Van wars

Cold and very grey weather.

The perfect weather for the Farmer to make a fence.

Peaceful and so unlike much of modern life. We spend far too much time in places that vex us. Places like Garages….. No wonder many of us are are so tired.

There can’t be many more inspiring settings to spend a couple of your precious hours than a GARAGE WAITING area 🤯😳. In this case a GARAGE kinda feeling like it’s perpetually stuck in a Downton Abbey Filming Set – that’s the lower class pleb part of the story line. This Garage feels like it hasn’t changed in decades, will never change. A waiting room definitely stuck in time. I dread to think just how many countless cigarettes and coffees been waiting for a re . Filled with ancient sofas that consume you, you instantly sink to the ground, while at the same time, rather unnervingly you start to stick to the fake once black leather covering.

So last week I found myself in this strand old place, the poorly Mercedes Sprinter Van was in need of some seriously expensive fixing. All beyond me, so I just said ‘I’m not paying, WORK is, just do it, I’ll wait’

So that’s what I did, WAITED. The unfortunate mechanic assigned to repair our rusting heap of metal said that you can get WiFi in the waiting room but you’re much better off going outside and sitting on the wooden fence. There you can use the neighbouring furniture store’s WIFI which actually works. Apparently all you need to do is to remember the Store’s wifi password. Brilliantly that password is PASSWORD.

It was far too cold to sit outside, so I opted for the waiting area.

A few moments in the waiting area suddenly made that cold wooden fence look rather appealing. Here I was surrounded by Giant Posters of Red Italian Sport Cars, all driven by what appeared to be genetically perfect models. This all helped to creat an interesting aesthetic mood, lavish car culture stuck onto a grimy yellow wall covering that might well have been white once, probably way before I was born. AND in the corner a Coffee Vending Machine, another item that looked way older than me. It wouldn’t have looked out of place in Dr Who’s Tardis. The hot drink names lovingly hand scrawled on bits of moth eaten card, randomly attached with cellotape to layers of dust. But it’s FREE. Try the Continental Dark Roast then. The machine slowly whirled into action, then the noise. It sounded like that terrifying basement boiler in Home Alone. Better stand back. That drink is not very black or coffee like. It’s RED. It’s tomato soup… Having tasted it, I wasn’t so sure. Maybe.

Few moments later I was joined by another customer who I noticed went for the milky tea option on the Vending Machine. Same noise. And the culinary result was confirmed by the confused chap saying “bloody thing has given me tomato soup”. Next customer (victim) opted for the Hot Chocolate and yes got the inevitable SOUP result.

It had to be done, I braved the vending machine in the interests of science. What happens when you press the Tomato Soup option. Yes more soup. All roads lead to SOUP.

As I was flicking through a luxury super car magazine (while struggling to finish two plastic cups of soup), I was joined on this particular sofa by another confused soup drinking customer. After a nervous soup related conversation she informed me that her ‘JAGUAR’ was getting a headlight fixed, what was I in for.

“One of the three Mercedes is playing up…”

She seemed strangely fascinated by a banged up van.

‘What’s it like to drive, is it fast, I’ve always wanted to drive a Mercedes’

Why would you want to drive a white van 🙄🙄 “it’s not great, really slow, dreadful handling, like driving a super tanker, always breaking down. In fact the Ford is better.“

She looked seriously disappointed.

‘Oh really, I thought they would be fantastic, I was thinking about getting one but I think I will stick with Jaguar then or look at BMW.”

It was only after she had driven away in her newly fixed Jaguar Sports Car that it dawned on me. Mercedes… OH. She thinks I was talking about a Mercedes high performance sports car, not our 10 year old completely driven into the ground Mercedes Sprinter Van. A van that might have sprinted once but those days had well since gone. Even Lewis Hamilton isn’t going to get that thing sprinting.

Opps sorry Mercedes, I think I might have cost you a customer.

Downton

The village went all Downton Abbey like last weekend. Can’t think why 🤔🤔🤔🤔🤔

Bizarrely we watched Downton the other night. Hawklad is rather taken by the whole thing. It’s fictionally set somewhere round here but filmed mostly outside of Yorkshire. Just like the cool start to an American Werewolf in London, that spooky Yorkshire Pub and foggy Moor was randomly filmed in Wales – clearly real Yorkshire is even TOO scary for a Horror Movie. The Earl, his family and servants keep visiting places right around us. It is most unsettling when they look nothing like the real place. They went riding just a few miles from us and I had a thought, I hope I remembered to pick up the mad dog’s morning constitutional poo. Would hate for the good noble family horse shoes to step in that.

It’s been one of those few days. Actually it’s been one of those few weeks. Not enough sleep, school issues, work issues, life issues, just ISSUES. Never stopping, running around in ever decreasing circles and actually achieving absolutely nothing. Where do those 24 hours go…..

So I walked through the village looking at the bunting while thinking, odds on that our mad dog will at some stage try to pull all that lot down and then bury it in our front lawn. Out of nowhere a villager stuck his head out of the village hall and shouted, “When are you bringing the cucumbers for the sandwiches”. This villager could have well been a head butler in a past life. A head butler with remarkably bad eyesight as his next words demonstrated. “Oh I’m sorry, you are not Margaret…”. Never been mistaken for a Margaret before. Never even mistaken for a woman. Even when I dressed in a full on and very well ventilated French Can Can costume and ended up walking through a town centre searching for the Uni Party, I was DEFINITELY NOT ladylike MOST DEFINITELY not mistaken for a woman.