Well Dunged
Track of the day Phoenix (excerpt) - Nerve Engine.
Today my inbox contained a mail from Martha McElroy inexplicably entitled "Better Success, well dunged". It found its way to the recycle bin. I simply didn't have time to read it because I had to record the early morning outside temperature (15.7C) and find something for breakfast. I found coffee and parecetemol. Yes I had spent the evening saving money in a local bar and as a result I didn't sleep well.
This afternoon I went to meet Mrs B's returning train. It was 11 minutes late at Carlisle but only 4 minutes late at Crewe. By the time it got to Bogsville it was well over thirty minutes late and my parking space, designated as "for setting down and picking up passengers only" was under threat from the transport police and dubious types asking for small change or cigarettes. I locked the doors and slumped down behind the wheel in an attempt to look too ill to be asked to move on. No one noticed. They never do.
When I was six I limped all the way home from school, pretending that I had a wooden leg. No one noticed. A couple of months later I walked home with one arm tucked behind my back and an empty sleeve flapping at my side. Thinking back on it now I was lucky not to have been locked away somewhere.
After the train finally arrived and I had driven home with Mrs B, she went into the greenhouse to inspect her pansies and announced that the maximum minimum thermometer was stuck on its maximum, 50C. I took it apart and fixed it. I'm not sure how I fixed it but it was something to do with a spring.
While I was fixing it, Mrs B related salutary tales of drunken behaviour at weddings up north and I mused over Keith Richards of Rolling Stones fame smoking on stage in smokeless Glasgow. Tomorrow I'll pretend to be a Rolling Stone and light up in a no smoking area. I'd like to think that no one would notice but knowing my luck they'd probably lock me away somewhere where I'd be "well dunged".
.
Today my inbox contained a mail from Martha McElroy inexplicably entitled "Better Success, well dunged". It found its way to the recycle bin. I simply didn't have time to read it because I had to record the early morning outside temperature (15.7C) and find something for breakfast. I found coffee and parecetemol. Yes I had spent the evening saving money in a local bar and as a result I didn't sleep well.This afternoon I went to meet Mrs B's returning train. It was 11 minutes late at Carlisle but only 4 minutes late at Crewe. By the time it got to Bogsville it was well over thirty minutes late and my parking space, designated as "for setting down and picking up passengers only" was under threat from the transport police and dubious types asking for small change or cigarettes. I locked the doors and slumped down behind the wheel in an attempt to look too ill to be asked to move on. No one noticed. They never do.
When I was six I limped all the way home from school, pretending that I had a wooden leg. No one noticed. A couple of months later I walked home with one arm tucked behind my back and an empty sleeve flapping at my side. Thinking back on it now I was lucky not to have been locked away somewhere.
After the train finally arrived and I had driven home with Mrs B, she went into the greenhouse to inspect her pansies and announced that the maximum minimum thermometer was stuck on its maximum, 50C. I took it apart and fixed it. I'm not sure how I fixed it but it was something to do with a spring.
While I was fixing it, Mrs B related salutary tales of drunken behaviour at weddings up north and I mused over Keith Richards of Rolling Stones fame smoking on stage in smokeless Glasgow. Tomorrow I'll pretend to be a Rolling Stone and light up in a no smoking area. I'd like to think that no one would notice but knowing my luck they'd probably lock me away somewhere where I'd be "well dunged".
.
Posted by Milt at 10:29:00 pm
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