'No lass. Don't be daft. You put your purse away. It was only a fuse.'
I think the overall wearing cove pitied me. He saw me as some sort of special needs driver.
'No pet, you don't need new ones, but three of the tyres had a pressure of 20.'
'Oh. That's good news, isn't it' What a relief!'
'Whoa there bonny lass, a pressure of 20 makes it a death trap!'
'One of the tyres had a pressure of 14!'
'Ah, that's more like it isn't it?' (I had a vague notion that, like my bathroom scales, the lower the reading the better).
'WHAT? NO!!!! That's even worse!'
'Is it really? Fascinating.'
'When was the last time you checked them like? You need to check them every couple of months?'
'I suppose they were checked when I bought the car.'
'When was that like?'
'5 years ago.'
'Listen lass, just get your husband to check them for you, OK?'
I must say, the drive home was a fucking REVELATION. So bouncy! So buoyant! Everything felt so pleasingly firm and perky! I wonder whether Blake would be able to work his oily-pawed magic on my breasts. I might let him have a go. I am not sure how much such a service would cost, but honestly, I wouldn't charge him much.
So, that was good news indeed. Praise the Lord!
I did have a mini-crisis when I thought that Cyril (the lurcher) had devoured my mobile phone. It had been mysteriously missing all day. I discovered shards of shiny black plastic littering the cur's favourite rug when I returned from school. Oh dear. You don't have to be Jessica Fletcher to crack those clues. I did wonder if I dialled the mobile whether his tummy would start ringing. Happily though, my phone was discovered under my bedroom pillows. However, the bad news is that Cyril has indeed devoured half a TV remote control. I am now permanently stuck on twatting QVC. A highly dangerous state of affairs. Dotted amongst the Slankets and Uri Geller jewellery (I hear the pieces bend really easily) there are seductive Elemis, L'Occitane and Bobbi Brown shows. I would sell my sorry soul for an Elemis bath at the moment. Tragically, finances mean I can only bathe in Fairy Liquid bubbles and sprinkled privet leaves at the moment.
So, tonight I have resolved to call Rochester. Generally speaking I loathe, hate and despise the telephone. It is of no coincidence that Dorothy Parker's quote 'What fresh hell is this?' appears on my blog header. Apparently she would utter those words whenever the phone rang. I am unsettled by the telephone. It is a like a diminutive, malevolent demi-God that rains sorrow and disappointment on the world. Sorrow, disappointment and calls from debt collection agencies. I abhor making calls too. My closest friends know that I will NEVER ring them. Never. Indeed, last year, when I was burgled I rang Madam Noir to ask her to reset all my internet passwords. Time was of the essence, you see, I didn't want the thief to run amok on my QVC account.
'Oh my God Miss Underscore. Burgled? Thank fuck for that!!! When I saw your name pop up on my display I assumed it was life or death. I though you must have had a brain tumor and had been given 6 weeks to live.'
So. The Rochester call. I had a lovely reunion with the scoundrel over Christmas. Check out the details here. It was as sweet, tender and languidly fluid as a date blighted by headlice, swine flu and IBS could possibly be. I want Rochester to be a good, good man. I have never thought ill of him. I don't want him to be a heartless, fanny-ratting, reprobate. The thing is, he is as quiet as the grave at the moment, which is incredibly hurtful. We never actually discussed what would happen after our reunion. This is what he said before:
'I have no doubts about meeting up with you. It is impossible for it to feel anything but natural. I know that. It might sound odd to an outsider, but that is how I feel. The thought of seeing you heats my blood.'
Now I wonder if I was simply another notch on his UPVC bed post. One way or another, I would like to know (in the words of Marvin Gaye) what's going on.