All that writingandwriting....
My eyes decided yesterday that they were designed for staring at a small computer screen. They folded their arms and sat back smugly, having consolidated their purpose in one compact afternoon.
It was a trick!
Today, I needed them for drivinganddriving...
They weren't prepared. I should have sent them to the Girl Guides when they were teenagers.
On the M25 (M for misery, 25 the number of accidents per hour on it's circuit), they shook their heads angrily. Distances? Who said anything about distances?
They tried the 'looking at a computer screen' focus that they had perfected yesterday. Nope, that wan't going to work. By Aylesbury they had reluctantly repurposed, and by the M3 they were motorway eyes, enjoying the Surrey birch woods and the winter skies along the way.
We were headed for Winchester to pick up the Ermelinda Sylvestri guitar that Jimmy Cole had been mending. He has done a lovely job; the action is perfect and it has a funny little honk of a sound. It's giving me a song as we speak, and it seemed that Jimmy would miss it being around.
I passed by Portsmouth on the way home and found a proper carwash. Bliss! The green scrubbers rolled past and rolled over with much flagellating ado, but they haven't managed to shift the luxuriant algae that have taken up residence on the rubber seals around the windows.
There is so much building going on in Barnet that a fine pall of dust hovers over us all, coating our window ledges and cars like the fog of the 1950s. It's that George Osborne in his hard hat, sending out signals to his construction mates in the Lodge: 'You'll always be all right, guys, when I'm around in my hi-vis vest!'.
How I long for him to disappear in a puff of dust!