It’s been over a week since I last posted a blog so I’m thinking that you are thinking that I must have lots of news? I haven’t – and the reason I haven’t is because my time has been spent editing The Sleeping Field and ripping out my hair because I’ve been attempting to do this with Richard trotting around the place, being a pain in the butt, and being as disruptive as possible. If we were married, I’d divorce the bugger. I have actually considered telling him to keep the house and that I’d have the car and drive off into the sunset like Thelma and Louise. Obviously I’d need another person to do that…
Had I seriously (no I wasn’t serious. You know I love the man?) been considering it, the plan would have had a massive glitch, because yesterday, Richard the pillock, allowed a British Gas van and an Audi to plough into the back of him. Yep! I took no notice as he rushed into the kitchen with his Barbour coat-tails flying and pinched the notepad out of the drawer and my pen from beneath my gaze, after all, it gave me a few minutes of peace in which to concentrate on the final chapter.
The peace ended twenty minutes later when he came back, tossed the notepad with insurance details on the table and announced, ‘I’ve just had the car run into by two cars while I was waiting to get onto the drive!’
Obviously the final chapter was going to have to wait – again!
‘Have you smashed-up the car?’ I snapped.
‘I’ve got whiplash!’
‘Have you smashed-up the car?’
‘I’ve got whiplash. I was waiting to pull onto the drive and a bloke in a British Gas van had stopped behind me, and the Audi, behind the British Gas van, ran into the British Gas van and the British Gas van rammed into me.’
How many times could he say British Gas van?
‘So, you were at a standstill?’
‘So how have you got whiplash if the car behind you was at a standstill?’
‘Well I have.’
‘Well that’s great,’ I said. (Don’t tell me I can’t turn a negative into a positive.) Get yourself off to the doctor and get it on record and then we can claim for it and we won’t need to win the lottery to leave here to get that garage and room for a pony that you are always wittering on about.’
‘Are you taking this seriously?’ he said.
‘Is there ANY chance that I can EVER finish this book!’ I yelled. ‘Bugger off and get your neck examined…and you still haven’t told me if you’ve smashed-up the car!’
‘There’s a scratch on the bumper.’
I put my head back into the computer and Richard cleared off to the doctors. The guy in the British Gas van looked a bit worse for wear, poor soul, and sat looking dazed for some time. I did say to Richard that he should offer the poor guy a cup of tea but Richard said that the buggers had just put up the gas by ten percent and so he could do one. It seemed a bit harsh to me. I think the decision to raise gas prices came from a little higher up than the guy driving the van.
We popped to the bank this morning and it was my first chance (well not exactly my first chance because it was hardly important was it?) to examine the damage. Frankly it looked like a pin had pricked the bumper. Richard wasn’t very impressed with my comment.
‘Yeah, well. I always let everyone shit on me. I’m always the nice guy. Well not any more. It’s a new car. It’s got a hairline crack on the bumper – so it can be repaired!’
Bless him. He hasn’t mentioned the whiplash injury this morning. Shame because I was going to check-out all those ads that come on in the afternoons claiming to make you rich beyond words if you broke a toe nail whilst tripping on an uneven pavement.
As I said, he did run me to the bank. There was a massive queue and Richard waited in the car, on double yellows. The little guy before me in the queue started up a conversation, about the weather, what else, and we chatted away…until I mentioned having to put on the heater for the chickens if it got much colder. He became incommunicado after that. He did look at me, before conversation was cut off, and with a twitching eye, mumbled, ‘Chickens?’ I quickly realised that I’d gone too far so I didn’t push it.
Then we came home and had a cup of tea and a piece of stollen and Richard trotted off to work. If you remember, Richard fell off his moped on the first day back to work after our break in Spain? I said he should take great care because these things always happen in threes. He said he was having a flu jab at work, so the nurse would probably pierce an artery and he’d bleed to death. Well he didn’t…so I reckon accident number three is still imminent? I guess I’ll just have to keep him away from sharp implements…including my tongue?
On that note I will bid you adieu and pop off to sort out a cover for The Sleeping Field.
Take care my lovelies x