Friday 28 February 2014

He's a gent

A Nissan Micra convertible slows to a stop at the pedestrian crossing, it's gleaming silver, driven by an elderly gent. He's got thick white hair and a neat white goatee beard. While the lights are on red he takes a moment to fish a comb out of his suit jacket pocket. A quick glance around and then he's slicking back his hair, one eye on the car in front, the other on his rear view mirror, checking out his reflection. The lights change, he puts the comb back into his pocket and drives away.

Wednesday 19 February 2014

Puppy power

Tomorrow is my 32nd birthday but never mind that, we're getting a puppy on 1st March. This will be the most responsibility I have ever had, except that time I had to walk across a road with my friend's baby in my arms. I'm pretty terrified, also excited. We went to meet him last weekend, he's adorable, his breeders are lovely people and the other dogs in the house all have a really nice temperament, they didn't even jump on us when we walked in. 

I'd normally spend my online window shopping time browsing shoes I can't afford, not any more, or at least not this week. No, the last few days I have been investigating puppy toys, treats and beds. I have found him a leopard print bed, perfect.

What have I become? I'm going to be such a dog bore, I know it already.

I'm taking comfort in the fact that I'm not quite as mad as Mr T. I got home from the gym last night to find him setting up an email account for the dog, he's not going to be sending emails, of course, that would be stupid. No, he's got his own email address so that he can have his own Instagram account. I'm not even joking about this. He's already got 29 followers. It's sweet really, to see how excited Mr T is. He was off work on Monday, while he was in Tesco buying wiper blades he also bought Albert (that's what we're going to call him when he comes to us) a ball in the shape of Gnasher, of Denis the Menace fame. 

I may as well move out, I don't think Mr T's going to need me for company once we have Albert living with us. Many a true word said in jest...

Tuesday 11 February 2014

Another Saturday, Another Car Salesman

"Look, see, no problems at all" - says the car salesman who took us for a test drive in a car Mr T was considering buying. He was right, there were no problems, not with the car, anyway. Just with him, driving at 60mph down a 30mph street, in an untaxed car, arms raised to show it'd go in a straight line. And then he slammed his foot down on the brakes, stopping just short of the car in front of us. I am not a nervous passenger but I was fucking terrified. 

Before this, we'd had a brief jaunt round the caravan littered gravelled forecourt (this is too grand a term for what it actually was) but it wasn't quite enough for Mr T to get a decent idea of the car. I waited in the passenger seat while he went to ask about trade plates so that he could test it out on the road. Suddenly the salesman had leapt into the car, and quite literally wheel spun us onto the muddy dirt track up to the main road. Oh yeah, he drove *at* a truck reversing around the corner towards us, as well. 

He's bought the car, we're going back next week to collect it and this time we won't need that lunatic to drive us anywhere, which is a great relief

Monday 3 February 2014

The death of (the relatives of) a (secondhand car) salesman

Mr T and I are sitting in a tiny little office, the wind howling around the building makes the walls shake, I don't know what they're made of but I feel as if at some point soon we won't be in Kansas any more. 

There's a middle aged man opposite us, he's telling us his life story. We're there to negotiate a price on my new car. We find out how many different cars he's driven dangerously fast in around some lanes between his house and his mum's house. He landed in a potato field once. Somehow his wife comes up in conversation, suddenly with no warning he says she died at the age of 29, leukemia. The conversation stops. I glance up at Mr T, he looks back at me, the deceased young bride lingers in the air. Neither of us know what to say. I mutter something, I can't even remember what. Over the course of the rest of the next 20 minutes or so the salesman mentions his dead wife again at least once. I have never been so lost for words my entire life. 

A few days later I arrive at the same little lean-to office to collect my car, this time with my boss who has driven me over there. The salesman, his son and my boss chat about a local golf course and about football, I sit down and wait for them to finish so I can get on with buying my car. My boss notices a picture on the wall and asks if it's John Smith*. "No," comes the reply from the salesman "that's my brother, he died" and again, the conversation stops, there is silence. Boss doesn't know what to say, I don't know what to say, he quickly says something to get rid of the awkward silence, another brief chat and he leaves. 

I make a mental note to tell Mr T when I get home that the salesman has again stopped conversation with a death bombshell, sign some paperwork and drive off in my new car. 

Over a week since the first death bombshell I'm still baffled. Is that a normal thing to do? I can't help but feel it's not but maybe I'm the peculiar one. I just don't know.

*for the sake of a name

I think Sylvia has gone

I picture Sylvia, a frail elderly lady but upbeat, her hair and make up immaculate. As well dressed as she is well spoken. Delicate golden framed glasses. The image I have isn't too dissimilar to my step-grandma, a formidable woman who I thought a lot of. 

I don't know why I think this but a few weeks ago we had a message on the answerphone for Denise. Denise is Sylvia's friend. The message was from a home or a hospice, they needed her to call urgently, we didn't hear the message for a few days. We've not heard from Sylvia in quite a while and we've not heard from the home since the message either. There's something sad about this, about the possibility that she has gone now, we'll never again hear a brief insight into this lady's life. 

I hope the home got hold of Denise in the end. I'd hate for her to not know what had happened to Sylvia.