Jump, you bugger! Jump!

Into this here blanket what we are holding out and it will be alright …

Well it’s been an interesting week and a busy one, not necessarily in the best way although there have been good bits. On the up side, the editing is creeping forward. I’m a third of the way through now! Woot. Go me. On the downside, Real Life just will not fuck off and leave me alone to finish my sodding book. I give you this week’s examples.

First up, a piece of such gargantuan twattery on my behalf it defies belief. Let me begin at the beginning. McSon has bought a car. Not just any car, because he’s our son so he’s not going to buy a normal vehicle. Nope. He’s bought himself a Renault 5. He’s not passed his test yet, so at the moment McOther or I have to sit with him while he drives it to school. Then I, or his dad, hop into the driving seat and bring it home again.

We picked up this thing just over ago. Seven days, people. It is his absolute pride and joy. There are only two this colour on the road in the UK. It’s a once ubiquitous thing that has become a rareity. It’s boxy and French and a scream to drive.

Last Thursday, five days after picking it up, we did the school run, after which I took it to the gym first and then home. As I backed it onto the drive I managed to completely cock up the angle and as I backed it past next door’s garage wall there was a loud and terrifying bang. I stopped. Then, very slowly, I backed up.

There was no scraping noise! Hoorah.

Ah yes, that was because the bumper was on the ground.

Arse.

I got out and then, becasue I’m fifty something and a bit hormonal at the best of times, I burst into tears. Then I got back into the car. Parked it where it should be, went and picked up the bumper and carried it to just in front of the car.

I looked at it in horrified silence.

I cried.

Then I looked at it again and cried some more.

Probably a little bit like this

Then, accepting the fact I was not going to stop crying any time soon, I went inside and tried to explain to my McOther half what had just happened.

‘I’ve …’ squeak.

‘What’s happened?’

‘I’ve … squeak-ity squeak.’

‘You’ve been robbed?’

‘No… hic,’ deep breath. ‘I’ve broken,’—I stopped to make a string of noises like a sealion, or perhaps, an asthmatic duck before continuing—‘McMini’s car!’ More wailing and gnashing of teeth as husband patiently hugged me and I soaked his shirt in tears and snot. Nice.

We went to have a look. Miraculously, the bodywork was fine, so there was that, although I’d managed to rip off pretty much every single fixy bit on the bumper that we might use to put it back. Also it had a big rip in it although it hadn’t bent out of shape or anything, there’s just a tear. I’d also smashed the indicator bulb but, miraculously, not the indicator glass.

McSon had to be collected at 5.25. We had about 4 hours.

Fuck.

We started with the bulb. McOther brought the bumper in and set about finding washers, bolts screws etc that might allow us to put it back in away that would be strong enough to keep it there. I also suggested that since it looked as if I’d compltely bollocksed it, I might be prudent to get a new bumper. There was one on-line, pick up only, in Liverpool.

‘It’s only 500 miles. I’ll drive up there and get it,’ I said, thinking logically as always.

‘Let’s not be hasty,’ said McOther.

OK so McOther thought he might be able to get it back on, but if we couldn’t, there might be other options. My car is fibreglass, so I reckoned if I rang my mechanics I might at least be able to take the bumper to their fibreglass bloke so I could tell McSon, when I picked him up, that the bumper was already away to be fixed. While McOther checked the part number of the indicator bulb, I rang the mechanic’s to ask.

The one I spoke to didn’t sound convinced, he thought their fibreglass guy was way too expensive.

‘Is the bumper off?’ he asked me, and I explained it was.

‘Do you want to bring it down here and we can see if we can put it back on again?’

These two guys are genius mechanics. Very, very capable and as absolutely honest and straight as they come. Did I? You bet I fucking did.

But first to Halfords to get the bulb. That done, McOther had already loaded the bumper into the car and put the bulb in. It wasn’t working but … sod that. Away I drove down the A14 at a stately 65, which is about its top speed, to see if I could salvage anything from this horrific mess.

Did I mention that these mechanics are genius? Yeh, well they are. They’re called Gerald and Neil! Hello there chaps! I chatted away with them while they calmly and methodically went round the car, reassembling all the bust bits and somehow putting the back on the car. It took them about 40 minutes.

I told them they’d saved my fucking life and asked how much?

Nothing they said.

Blimey but people are lovely sometimes aren’t they?

Now I must remember to secretly ring when the lady who does their billing and accounts is in and ask her what their favourite tipple is. Because if they won’t take money for saving my arse, I have to give them stuff! Mwahahargh. And jam! I have some jam they might enjoy.

Incidentally, I would tell you to take your cars to these guys but as I understand it, they’ve no room for any more punters … unless your car is really interesting, then I suspect they might squeak you in. They only fix Lotuses though … well … except when they’re putting the bumpers back on a Renault 5, obviously.

Head desk. Or at least head dashboard in this case.

What an absolute melt I am. Jeez.

But they did a fantastic job, as they always do, and I drove to pick up McSon with almost imperceptable damage. He drove home and when we got onto the drive, I broke the news to him.

‘It was the nightmare weird steering wasn’t it?’ he said.

It is a bit different to modern cars, about four turns lock-to-lock as opposed to what feels like about one in mine.

‘That and I drove over a brick,’ I said.

He told me it was just stuff, and not to worry and that it looked OK and he was thinking of getting a body kit for it anyway. I could have hugged him but he’s 17 so that kind of stuff is absolutely not allowed from his mother. I wish I could have found out another way but I was extremely proud of my son over this. He had good reason to go into orbit but he didn’t. Although he is being very sarcastic and taking the piss out of me constantly, not that there is ever a time when he’s not sarcastic and taking the piss out of me constantly.

Then there’s McCat. McCat is not well, he has been a bit drooly for a week or two but now his fur feels a bit dry and tufty, and he seems lethargic, sad and generally very sorry for himself. I took him to the vet for a routine check up and blood tests on Monday and mentioned the drooling but they couldn’t find anything out of order and suggested I keep an eye. So I did. The drooling got worse and I decided it was not normal. I booked an appointment yesterday and after a really good look in his mouth, which he didn’t like, the vet spotted a red patch under his tongue.

My theory is that he has tried to eat yet another thing he should have avoided and that there’s something stuck there, like a grass seed, or most likely a bit of dried up lemon grass. Cats are not supposed to eat lemon grass. I looked this up because mine does. Try telling him that though.

I’ve Taken Steps and locked the lemongrass away. If I so much as look at the door to the room it’s in, he’s there. It’s a bit dried up this time of year but a couple of weeks ago, sure enough, I had to go in there and the furry scrote was in like flynn. I suspect a horrible dried up spiky bit has got stuck in his tongue. The vet agreed that it was probably something like that.

Having booked him in to have a minor op to explore the problem area next week, I took him home. Sunday morning, he was completely off his wet food as well as the dry. I have no idea if he’s drinking. I hope he is but he’s an utter plank so it’s not beyond the possiblility he isn’t.

Suddenly I was looking at the fact that, if he doesn’t eat or drink until Tuesday, he may be so dehydrated they won’t be able to get a line into him and he’ll die. Because I’m not melodramatic and I don’t catastrophise at all.

Ever.

With that rather horrid thought in mind, I went off to do my weekly bit of God bothering on Sunday morning, convinced I’d be calling the vet’s for emergency surgery when I got home. Instead, I chopped the food a bit smaller, loudly, and with a great deal of cheerful chirrupping and burrping McCat appeared and hoovered it up in short order.

Phew … for now.