I don’t like Mondays
The phone rang yesterday.
I answered it.
“Hello! May I speak with Herself please?”
“What’s it in connection with?”
“This is the hospital. May I speak with Herself please?”
“You can try, but if I bring the phone into her the signal is dicey so it’s unlikely you will get very far. I’ll tell her what she needs to know if you tell me.”
At this point we went into a rigmarole of identifying myself to prove I am indeed partnered with Herself. The silly woman phoned the house number so unless the house was full of strange men?….
“Could you tell her that her appointment with the hospital is confirmed and that she is to attend at seven fifteen on Monday morning?”
.”Er … could you repeat the time please?”
“Seven fifteen.”
“In the morning?”
“Yes.”
Fuck!
The head went into overdrive. To be in the hospital at seven fifteen I would have to contend with the fucking rush-hour. I should maybe explain that there is only one main road that links Wicklow and Dublin and that’s the notorious N11. That becomes a car park every morning and evening so people are starting to leave home earlier and earlier and some have taken to using the back roads as well. To get to Dublin at seven fifteen I would have to leave at fucking midnight! Herself won’t like that [and nor will I].
Then I remembered.
Monday is the day the car gets its annual test. It’s booked in for midday. That is going to be somewhat tricky. If Herself is finished in time, I’ll have to bring her to the test centre which means hauling her in and out of the car [I don’t think they do tests if there is a passenger stuck in the car?] which is difficult at the best of times. If the hospital isn’t finished with her, I’ll have to leave her there and nip over to the test centre on my own, get the test done and then nip back to the hospital again.
This is the stuff of nightmares.
I never should have answered that phone.
I assume you have a contingency plan for if the car fails the test – let’s call it an ‘Irish Backstop’.
Like the British gubmint heading into the Brexit vote – I have no plan B!
The following line is from a recent phone call from the side of the main ‘A’ road to Norwich (which for the Irishy among us is about as far from Ireland as you can get eastwards and still be in the UK not Holland).
The Geordie/ Scouse/Brummy (Something ‘northern’ and uneducated anyways) girl at the other end of the Emergency Helpline: “That’s Norwich road in *Bristol* , yes?”.
For the more irishy and geographically challenged among us, Bristol is about as far South West of Norwich as it is possible to go and not be in the arse end of Cork or worst still Wales!
No word of a lie, it took me nearly 20 minutes to convince her there was a major conurbation, a cathedral city no less, to the north east of London. Fortunately after a two hour wait the RAC mechanic rang to confirm my position and it must be one of the very few times in my life that I have ever felt glad to hear a proper sheep-worrying Norfolk accent: “Evenin’, thur compooo’er says you’re in Bris’ol bu’ I’m a be’tin’ you’re jist koi-ish f Maaarsham , a spawle-ou’ from thur pair’iss chaach and opposi’e Ol John’s faarm wi’h thur ‘wo rus’y ‘ractors ou’side, am OI roight boo-i?”
In other words, he knew not only in which country and county I was but also whose farm (probably a relative’s) I was outside.
Yeah, see… this is why I don’t answer your phone. A long-standing rule I’ve never told you about, but now you know.
You have had enough of my beautiful Irish accent then?
I remember tests from years ago with the car on the ramp and me sat in the drivers seat doing the lights, horn and breaks for the tester, while having a fag
They have the Torture Chamber here. It’s a room with a glass wall looking out onto the test floor. You have to sit and watch your car being pounded, tortured and prodded with all sorts of machinery. When they have finished, they cal your name out, but only in the Chamber. If you don’t respond [i.e you’ve gone for a smoke] they just move on to the next one. You only get one chance and then they just forget you existed. So you have to sit in the Chamber whether you like it or not.
I just give mine to local garage now. They take it in and I pick it up from them after work, along with a hefty bill
I just give mine to local garage now. They take it in and I pick it up from them after work, along with a hefty bill
-Bucko
As do I but I am fortunate that my very Norfolk mechanic takes weeks and even months on occasion to send out his bill. Rather floored me the first time; he said “it’s fixed, here are your keys and I’ll put the bill through your door in a couple of weeks”. That ‘couple of weeks’ was 3 months+ in the end. Me, with my big city (ie a 6000 inhabitant Sea-cide town 10 miles up the coast), ways was so used to ‘keys for cash’ and no one trusting anyone anymore.