Listen to the wind blow, watch the sun rise

Have you noticed that life, by its very nature, is linear.  There are some that say that it's more 'wibbley-wobbley' than that - But those people are often certifiable and you should shun them.   

But life, for the vast majority of us, bimbles from one thing to another like a heavily pregnant hamster, banging into things and generally biting jagged chunks out of the furniture with rodenty abandon.  You can look backwards sometimes and think "That was lucky" if... Erm... if you're lucky, but ninety-nine times out of a hundred, it's pretty much 'Yesterday I went to the shops.', 'Today my dog stole all the Camembert out of my artisanally made and ethically sourced sourdough sandwich.'

But there are a few times, a few beautiful gems hidden amongst the razor-edged broken glass strewn highway of my daily life that shine like the very lighthouse of home port to an overworked and mimsy-hungry seaman (easy now)

Here is one such relatable saga, it ends the day before yesterday... But it started some weeks ago, during a bout of Norovirus-induced generic stomach-flu like illness. I had it for a week and I didn't eat during that entire time - I drank weak orange squash made with boiled water. I tried to eat a boiled sweet once, but that triggered a bout of 'stomach upset' that would have caused a Haddock to embrace Buddhism. It was awful - I lost a stone in weight (you need to remember this, it's important later on).

Another thing you need to bear in mind is that it's not my payday until next Friday... Very important, almost as important as the previous fact, in fact.

Ok, so knowing these facts, we can fast-forward to last week. The Dandymobile, my faultless steed, my surreptitious breeder of Marmosets, has a 'tell' to let you know that her battery will require replacement in the near future.  It's a buzzing noise that happens between turning on the ignition and starting the engine, something like a pump, or a fan under the bonnet somewhere probably, I know not what it is - This is where the more mechanically minded of my loyal readership should feel free to jump in with suggestions as to what this might be, and how they would like to mend it for me for free. But, for the time being, we should just agree that this is a 'thing' with a purpose - It's purpose in this case is to remind me to buy a new battery in the near future.  I had planned to buy a battery once I had been paid. I think you can follow my reasoning, right?

On Saturday I drove the Current Mrs. Dandy to the Post-Office to claim a package that required a signature, or was too wide for the letterbox or some-such tomfoolery.  Upon our return to the car, it refused to start, I figured that I'd touched one of the footpedals during the starting procedure (this sometimes causes the car to refuse to start for half an hour or so if the battery is in bad shape) so I walked the 500 yards to the nearest branch of a popular tyre and battery replacement company that are known for being 'Quite expensive'. They very cheerfully said that they would be more than happy to replace my battery for £100. (remember, it's not payday until next week and I still need to buy food and fuel).  I tried the motor factors across the road (the same motor factors as detailed in this story) and they quote me £70 just to supply the battery.  So, I figured that I'd go back to the car, wait for it to successfully start and drive it to get its battery replaced.

But it didn't start, not even after I'd waited for another hour... 

I'd suggested to Mrs Dandy that she get the bus home, as she had things to do, and that I would get the Dandymobile sorted 'somehow' on my own. She left and I sat there and thought, and thought, and thought. My first thought was that the car would magically just start if I closed my eyes and turned the key whilst asking it nicely... It didn't.  Then I thought that the only thing for it was to push the car, on my own, the 500 yards to get the battery replaced. But then I remembered that I would need both hands to push the Dandymobile - and, (this is where your memory gets tested) I realised that that would be problematic because I needed one hand to hold my trousers up - Remember that sickness bug and all the weight I lost? - Well, my belt was on the last hole and I couldn't get it tight enough to stop my trousers falling down whilst I was pushing the car... I was going to buy a new, smaller, belt once I'd been paid. This issue was compounded because, as you all know, I don't wear underwear of any kind, ever. Not even when I'm kilted.

So, my third and final thought was to phone the garage that normally does my MOTs and suchlike, to get them to recover me and replace the battery. So I called them and spoke to the owner, who's a great guy, and explained my problem. He said that the recovery truck was out currently, but I'd be their next call as I was such a good customer.  We've heard of this garage before too... It's where THE QUATTRO is usually tethered.

It was an hour before the truck arrived and on its arrival, the recovery driver suggested that he should use his special clip-on battery thing to see if he could scare the Dandymobile into life.  But it didn't work, so then he offered to bump her around the corner using the starter motor (you know how a car lurches forward if you start it in gear? that.) and winch her onto the back of the truck. The car jumped forward a couple of feet every time he turned the key and on the second such attempt, the engine started as if nothing had been wrong in the first place.

"I don't understand what happened there," He said. Well, I say 'he said' - he kind of buzzed, because he had some sort of electrolarynx because my life is on average 500% weirder in most ways than yours. Then he asked me if I'd like him to follow me to the garage just in case. but I said no, and that he was very kind, but as the Dandymobile started, she should be OK now. In hindsight, that strikes even me as foolish bravado now.

However, I drove to the garage without incident, parked up and turned off the ignition without thinking.  The owner was standing in the open doorway of the workshop and favoured me with a sliding facepalm with added headshaking finish, such as one you would give to an Ice-dancer who had performed a routine worthy of six perfect 10.0s before setting his tights on fire as a protest of some kind and sinking through the surface of the rink without a trace.

I opened the bonnet, and he looked at the battery. A confused scowl crossed his face... "Is this one of ours?" he asked. 

"Of course, you exclusively do all the work on all my cars." I lied in reply. He held up his index finger to silence my tirade of falsehood and rang his battery supplier.

"Well, it seems you're in luck - The battery is still just under warranty, so we'll replace it free of charge for you.  All I'd ask is that you make a cash donation to the 'We helped you out of a tight spot, so I'll contribute towards the cost of your Christmas Party benevolent fund.'" - So I gave him the cash I'd got out to pay the driver for recovering me. and an hour later, I was on my way.

Effectively, I saved a potload of money, the week before payday, because I'd been sick as a dog weeks earlier, and that meant I couldn't push my car to the garage for fear of my trousers falling down...

What are the chances?



Well, with me, probably 50/50 as it goes.

A shiny tuppence for everyone?

You know something I don't get?

Well, yes, you're right obviously, I'm still not sure that I completely understand how aeroplanes work, or why so few ocean-going liners capsize and are lost with all hands (I was going to put a link to that post too, right up until the point where I realised that I hadn't written it yet)

What I'm currently having trouble 'getting' is... The whole... area of... Ladies intimate topiary...

Now, I'm a child of the sixties, and started my long appreciation of the female form, specifically the female form as displayed in various gentlemen's art pamphlets, such as you may or may not find in the bins behind the newsagents after they had closed on a Thursday evening, during the late 70s and early 80s.

The ladies of the time were, how should I put it? The best word would be 'hirsute' perhaps? Their lady-gardens were guarded by an impenetrable (There's a poor choice of words I suppose, when you think about it.) thicket of tortile fluff that, to my untrained eye, looked as if it would repel all boarders, nautical, piratical or otherwise. (Yes, I appreciate that there's an obvious 'Seaman' joke in there - Feel free to make it yourself - For added pre-pubescent jocularity, may I suggest the addition of the word 'salty' to increase the general mirth quotient.)

But, over the last thirty years or so, the 'acreage' of the female frontal bottom area that is thus covered has slowly reduced, up to the point about ten years ago, when it became fashionable for it to be virtually non-existent. (or so I understand. I myself have been happily married for approximately 15 years, so I am no longer exposed to the frenetic variety of mimsy 'in the wild' that I once was.)

I vowed to find out what was happening and why.  Donning my favourite gaberdine raincoat and picking up one of the microphones that we normally use for playing SingStar (TM) I strode out into the wide world with a badly prepared handful of diagrams - Drawn on little cards for extra authenticity.

Did you know that it only takes two or three resounding slaps around the face to make your cheek feel really sore?

Also, it seems that young ladies find being asked the question, 'Would you mind pointing at the card that contains the feverish Sharpy drawing that most closely resembles your secret special place?' upsetting and impertinent in equal measure. One young lady did in fact examine the cards and go to the trouble of pointing one out.  Unfortunately, as the card in question was a postcard featuring the head of a Bison that I had accidentally picked up in error, I had to abandon that particular test.

I retired to the Internet... Which, as it turns out, is the go-to place if you wish to compare the sleekness of a selection of muliebrital beetle-bonnets and found that there are almost as many reasons to cut-back the grass on the Mound of Venus as there are coiffured leaves on any bush that you care to mention.  It seems a lot of people decide that their choice of beachwear can have an impact on their ventral tonsure... variation in gusset-width and translucency when wet for instance.  Others opine that it is 'Cleaner' and 'Lower Maintenance' when in fact, it seems that many specialists (people who specialise in looking at moustachio'd pudenda - Not just casual hobbyists such as myself) believe that this is not the case, shaving can give you all kinds of icky infections and pustular complaints... Ewww pustules... Doesn't bear thinking about does it?

Then of course there's the sticky situation that you get yourself into when you start taking puberty into account.  Traditionally, that's when the stuff in question appears, usually sometime in the early to mid teens.  It signifies the translation from childhood to (biological at least) adulthood.  So you'd have to question the motive of someone who was trying to turn back that particular clock wouldn't you?  No wonder DJs in the olden-days sometimes got confused.

It's also thought by many that it acts as a kind of 'sponge' that holds pheromones that are produced... Erm... locally... And people who get rid of it are making themselves less attractive to people with a half-decent sense of smell - But, I think that could go either way really, depending on the weather.

The thing that I really don't get is that it seems that the popularity of hair 'down there' for ladies is reducing at about the same rate as the popularity of luxuriant beards for men is increasing.

Oh...

Wait...

I think I might have got it...