Editing has been a bit of a sod today, borne on the wings of disaster and perspiration. In a fit of idiocy I managed to crush the tow bar socket thing on my leperous old truck and blew both brakelights and the fuse that controls them. Bugger. Into the garage it goes. Which is fine in theory, until you stop to think that the garage is about three miles away and if they have the car, I don't actually have any way of getting home to the big pile of paper that awaits my ninja red pen of ninjadom. Well, except for walking, which takes a long, long time, especially in the blazing sunshine.
So half ten in the morning and I'm already a soggy, panting heap of bearded unfitness. It doesn't help that between Casa MacBride and the garage is a sodding huge mountainous cliff. The road winds vertiginously up the side of it, and it's a hard climb when you spend most of your days sat on your bum making up lies about people who don't exist.
Worse yet -- Kitty Miss Pookerton has a sore eye, she's been wandering round the house all day with her left eye squinched shut, like a pirate who's just hopped out of the shower to answer the door, forgetting to put on their eyepatch. Assuming that the pirate is about a foot tall, covered in grey fur, and with a thing for eating crunchy mouse heads.
So: car in garage, cycloptic cat, no way to get to vet. Once more with feeling: bugger.
Finally the garage calls to say they're done, and would I like to hoist up the petticoats of my bank account so they can have their wicked way with the contents. And the Vet says I can have a last minute, before the surgery officially opens, sneaky appointment, just as long as I can get there for twenty past five. With no car.
Well, I say no car, but really it's no working car -- that white elephant Jeep thing is still sitting outside my front door like a £5,000 dirty big paperweight. The damn battery's flat so it's no help with last minute, urgent cat transporting. This means but one thing -- running back to the garage, in the late afternoon scorchiness of a pitiless Scottish sun.
And thrice more, BUGGER!
I could have cooked clams in my pants by the time I got there. Hell, I could have used my groinal parts to steam off the wallpaper. Mighty was the warmth of my sinful man nether regions!
We made the vet's one minute too late, with Grendel howling the whole way about how she didn't like the car as it always went to the vets and couldn't we just go somewhere nice for a change and munch on crunchy rodent heads? But even though we were late the nice lady let us in, looked into the winger's eye and declared it an ulcer which could be treated with antibiotics. Hurrah! Now the only one in the house not on the damn things is She Who Must Feel Left Out By Being Healthy And Not A Sweaty, Sinus-Throbbing Wreck Like Her Husband. I might start leaving rusty nails about the place, so she can feel part of the club.
Little Miss shouted the whole way home too. Then sulked for a bit. Then posed for this picture. Isn't she a trooper?