet was explaining.

Not fooled (I've seen that look before), I scraped her off of him, and pointed her fifteen year old arse to the car.

All she did was moan and whine all the way home, about the gale force wind whipping around our ears. I didn't have the heart to tell her there was no central heating or hot water waiting at home.


Eldest boy met me at the door. "They think it's a valve."


"What happened to the pump?"


"You need to get dad to call them." He thrusts the back of his hand in my face, where he's scrawled a name and mobile number down.


"Didn't you tell them dad's in London?"


"Yeah, they still want to talk to him."


Hmph, charming. (As if hubby would know what they're talking about.) These guys are definitely not coming back.

Me and My Big Mouth

What else could go wrong you heard me ask? Oh boy, tons, one hell of a lot as it happens!

I am cursed as far as airports are concerned. Do me a favour folks, next time I mention going off a-wandering all on my ownisome again, just grab and stuff me under lock and key until the fancy has passed, will ya?

How my megga-case gained ten kilos between the flight across and back again is a complete mystery to me, I didn't buy that much, surely? Even turfing all the heavy stuff over to my hand baggage barely helped. I had to buy another bag in the end. A little foresight would have proved darn useful here, had I known what the next 24 hours was to hold, I would have definitely opted for one with wheels, but nahhhh, being blissfully clueless at this juncture, naturally I had to up and go for the cheapest lump of garbage I could throw fifteen quid at, didn't I?

Sigh.

'Course, now having two bags to check in, I still had a whopping great excess charge to pay (and no, I am not telling you by how much, hubby may well read this one day, and I feel I've suffered plenty enough already without any additional lectures, okay?). Gatwick has sure changed since I last went there - you can't smoke ANYWHERE in that place at all now. Sheesh. Having got there before mid-day, and with my flight not being scheduled 'til well after 7.30pm, I at least could kill a few hours walking the marathon to the pariah's corner and back - by the time I returned I was usually gagging for another fag yet again, so I guess it at least served to keep me reasonably occupied.

I really could have lost the heels though. Ouch.

Incidentally, if you are wondering what the connection here is to these piccies I'm posting, don't hurt your brain. I don't have any for you of the airport (by that time my camera was packed), so I'm chucking in a few shots of me sightseeing instead. Hey, live with it, I mean, it's hardly like you had to pay to come in here or anything, is it? So anyways..

Sticking my head into "Duma Key", I let Mr. King scare me witless for a bit, this had a double advantage, since it not only kept me alert and jumpy, it also succeeded in putting any thoughts of lunch way, way down my desire list (ugh). I am sad to report however, that this naughty Mr. King of ours did disappointingly let me down here, big time. The lazy, idle sod only went and finished up the story way, way too early, I think he's getting complacent in his dotage. So here I was, restlessly fidgeting, bored, and in dire desperate need of distraction.

"I know!" I thought, "I'll find me an Internet station, see if anyone has missed me over my protracted and over-long absence." And that's just what I went and did, but I had to lose the trolley first (no trolleys are allowed up the escalator, y'know. Did you know that? I do. Well, I do now.) Blimey, that bag was ever so heavy.

Anyhows, I found Suldogs latest fab offering, had a good belly laugh or two, and blissfully went a-visiting with a few other pals here and there. It's thirsty work blog-surfing, before I knew it my mouth was parched (besides, I needed to pee), so I reluctantly signed out and went off in search of some refreshment. Did I mention how heavy that bag was?

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know this is all pretty boring, but hang on, bear with me, I'm leading up to something, okay? Have some trust here.

I found a bar and ordered a drink. It was pretty lively in there, three young lads to my right were certainly well into their cups, I opted to find a quiet corner table where I could fish out my magazine to murder a little more time.

Well, the bag was heavy, wasn't it? I carried my drink over first, then went back for it. Yes, it was dumb. Stupid even. Of course I was asking for it, no need to rub it in.

Rule number one; never leave your wallet unattended. Duh!

Of course it got swiped, what else could I expect? Pity it took several hours for me to realise that though. Just as I am about to go through security, the light dawns. Oh, for the love of God - NOOOOOOOOOOOO! - not only am I without a bean to my name, but without my photographic i.d., ie., my drivers licence, I will not even be allowed to board the plane!

I am starting to swear and sweat now, I turf everything out on to the floor, nope there is no purse in sight. I didn't even have so much as a pound coin to get a bloomin' trolley to load this bag of mine on, and time is pressing. I have less than an hour to make my flight.

I hot foot it back to the bar in vein hopes of it having been handed in. The guy at the bar directed me over to lost property - another few furlongs along the way. Did you know how heavy this bag was? I galloped over to join the queue. No joy, They gave me a form to fill in and sent me over to the airport information desk.. several light years away. I hurled my bag and myself along on nothing but pure adrenalin, only to find I had been mis-informed, apparently I was not their problem.

Shit, shit, shit!!!

I stagger to pass through security hoping for a sympathetic ear, but finding no takers, I am unceremoniously banned from entry, and am effectively told to shove off. This is where I begin to get a tad upset. I decide to push my luck and demand to see someone in charge.. hell, the worst that could happen is I end up in a cell for the night, at least they would need to feed me in there, huh?

A squawk of walkie-talkies ensues, and finally this very, very very nice lady appears. I open my mouth to attempt to explain, but find myself in floods of tears instead. God, I hate being a drama queen, it's so embarrassing! She mopped me up, gave me a hug, and took me out for a smoke, bless her. Appraised of the facts, she informed me the three guys at the bar had been escorted out of the airport as they had had no valid business in there. She strongly suspected it was they who had had my purse away, but it was a moot point seeing as how they were long gone by now anyway.

I borrowed her phone and called home. My passport and a fax machine lay there, and as my flight was now delayed, there was hope yet. The very, very nice lady convinced the airline to accept a faxed copy of my passport as an acceptable photographic i.d., and so it appeared my bacon could still be saved. She escorted me through the fast route over security and wished me well. Gee, such a little diamond that girl was, you truly have no idea!

Unfortunately, a further two hours wait finally confirmed my flight cancellation. There would be no more planes out until the morn, the storms were too bad for the hundred seater aircraft to navigate.

Pure joy, unabounded.

We were all instructed to collect our suitcases and to head for the Hilton for the night. Easier said than done when you haven't even got so much as a quid for a trolley to push! Arghhhhhhhh! Lacking all pride, I finally managed to sponge a coin from the airline rep, promising to return it at the hotel. (Course, I was now fretting over how to get another trolley for morning, but there seemed little point in dwelling, I mean, I still had to live through this night from hell first didn't I?) It is now 10pm, I am knackered, broke and hungry. Let's face it it has hardly been one of the best of days, has it?

Collaring the manager, I explained my plight and she graciously accepted the front and back fax of hubby's credit card which he sent over - whoopee, now I finally had got me some credit! First thing I did was to call room service to send up a bottle of wine. By God, by now I felt I had well and truly earned it.

So here I am safe and sound and not so very much the worse for wear. All I need now is to get my cards re-issued, and my licence replaced.

Please, kindly remind me never to leave home alone again, will you?

Slip Sliding Away

We had a lovely family outing yesterday, driving over the mountain to Sulby. There is a favourite Pub of ours there where we can always count on a delicious lunch. On the way back Hubby decided to take us by the scenic route.

"Hon?"

"Hmmn?"

"What did that sign just say?"

"Aw, it's okay, it's an ice warning, it's bound to have thawed by now.."

(I occasionally suspect I am a mite too trusting..)


The kids and I slithered behind, as hubby valiantly reversed the Tardis a mile back to turn around. Ah well, at least I thought to capture it all, in case of any insurance claim (wink).

Oh all right, granted, maybe I should have been a little more concerned about the very real prospect of hubby plunging down the 100ft drop on the other side, (guard rails? Don't be daft, this is Craggy Island, remember?) than to be fretting over losing our ride home, but hell - it was cold , and high heels don't do so well on black ice.