I estimated about forty five minutes.

Fifteen minutes getting into Skobieville, fifteen minutes [tops] to get my business done and fifteen minutes to get home again.

I even took the precaution of phoning the shop in advance to be sure they could do what I wanted.

I really should have known better.

Between road works, insane levels of traffic and general fucking mayhem caused by idiotic drivers it must have taken my full forty five minutes just to get into the kip.

Parking, surprisingly wasn’t a problem.  Managed to shimmy into a nice spot before that dumb bitch managed to get her SUV into reverse.  Heh!

Went to the shop I had phoned, which was nice and close to where I had parked.

Sorry!  The equipment we need is broken.  Could I call back tomorrow.  Now why the FUCK couldn’t they have told me on the phone?

Made my way up the town, tripping over beggars and dodging dodgy looking needles in the gutter until I found another shop.

Sorry!  Don’t have the equipment.  He then suggested the place I had just come from.  Told him they were useless so he suggested a place beside them.  Why the fuck couldn’t the first shop have suggested their neighbours?  Petty rivalry?

Walked all the way back to the third shop.

Sorry!  The bloke who does that is out delivering.  Could I call back in an hour?


She suggested the two places I had already tried.  I told her I had already tried them.  She suggested Bill if I could find him.

Walked back up the length of the town idly kicking empty lager cans into the gutter to pass the journey.

I found Bill.  The very last fucking shop in Skobieville.  Literally.

Bill was a nice bloke.  Very friendly and chatty.  He was delighted to help me as he had bought a new piece of equipment and had been dying to try it out.  I was to be his guinea pig.

The new equipment was a piece of shite and hurt like the clappers.  My language was nearly as bad as Bill’s.  He went back to his tried and trusted methods while muttering invectives under his breath about new-fangled useless inventions.  He did the job.  At fucking last.

Then I had to make my way down through the town again, dodging the odd mugger, the knackers and the Skobies with their prams and mobile phones.

Poor Penny had been waiting all this time in the car and was delighted to see me coming back.  She switched on the hazard lights in celebration.

Another three quarters of an hour to get home through mad diversions and crazy traffic, trying all the while to find a radio station that wasn’t blaring fucking “seasonal” music.

I’m home now.  My nerves are in shreds and I’m knackered.  Time for the whiskey bottle [purely for medicinal purposes].

Who would have thought it would be so fucking difficult to get a ring cut off a finger?

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Running rings — 12 Comments

    • Didn't fancy attacking a 22 carat gold ring with a rusty blunt hacksaw.  A family heirloom and all that shit.  I'm kinda attached to my finger too.

  1. Fingers into a cold bucket of ice, followed by a good slabbering of light oil, and then…. thisJeez, you could have just ambled to the freezer and the shed! Ha.

    • D'ya think I didn't try all that?  Ice.  Soap.  I even tried dental floss.  Believe me – Skobieville is always a last resort!

  2. Ehmmmm…….. perhaps losing a little weight might have done the trick?Takes a little longer but would eventually have the desired effect on your heirloom 😉

  3. GD…It sounds as if you have been reading "Lord of the Rings" in your spare time.  And, did you ask the local mugger, or even your local priest, to remove your treasure away from you?  They are both good at those tasks.

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