It’s Time… Pt11

Written by Prim on 27/05/2022

But it’s Gonna Be… Keeping the wheels on track

Ride it

Time and tide wait for no man (and dog), Chaucer said that in 1395. St. Maher said it in 1225, whoever she was. I just said it at 23 minutes past 2. Cherry the dog didn’t say anything and blew fragrant nonchalance to the wind. We set to ride the wave North. It was Friday 13^th around 11ish.

Cherry navigated from the back seat. Traffic snarled three miles in. I switched to Google Maps Lady who said go the long way to avoid congestion. Traffic snarled 30 miles in. 20 odd miles shy of Birmingham things relaxed and I was able to let her rip. Then I put my foot down. Argh, the old ones are the old ones.

Content with overtaking Lorries at 80mph the steering suddenly wobbled, high winds? Puncture? It wobbled more. It wobbled till it morphed to an excited vibration. Cobblestones on the M1, we must be North. It wobbled and vibrated some more then veered right. An executive decision was to lie down. Cherry you selfish swine, that’s what I want to do. More wobbling, bubbling and veering. And like a beacon of light; ‘expensive mini scotch eggs 1 mile on the left’. We veered the veer and wobbled her in. Slung into the twilight zone of the motor service way. Haven’t we been here before?

I gave each wheel a kick. Don’t wear flip-flops for this at home folks. I turned the wheels, they stayed on. Cherry looked on, ‘fuck it, let’s go’ she gruffs, ‘or we’ll be doomed here forever, like that Tom Hanks airport bloke with his plastic Wilson thing.’ I agree. We skedaddle outta Dodge.

Fill up with petrol first. Forget the pin number, exceed the limits trying. Find cash (result). Cherry set off the alarm in the car with all the excitement. We set off a steady 60mph. We join the motorway and continue at 60mph. Traffic snarls, 30 miles in. Traffic remains snarled for rest of journey. We’re on a Toll road that only take cards, but it’s de-snarly. The card works. Ugh! We snarl to our destination in one piece. I immediately walk to the pub, minus Cherry, ‘Fuck you’, she snarls, ‘I’m staying here’. Card doesn’t work in pub, find cash. Wow, what a pocket. Who knew I had one like it. Low phone battery. Cannot let anyone know about my lucky pocket. I get duel priced in the pub, with a lower one to compensate the higher one I had earlier which ends up affording an extra one… happy. I tell a man who’s been talking lorry trailers and bits of metal for the past 3 hours. He’s not impressed and goes back to a hex head cap screw with 5/8” hard flat washer.

Prim on the ridge… ‘are they still there?’

Lesser snarls and more nice

Next day I looked at a house, which was nice. I said yes, we’ll have it. I took the car to a man who said it would get me South, which was nice. We drove home and the current bun came out. We walked barefoot on tiled floors and washed our paws under the cold tap without yelping… the weather has turned. Now I can’t sleep at night because I know the weather will turn again in a few months. On the plus side, I have plantar fasciitis, which is a kind of adult acquired flat foot, probably from a lifetime of flip-flopage. There goes my army career.

I buy a fish, lemon sole, and looks great. Rick Stein rants about it. Full of bones, the bastard, Rick and the fish. Took me half hour to eat. I retire and take off my nylon shorts one-handed. They tangle and cling on the last foot with carpet friction. I fall over. Bastard Rick.

I speak to man about the house which was nice. But not so nice as it turns out, as he’d ignored my messages and his collegue thought I was a prank caller. The filthy swines. Down Cherry. I call again, and we’re back on track. Which is nice.

I hear from several self-publishing firms to publish Durban’s Bread. They want money the pigs. I refuse. I mention I want it ebooked free then made into a film. I haven’t heard back.

A mechanic man whistles through his teeth a lot and happily declares with all its technicality my cv-joint was knackered. He puts a new one in, which is nice.

Early morning dog walking is fraught with walking face first into spider’s webs in the woods. Mrs. Spider sat, cross legged, tutting, ‘it took me all night to spin those.’ ‘Sorry’

In the clearing I look to the hills high above. A lone figure walks its dog. I see Zulu’s, thousands of them. Lined on the ridge, assegai’s raised, a boom of thunder rumbles through the morn’s chill. It seems far away, but they could be among us in 20 minutes. Me and Cherry form a square. We look again, and woof, they’re gone.’ How do you do dat Cherry?’ She tilts her head slightly drops a stick of fag ash and trots on.

We trot on, into tight dark branch enclosed alley. A splurge of birds doo-dah’s splatters the floor and carries just a hint of saag bahji. Cherry mutters like a Marge Simpson sister, ‘that was close’. Then I wonder just how many bugs they had for tea. Then I wonder how many birds there are that need all these bugs to eat every day and so how many bugs there must be… and all those birds, eating all those bugs, every day.

On that note – ta ta