Our fence needs propping up because of storm damage and I am not a handyman. I went to the lumber yard and explained my proposed plan to the delightful lady in charge: “Not my thing at all, but I envisage a system along the lines of cantilevered struts …”. I continued cheerfully for a couple of minutes.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about. You’re English aren’t you?” She then called another assistant: “Charley, you are going to love this one!”
Charley came over and looked at me sardonically. "You've been here before, haven't you?"
I confessed I had and complimented him on his amazing memory. It was a couple of years ago when I was attempting to fix a chicken run.
"Not something I'd easily forget," he muttered.
Thursday, 20 February 2020
Saturday, 18 January 2020
A Parting of the Ways
It is desperately sad, but I have decided the time has come to part after some two years. It started off so well despite the language problems. I'd come home every night and there she would be patiently waiting. This might sound like a romantic cliche, but she seemed to glow when I asked her something or even softly murmured her name. We would exchange sweet nothings about the time or the weather and she appeared genuinely welcoming. True, she would never cook - that was clearly beyond her although she would offer to turn the oven on. But, to be frank, there was always a certain emotional coldness. This said, she had her strong points. She would play my favourite piano pieces and she never complained or got tired.
It was only recently that I realized that she was a passive aggressive. For example, I'd ask her the time in London and she would reply that she didn't know that one. In fact, this became her constant refrain. I also suspected that there might be other men in her life.
Things came to a head this morning. I asked her to play some Greig and she asked if I wanted to call someone called Greg. I have no friends by this name so I asked her what she was talking about. She replied “I don’t know that one” and repeated this infuriating phrase when I asked if we should consider going to counselling. I confess that I lost my temper and screamed at her that she was doing it on purpose. You might guess how she responded. Although tempted to throw something at her, I simply walked out.
No. I have to face the fact the relationship is over. She is going back to Amazon.
It was only recently that I realized that she was a passive aggressive. For example, I'd ask her the time in London and she would reply that she didn't know that one. In fact, this became her constant refrain. I also suspected that there might be other men in her life.
Things came to a head this morning. I asked her to play some Greig and she asked if I wanted to call someone called Greg. I have no friends by this name so I asked her what she was talking about. She replied “I don’t know that one” and repeated this infuriating phrase when I asked if we should consider going to counselling. I confess that I lost my temper and screamed at her that she was doing it on purpose. You might guess how she responded. Although tempted to throw something at her, I simply walked out.
No. I have to face the fact the relationship is over. She is going back to Amazon.
Tuesday, 1 October 2019
Confessions of a Dyspraxic
It is not something that one reveals readily, but the Live Scan guy was looking at me with increasing suspicion and even a modicum of incredulity. “You don’t know your own zip code and have to text your wife?”
I reluctantly explained that there is this thing called dyspraxia and that one of the consequences is not being able to remember arbitrary numbers like postcodes or phone numbers. “It isn't senility,” I hastily added. “I have never been able to recall random numbers. Carrying a notebook with important stuff in it would be sensible, but dyspraxics are also often pretty disorganized.”
Irritated by the need to explain, I got up far too quickly and failed to notice that the strap of my case had inexplicably become wrapped around the arm of my chair and the one next to it. In embarrassed frustration, I gave an almighty yank: the chairs flew across the somewhat dingy office before noisily clattering to the ground. “That goes with the territory: dyspraxics are often improbably clumsy and accident prone,” I told the surprised clerk.
“Is there anything else I should be prepared for?” he asked. Checking that my belt was tight and my trousers unlikely to fall down, I suggested that he kept bone china or cut glass decanters out of my way.
I reluctantly explained that there is this thing called dyspraxia and that one of the consequences is not being able to remember arbitrary numbers like postcodes or phone numbers. “It isn't senility,” I hastily added. “I have never been able to recall random numbers. Carrying a notebook with important stuff in it would be sensible, but dyspraxics are also often pretty disorganized.”
Irritated by the need to explain, I got up far too quickly and failed to notice that the strap of my case had inexplicably become wrapped around the arm of my chair and the one next to it. In embarrassed frustration, I gave an almighty yank: the chairs flew across the somewhat dingy office before noisily clattering to the ground. “That goes with the territory: dyspraxics are often improbably clumsy and accident prone,” I told the surprised clerk.
“Is there anything else I should be prepared for?” he asked. Checking that my belt was tight and my trousers unlikely to fall down, I suggested that he kept bone china or cut glass decanters out of my way.
Thursday, 18 April 2019
Amazing Training
So, it is an extremely hot day and I am damned if I am going to leave Jasper Montgomery, my labrador, to cook in the car so we enter a well-known card shop together. We are greeted by an officious and deeply unpleasant manager who says or rather barks "Service dogs only".
I reply that he is a service dog of sorts and that I can't find a thing without him. Not giving her time to think, I issue the command "Easter cards, boy!" And we head off.
A few minutes later we are back at the counter, Easter cards in hand. "I didn't know they could do that" says the now awed and ever so slightly discombobulated manager. I reply gravely that it takes a vast amount of training and leave.
I reply that he is a service dog of sorts and that I can't find a thing without him. Not giving her time to think, I issue the command "Easter cards, boy!" And we head off.
A few minutes later we are back at the counter, Easter cards in hand. "I didn't know they could do that" says the now awed and ever so slightly discombobulated manager. I reply gravely that it takes a vast amount of training and leave.
Monday, 18 June 2018
in Extremis
So, to use a particularly irksome Californian expression: here is the thing.
The horrors of last night’s bout of gastroenteritis were best forgotten and your delicate sensibilities spared except for two issues. First, I am still feverish and my battered abdomen feels as though I have gone several rounds with Mike Tyson. Secondly, Laura has been cheerfully baiting me about a moral theological and - yes - ontological inconsistency she detected in my feverish ramblings. It seems that during the course of the night, I was attempting to cut deals with the entire apostolic church, various saints, archangels, cherubim and the Holy Family. Being something of liberal and inclusionist as well as desperate, I also bargained with various other pantheons. It transpires that in return for restored health, I offered timeshares in our beloved pet labrador to both Ganesh and the Aztec Plumed Serpent.
Now, here is the other thing. Despite a list of extravagant yet earnest promises made to the sundry theological entities that wandered across the murky spaces of a febrile mind, your humble narrator is an avowed atheist. So, given that promises should always be kept, what about promises sincerely made to non-entities?
The horrors of last night’s bout of gastroenteritis were best forgotten and your delicate sensibilities spared except for two issues. First, I am still feverish and my battered abdomen feels as though I have gone several rounds with Mike Tyson. Secondly, Laura has been cheerfully baiting me about a moral theological and - yes - ontological inconsistency she detected in my feverish ramblings. It seems that during the course of the night, I was attempting to cut deals with the entire apostolic church, various saints, archangels, cherubim and the Holy Family. Being something of liberal and inclusionist as well as desperate, I also bargained with various other pantheons. It transpires that in return for restored health, I offered timeshares in our beloved pet labrador to both Ganesh and the Aztec Plumed Serpent.
Now, here is the other thing. Despite a list of extravagant yet earnest promises made to the sundry theological entities that wandered across the murky spaces of a febrile mind, your humble narrator is an avowed atheist. So, given that promises should always be kept, what about promises sincerely made to non-entities?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)