In Praise of St Anthony
' Think. Where did you last have it?'
Jack closed his eyes and sat down on my bed, trying to picture himself walking through Customs, collecting his bag from the carousel and climbing into his grandparents' car. I almost saw the light bulb flash on above his head.
' I put it in Grandma's glovebox. I think it must still be there'.
Great. At least we knew where his passport was, but how to get it might prove more of a challenge, given that Grandma was currently 1230 miles away expecting her favourite grandson to be arriving by plane in less than 12 hours and her car was sitting in an unknown airport carpark somewhere in the East Midlands.
A few well-placed phone calls and we'd found the car, persuaded a very helpful chap to spend his tea break rifling through it and kissed goodbye to any faint vestige of promised sleep. I went downstairs to make a cup of tea, the British default mode in a crisis and carelessly moved one of the many piles of papers that Jack and I had both repeatedly searched through at least 8 times each for the previous 3 hours. One of the many piles that was definitely not harbouring a passport. And there it was, cheekily poking out from between a council tax reminder and a voucher for pet food.
Oh how I laughed to myself about that, as I drove back up the sun-drenched M18 on my own a few hours later. Were it not for the sudden and unexpected phenomenum of blue smoke filling the car and a battery light appearing on the dashboard, I'd probably be chortling away to myself even now.
It proved to be nothing more serious than an alternator belt, although I did not know it at the time, so still made the call to a mechanically-minded friend to check I wasn't about to die. This was almost as good news as discovering that only a back section was needed and not an entire exhaust system the previous day. That really was the highlight of the entire weekend which otherwise saw me stood up by a bestfriend, visited by another (for all of 10 minutes spent predominantly looking around with a pitying expression at the shambles that currently represents my home before driving back to her perfect home, in her perfect car, with her perfect husband and perfect son), and inevitably cancelling my pre-arranged-but-never-gonna-happen afternoon tryst with my married rugby player in favour of the mechanic who never showed up.
Yesterday, I was told my entire groundfloor has to come up. They are coming to remove it on Friday. I am going to Wiltshire on Saturday. If magic doesn't help, nothing will.
Jack closed his eyes and sat down on my bed, trying to picture himself walking through Customs, collecting his bag from the carousel and climbing into his grandparents' car. I almost saw the light bulb flash on above his head.
' I put it in Grandma's glovebox. I think it must still be there'.
Great. At least we knew where his passport was, but how to get it might prove more of a challenge, given that Grandma was currently 1230 miles away expecting her favourite grandson to be arriving by plane in less than 12 hours and her car was sitting in an unknown airport carpark somewhere in the East Midlands.
A few well-placed phone calls and we'd found the car, persuaded a very helpful chap to spend his tea break rifling through it and kissed goodbye to any faint vestige of promised sleep. I went downstairs to make a cup of tea, the British default mode in a crisis and carelessly moved one of the many piles of papers that Jack and I had both repeatedly searched through at least 8 times each for the previous 3 hours. One of the many piles that was definitely not harbouring a passport. And there it was, cheekily poking out from between a council tax reminder and a voucher for pet food.
Oh how I laughed to myself about that, as I drove back up the sun-drenched M18 on my own a few hours later. Were it not for the sudden and unexpected phenomenum of blue smoke filling the car and a battery light appearing on the dashboard, I'd probably be chortling away to myself even now.
It proved to be nothing more serious than an alternator belt, although I did not know it at the time, so still made the call to a mechanically-minded friend to check I wasn't about to die. This was almost as good news as discovering that only a back section was needed and not an entire exhaust system the previous day. That really was the highlight of the entire weekend which otherwise saw me stood up by a bestfriend, visited by another (for all of 10 minutes spent predominantly looking around with a pitying expression at the shambles that currently represents my home before driving back to her perfect home, in her perfect car, with her perfect husband and perfect son), and inevitably cancelling my pre-arranged-but-never-gonna-happen afternoon tryst with my married rugby player in favour of the mechanic who never showed up.
Yesterday, I was told my entire groundfloor has to come up. They are coming to remove it on Friday. I am going to Wiltshire on Saturday. If magic doesn't help, nothing will.
posted by Cherrypie at 5:41 pm
7 Comments:
you need taking in hand young CP
So...all good fun, then?
;-)
Have a good time with Zig, and don't let Freddie bite.
I'm practising good spells but for safe travel, reliable transport and fine weather - have decided on the fallback of tea, gin and large sticky buns though as more reliable!
Frantic life, Cherrybabes!
You definitely need another holiday.
I know that you and the wonderful witch of wiltshire will whoop it up!
Did you know that teenagers have a big frickin piece of their brain missing which apparently doesn't seal up until they are in their early twenties. This explains a lot of things.
I guess that hole opens up again when you get to be my age because I lose everything that isn't stapled to my forehead or in my manbag.
What do you mean your entire groundfloor needs to come up?
hello cp! i miss you as always!
what about the groundfloor? your car? your cellar? your heart? what?
you are hanging out with ziggi. i like that.
how come we're not visiting eachother's blogs more often?
:)
Post a Comment
<< Home