Slashed and burned

This is our garden hedge.  It's about 10 feet high and I tend to cut it about twice a year, each trim taking not very long at all.  It should probably take longer, but I get bored.

In an attempt to make the task a little more exciting, I bought myself an electric hedge trimmer.  There was no real need for me to do this, but I came over all caveman and thought it would be a wild and dangerous thing to do.  Living on the edge, it's where I like to be.  Grrrrr.  

Last Thursday I decided it was high time to get my big chopper out for the first cut of spring.  And off I went,  No real plan, just a bit of random slashing, three steps back to have a look, and a bit more random slashing.  All good.  Until everything went quiet as my trimmer came to a shuddering halt.

Why was a mystery for a moment or two. Until the penny dropped.

Have a close look at my weapon.  Can you see the problem?  OK, have another look - at the lead.

Yup, mind the gap.  I managed to saw my way right through it.  Knackered.

I went inside to break the bad news to Mrs White.  Who laughed in my face.

But then the situation got even worse.

I'd plugged my now defunct boy toy into an extension lead which was plugged into a socket in our garage.  So, as I dug out some old hand clippers to finish the job, I thought I'd plug the radio into the extension lead to cheer myself up.  It didn't work.

I'd "obviously" blown the fuse in the lead.  So I spent 10 minutes replacing it, before plugging the radio back in.  It didn't work.  Balls.

I checked the fuse box in the garage.

Here it is.  The trip switch had been, er, tripped.  So I untripped it.  Still no power.

So I swore at it.  Made no difference.

Meanwhile, the ice cream in our fridge/freezer in the garage was beginning to melt.  Great.  I was eventually forced to defrost the whole thing once the electrician said he couldn't come until today.

Today came.  So did the electrician.

"Do you have a fuse box inside your house?" he smirked.

"Yes."

"Can I have a look?"

"Yes."

He had a look.  And untripped the switch which had "GARAGE" written above it.

He only charged me a tenner because he felt sorry for me.

But not as much as I felt sorry for myself.  

Up, up and WAHEY!

Well, that was fun.

We Whites are just back from three nights in a caravan.  I don't care much for tents, but caravans - with their roofs, windows, sofas, cookers, I could go on - will do for me.  And the kids like them too, which is kind of relevant in the spirit of a family holiday.

Even more of a bonus was that our caravan was in Northumberland.  I was privileged to play rugby for Northumberland Colts when I was a student in Newcastle.  (25 years ago, so almost yesterday).  And before home County Championship games, we used to stay in Tynemouth and toss a rugby ball about on the beach on the morning of a match.

This beach, in fact.

      
It was very good to be back.

Having got our caravan keys, it was time for Vinny's Disco.

Vinny was late but got his tail and his permasmile into gear eventually.

Before the bingo got under way. 

Whilst Charlotte gave interviews.

Next day, it was off to Alnwick Castle.

Where Jamie was knighted.

Before marching off to war.

But the highlight was yet to come.

Flying on a broomstick.

I'll try that again.  Flying on a broomstick.

Dreams do come true.

A ginger tale/tail

I might not be very good at it, but I do like to write.

And now Jamie is beginning to show signs of a similar tendency.  Better than that, it's already clear he's a more accomplished scribbler than me.

Tonight, with the Easter holidays officially under way, be brought home his latest epic.

It's called "The Gingerbread Man."  I hope you like it.    

"The fox throws everyone into the water except the Gingerbread Man.  

"The fox makes friends with the Gingerbread Man and they build a boat together and sail to a paradise in South America.

"The fox went on a diet and never ate a Gingerbread Man again.  

"The End - Jamie White."

Expect the screenplay to be available on Netflix sometime next year.

News: Man reads news

The General Election campaign gets formally under way tomorrow.  And with so many different parties to chose from these days, the sight of politicians - both in the flesh and in the media - is something I'm afraid you're going to have to get used to between now and Thursday 7 May.  

I mention the media because competing for journalistic attention will be a key element of the each of the parties' overall strategies.  But in an era of decreasing budgets and shrinking staff numbers, it's not always easy for news outlets to cope with demand at election time.

So sometimes you have to innovate.

I was thinking about all of this yesterday (you wouldn't want to be in my head, not even for a second) when I was reminded of the Bradford Conservatives local election campaign launch in 2007, fronted by former party leader William Hague.

As one of the most high profile Yorkshiremen still breathing air, you might think that getting the Yorkshire Post to cover his appearance at the event would be relatively straightforward.  But when I spoke to the paper, I was told that they wouldn't be able to have a photographer present.

"If I send you a picture, will it get in?" I asked.

"It depends if it's good enough," replied the man from the Yorkshire Post.

I do like a challenge.

So, a little later when Mr Hague arrived, I outlined the situation to him and explained I'd had a little idea.

"Would you be up for it?" I asked..

"Of course," he enthused back, "no problem."

This is the photo I took.  

It got in.

Balls to bullies

With Charlotte at a party and Vanessa accompanying her for health and safety/free lunch reasons, the boy and I are home alone.

We should be doing something outside, of course.  But the sky looks a bit grey and this chair is very comfy.  So I've told him he can play on his Wii. (It's exercise, isn't it?)

To be fair to Jamie and, more importantly, me, he did do a quiz earlier.  The photo even confirms it (in case his mother asks).

Those of you with that rare ability to read sideways will note that it's entitled "Transport Teaser." And you'll obviously want to know more.

In short, you have to put yourself into the mindset of a Jedi knight.  And with that head on, you've got to answer some questions to enable the Jedi Order to decide what mode of transport should be assigned to you.  Got that?  Good, I am glad.

So Jamie answered his six multiple choice questions and, in five out of six, he chose 'A.'  The transport prescription for knights answering in that way was a "Republic cruiser."  I'll defer to his Star Wars Activity Annual to explain why:

This starship was built for the purpose of carrying ambassadors on diplomatic missions. It has no weapons, and it is the perfect vehicle for a Jedi who favours peace and diplomacy above battles and danger.  You are wise and kind, and your gentleness is very valuable.

A lover not a fighter, good man.

But I still wanted to know why he answered one question with a 'B' rather than an 'A.'  So I had a read of the relevant teaser, as follows:

Q: You are playing football in the park when someone takes your football, what is your response?

A: You try to reason with them and persuade them to return the ball.

B: You attack them and force them to return the ball. 

As someone who tries to be a responsible father, I did point out that violence is bad and he should really have gone for 'A.'

Then I slipped outside and punched the air.  

Sunshine in Guiseley shocker

So, how did the eclipse go for you?

16 years ago, when the last eclipse was alleged to have taken place here, I was living in London. And I watched the "once in the lifetime" event (clearly untrue 'cos I'm still here) via the medium of a puddle on the roof of the House of Commons.  

I don't recall seeing anything of interest in there. Maybe it was a dirty puddle.

Fast forward to this morning and, yes, I can report to having had a solar experience.

In fact, have a look at precisely what my peepers feasted on from platform 2 of Guiseley train station.

You may note that not much of the Sun is in view. 

The bloke standing beside me said that this was because the Moon was in the way. 

The things you learn.

Help Wee Oliver WIN

The list of "good things" achieved by this blog are limited to say the least.

But something I am proud of is having had the opportunity to bring the plight faced by Wee Oliver Dickey to many people's attention.

And most of the words which appeared in that post published on 2 January 2014 weren't even mine.

Instead, they were the words of Charlene, Oliver's mum, who told his very harrowing tale.

Confined to a wheelchair with a form of celebral palsy and told by doctors he'd have to stay there, Charlene and hubby Neil decided to act.  They were aware of specialist surgery available in the United States which, with a bit of good fortune, might give 5-year-old Oliver the gift of limited movement.  The ability to take himself to the toilet or pick up a toy, that's all that was expected.  But something was better than nothing, so it was worth a try.

The major stumbling block was the £60,000 price tag which came with the procedure.

Cue the people of Coleraine and far beyond, who put their hands in their pockets in kindly donations or to sponsor good folk to do often mad things for a peerless cause.  

I would suggest that this video, put together by Neil Moore, didn't do any harm.

Gets me every time.

The fundraising target was hit within two months and was eventually achieved twice over, enabling Oliver to access the aftercare which is so essential for him to reach his ultimate physical potential.

But here's the thing.  Whilst Dr Park - the genius who operated on Oliver - worked his magic to perfection, it was left to Oliver, supported by his family, to do the really hard work.

He'd not used his legs before, so what lay ahead was a physio and fitness regime that even Rocky Balboa would've baulked at.

And has it all been worth it?

Well, click onto this link to see for yourself.

Just as I required Charlene's words to describe her son's predicament more than 15 months ago, the determination, grit and belief that he now demonstrates day after day is also far beyond my descriptive abilities.

Oliver has long since made the journey to becoming an inspiration, but I would argue that we should make it official.

This brings me neatly on to the Spirit of Northern Ireland Awards, for which public nominations have now opened.

There are three categories: recognising unsung heroes, those who have overcome adversity, and special achievements by young people.  And at the end of the evening, someone will be named the overall Spirit of Northern Ireland winner.

The nomination process is very straightforward and involves putting together 50-100 words on why you believe someone is worthy of recognition.

My nomination is already in and it is for Oliver Dickey.

Should you wish to do the same, you can click here and follow the simple instructions.

Let's help Wee Oliver WIN.

Racing Green and Whites

Have a gander at our freshly-painted garage door.  Racing Green, I think you'll find.  Much more exciting in theory than Battered Black, which it was until this time last week.

Sadly, it only looks OK from a distance.  When I slapped the first coat on seven days ago, it seemed alrightish the following morning but obviously required a second layer.  

The problem was that the paint takes 16 hours to dry and rain was forecast for the next few days.  So I eventually went for it on Thursday evening when it was supposed to be dry outside.  It then rained and made the paint all lumpy.

I tried to smooth things out yesterday but failed dismally. Our garage door now looks like someone has wallpapered it with Racing Green bubble wrap.  And worse, this morning when coat number three was still drying, I forgot and it's now got my hand print on it.  I would attempt yet another patch-up job later but more rain is forecast.  Thank you God (for inventing swear words).

In other developments, Jamie and Charlotte have had their eyes tested.

      
After a joint interview with Mr Specsavers Man, during which no health problems were reported, Jamie was first into the big chair.

And disastrously for him, he has 20:20 vision - so he can't get glasses.  Life is full of disappointments.

Charlotte was next up and, because her letter vocabulary only currently extends to c, h, a, r, l, o, t and e, she instead had a game of Name That Picture.

And she won - meaning no glasses for her either.

She remains devastated.

Her brother's mood picked up a little later when he lost his first tooth.  Ker-ching.

Charlotte is now going at hers with a mallet. She's not bothered about the cash, but has long-wanted a real fairy to see her room.

Vote Beggs

OK gang, I need you to do something.

Regular readers of this increasingly irregular blog may have read here that this year's Ulster Schools' Cup would see Coleraine Inst 1st XV grace the world's second oldest rugby competition for the last time.  After 155 years, CAI is due to merge with the girls' High School in September to become Coleraine Grammar.

Those of us fortunate enough to have attended the school and worn the famous maroon jersey on the rugby field have found this to be an emotional experience.  And, when on Tuesday the 1st XV controversially lost their Schools' Cup semi-final to a disputed Belfast Inst try, it was tough to take.

But one man who kept his head when all around were losing theirs was CAI Head Coach Richard Beggs.

Have a look at this tweet referring to comments have gave to the Belfast Telegraph immediately after the heat of battle.

Given his role, most reasonable people would probably have forgiven Richard for showing a touch less grace.  Not only was it his boys who had just had their dreams snatched away, after a year of ceaseless preparation.  He too had his own dream shattered on the very same Ravenhill pitch when a losing member of CAI Schools Cup Final team of 1991.  But most significantly of all, he knew that the name of Coleraine Academical Institution would never again appear on the famous old trophy.

So let me make a little suggestion in an attempt to cheer us all up and, in so doing, provide Richard with some recognition for his efforts.

When I played with Richard in the 1990 Schools' Cup (we were stuffed by Methody in the quarter-finals), CAI was a school of around 1,200 boys.  Rugby was compulsory in junior school and the coaches had the pick of the large numbers of players on show.

Fast forward to 2015, and pupil numbers have fallen by a third and the choice of sports at the school has widened to include football.

But, despite these handicaps, Richard has managed to guide his boys to three semi-final appearances in the last five years.  Quite an achievement by anyone's reckoning.

Earlier today, I took a few minutes out to nominate Richard as Coach of the Year in the Youth/School/Mini-Rugby category of the Ulster Rugby Coaching Awards 2014-15.

I humbly invite you to do the same by clicking HERE - then spread the word.

Ah, go on.  Nominations close next Tuesday (10 March).

White fright

Jamie has just returned from Beavers where tonight was Ghost Hunting Night.

And where was this held?

That's right, a graveyard.

Really.  A living (actually, probably not), breathing (hmmm, unlikely too) graveyard.  But still.

And was it scary, I asked, nervously?

"YES!" Jamie reported. "And there were loads of people running around shouting WOO!"

Shit. 

"Did you find any ghosts?" I gently enquired, looking behind me.

"YES, 15!!!" (Gulp). "And some Mini Eggs!" (No idea).

He'll be off to bed soon.

I might stay up for a while.

Summer roses

Despite the forecasters variously predicting snow and icy rain in the coming days, I am steadfastly sticking to the idea that summer is on its way.

So much so that, on Saturday, I painted the garden shed.  Just in time for the rain to arrive within seconds of the final brush stroke, meaning I'll have to have another go this weekend.  Still, I bought too much paint anyway so it could be worse.

But anyway, the nights are definitely getting shorter, Jamie tells me he hears the alarm clocks of hibernating animals going off all the time and, earlier, I'm almost certain I saw Vanessa walk around the house in less than six jumpers.

There are many things I am looking forward to this summer, and I'll not list them all now.  But let me briefly share a nerdy one with you.

I love cricket and floodlit cricket is a particular treat.  (It's a bit like going to the IMAX, but with added beer and balls).  However, despite Yorkshire being the current English county cricket champions, Headingley - their principal home ground in Leeds - does not have permanent lights.

Until the coming season that is.

Because the process of installing four 56-metre high pylons is now under way and, from the middle of May, the White Rose county will be playing home floodlit matches pretty much every other Friday evening until late July.

And the "White Rose" tag is key.  Just take a look at this baby.

        
Yup, they've ordered lights in the shape of a rose.

I can tell you're excited.

To be fair they do still look like this.

But, when they're finished, we can be sure they'll look great.

So much so that I plan to adopt the persona of a pop star by wearing sun glasses when it's dark, just so I can stare at the lights if the cricket's crap.

A big drink and a Giant experience

I'll start where I left off last time, and am delighted to report that Coleraine Inst 1st XV had an impressive 22-9 win over Omagh Academy yesterday and now look forward to Ulster Schools' Cup semi-final against Belfast Inst on Tuesday 3 March.  

A positive outcome will see me - and countless other former CAI pupils - jet back for the final and an inevitable skin full afterwards. 

Which reminds me, my liver continues to recover from almost a week of "hydration" during the annual White family February half-term trip to Norn Iron.

What you can see above is the men's toilet door at Tides restaurant in Portrush where Vanessa and I enjoyed a fine meal on Tuesday evening.

And on Wednesday, we visited my spiritual home, the Railways Arms in Coleraine, where the regulars of "Arsehole Corner" (their name for it, not mine) were joined by a number of irregulars including my nephew Nathan (wearing the hat).  That's my dad in the blue jacket. 

However, lest you think bad of me, we did allow the kids to sample some of the local cultural delights too. And chief amongst them was the Giant's Causeway.

It's a little while since I've been but, given that it's thought to be around 60 million years old, very little had changed.    

That's Jamie and Charlotte's cousin Katie in the pictures with them, who looks after them so well when we visit.

That's the Giant's Boot they're sitting on above. Obviously.

They even had a chance to look in through the roof of the new visitor centre.

In case you're confused, it's built into a hillside and is predominantly covered with grass. (I can tell you're impressed and now want to take your family there at your earliest convenience.  And if not, why not?)  We did take our brood inside too, by the way.

Then, on Thursday, we left.

Charlotte was very sad.  So was I, but my liver was looking forward to starting his own short break.

Maroon blood, Coleraine hearts

The White family annual February half-term trip to Northern Ireland is sadly at an end.

Actually, we came back yesterday but for some reason I didn't quite feel strong enough to open my laptop.

That's Richard above, my old Coleraine Inst XV rugby teammate and now Head Coach of the team. We got together in Portrush and, gents that we are, even allowed our wives to come along (but not interrupt, obviously).

Tomorrow Richard's boys run out at "The Big Sand" on the banks of the Bann for the Quarter-Final of the Ulster Schools' Cup, the world's second oldest rugby competition.  

With CAI set to merge with the girls' High School to become Coleraine Grammer in September, it'll be the last time the famous maroon jerseys grace a home Schools' Cup tie. 

It's precisely 25 years since Richard and I played together on the same pitch at the same stage of the same competition. And I'm gutted not to be there tomorrow. But I've pledged to travel across to Belfast next month for the traditional St Patrick's Day Final should the good guys make it through.

Let's hope fate deals Richard and his boys the hand that the school's proud sporting history so richly deserves.

Kennel fever

When I was growing up back in Coleraine, we had a dog, a chihuahua which went by the name of Roscoe.

He was a fun little fella, although was often beaten up by our cat called Tinker.

Upon release from his kennel, his party trick was to run wildly and aimlessly around the house until he could run no more, before collapsing into a tiny heap.  Then, following a brief period of rest and recuperation, he'd be off again.  A one trick doggy you might say.

Sadly, time catches up with all of us.  And in his latter years, Roscoe's mad dashes became fewer in number and slower in speed.   By the end, when I opened his kennel door, he would simply shake his head and invite me to **** off.

I tell you this because I'm beginning to feel a bit like Roscoe.  Whilst we speak to potential new VANBAR associates clients and before we taking the leap of getting our own premises, Vanessa and I continue to work from our dining room table.  And cabin fever is beginning to set in.

Don't get me wrong, I've become quite fond of our dining room wall - I've lovingly stripped it once painted it twice in recent years.  But the novelty is beginning to wear off and a change of scenario is forever welcome.  So much so that, when I get out of my version of Roscoe's kennel, I get an urge to run around manically with my tongue around my ankles.  If only this wasn't so undignified - and my legs weren't now beginning to go, just like his did.

That said, help is thankfully at hand in the shapely form of February.  After a dull January (I'm sure I wasn't alone), this month has already delivered one fun adventure with the promise of more to come.

The first was Vanessa's birthday weekend in Newcastle which, I must say, was much fun despite my periodic realisation that I'm now married to a 40-year-old.  

It is a situation that will take some getting used to, I willingly concede.  But I'm stuck with it, sorry, her.

To be fair, the old girl stuck the pace pretty well over our three days away.  She even stayed awake once after midnight, albeit briefly.  However, I can now expect to see little of her for the rest of the month as she catches up on sleep.

That's why I have other plans to get me out of the kennel.

40 + 40 = 80

The passage of time has moved on and the young chick is about to become an old hen.

That's right, Vanessa turns 40 tomorrow. 

As I tap this out, we're onboard a train destined for Newcastle; the place where we both studied (the same course), three years apart. 

Now, don't be thinking that this is in some way a kind, thoughtful gesture on my part. Certainly not.  I am an Ulsterman after all.

No, Vanessa's booked it all. My only job is to make up the numbers (just me and her) and settle the bill come Sunday.

Conversation might be on the menu at some point.  But not just yet, on the grounds that she's having her afternoon nap.

Heaven knows how she's going to stay up till 10pm tonight when TV coverage off the Wales v England Six Nations rugby match is due to end.

I'm less concerned about her movements at 2.30 tomorrow when Ireland kick off in Rome. There are loads of shops in Newcastle. 

And I'll be clear by 4.15 if she fancies joining me in O'Neill's just opposite the station.  (My Ireland shirt is ironed and carefully packed).  

We can then look forward to a brief conversation about what a great birthday she's having; just as long as it's finished by 5pm when France and Scotland lock horns.

I might even treat her to a takeaway later in the evening (assuming Ireland win). Then it'll be home on Sunday morning.

For now, I'm off to the buffet car to see what cans they have.  I would get the middle-aged woman of the moment one too, but alcohol can be very expensive on trains.

Happy birthday wife.

White shed dread

I began this year with a short list of limited personal objectives which I thought it only proper to briefly report back on.

Top of the list was to get VANBAR associates firing and progress continues to be made.  More on that another time.

I pledged to get fit through the medium of spin class which, surprisingly, I have stuck to.  However, I was due to go to one tonight - until I hurt my calf muscle walking to Charlotte's swimming lesson.  Really.  Age is such a terrible thing.  I might do some sit-ups before bedtime instead (although I fear I'll put my back out).

I pledged to stay off drink until 24 January.  I missed my target by a mere 15 days.   I got bored.  Plus, I find it really hard to cook anything remotely interesting without a little glass of wine to fuel my effort.  And I was hungry.  That said, school night snifters have been pretty much off the (drinks) menu and will generally remain so.  (Unless I get hungry again.  Or thirsty).

I promised to swear more, and that hadn't been going well until this afternoon when I caught a strange woman chucking bags of rubbish over a fence near our house and shared my observations.   Good for the soul.

But I'll leave you on a real high: our garden shed roof (do you see what I did there?).  I declared that repairing our garden shed roof was a top priority, although I had no expectation of actually being able to pull it off.

Actually, I'll rephrase that.  A storm pulled it off (the roofing felt, that is).  My job was to buy some more and stick/nail it back on.

After finally running out of excuses (I was proud of many of them), on Sunday I was forced to have a go aided by my trusty assistant .

And look.

I know.  Pretty darn sexy, isn't it?!

Vanessa says I have to paint it next        

Fandabbydozy

I walked up and down Guiseley's main street several times earlier today, before visiting Morrisons to process through the aisles and sign autographs for children.

No one spoke to me or even looked at me.  Maybe it was because Vanessa wasn't there and people couldn't put one and one together.

Actually, thinking about it, I'm not sure I'd recognise Mr Krankie if Wee Jimmy Krankie wasn't there too.

Anyhow, VANBAR associates made the papers today and we're pleased about that.

Available for hire, get in while you can.    

Eating is good for your worries

The kids came home to presents tonight, courtesy of Christmas vouchers kindly gifted by their Auntie Gwen.

And what are they, I hear you cry? (I've got very good hearing).  Well I'm glad you asked.

They're "Worry Eaters" and were new to me until Jamie started going on about them last weekend.

Still none the wiser?

OK, let's go with the product description:

"Children have fears and troubles and woes and don't always tell their parents about them. Psychologists and teachers recommend Worry Eaters as a waste bin for problems. The children can write or draw their troubles and feed them into the zip mouth of the Worry Eater. Not that this solves all the problems straight away, but the first step has been taken and you can be sure it will provide an immediate feeling of relief. And when the Worry Eater tells the parents about the problems, they can talk to their children about them. What's more, Worry Eaters are nice and cuddly in both good times and bad and not just for children." 

A good idea or just clever marketing?  Probably a bit of both, but I look forward to finding out how Jamie and Charlotte fare with "Ed" and "Polli" respectively in the coming weeks.  

Needless to say the Daily Mail hates them (making me wanting to love them even more).  

"The Worry Eater toy shows that we've raised a generation of anxious children," someone called Bel Mooney wrote back in August.  I'm feeling ashamed, aren't you?

She continued: "Both parents must be there for their children — to talk to them at meal-times and on the sofa (without the TV on), and to read a story at night. For it’s not a worry doll that will really take away a child’s anxiety — it’s a balanced, stable and secure home life."

There you go folks, simple as that.  I'm just relieved that we're all so blessed in both emerging from and living in such well-rounded, Waltonesque families.    

No worries.

Introducing the 4-7-8 technique

Good morning, dear reader, I hope you slept well last night.  But if you didn't, I believe I can help.

To explain, I stumbled across some odd link on Facebook or Twitter on Monday and clicked onto it because I was bored.  (If you're reading this post after doing the same, no offence is taken and please come back).

The link took me to a page offering advice on how to get to sleep.  So I read it, tutted disapprovingly and moved on.

However, after climbing into the scratcher a few hours later and not feeling especially tired, I decided to try out what I'd "learnt," as follows:

1. Close your eyes (always a good idea when sleep is what you're after);
2. Breath in slowly whilst (inwardly) counting to four;
3. Hold your breath to a count of seven; 
4. Breathe out whilst counting to eight;
5. Snore or repeat.

I don't recall reaching the end of my second attempt.

Same again last night.

Have a go to see what you think. And if it doesn't work, try wine.  

The whole one yard

A bitter blow to my personal credibility and self-respect today when an emergency man was called to deal with my first car accident.

Let me explain.  

Those who know me well will be aware that I am yet to pass my driving test.  Long story, failed the test three times in three months back in 2006 and then didn't get round to it again.  I will, but not before next week.  At the earliest.  

That said, I will overcome one day, if only to get back at those lovely folks who have been ripping the dung out of me for all these years.  (I'm only 42 after all).

Anyhow, back to my car accident.

Last night I went to put the bin out, before encountering a problem in the form of our neighbour's car which was parked in the adjacent driveway alongside ours without leaving enough room for our bin to get through.

No problem, thought I.  I'll simply reverse our car back a bit to create a gap.  So I climbed in, fired her up, clunked the gear into reverse and dropped the car down our drive no more than a yard.  I then turned the engine off, locked the car, wheeled out the bin and returned inside.  Job done.

That was until this morning when Vanessa returned to the car to take Jamie to school.  She turned the key.  Nothing happened.  She tried again.  Nothing happened.  She swore under her breath.  Nothing.  She swore more loudly whilst turning the key.  No luck.

It was time for Plan B.  Walk Jamie to school (again, swearing under her breath).  They made it on time.

On her return, she phoned the emergency man to come and have a look.  15 minutes after his arrival, the emergency man - car now fired up - enquired as to when the car had last been started.  Vanessa told him.

No one told me that one yard journeys were bad for cars and had a tendency to flood the engine.  The proof of the emergency man's statement was evidenced by the fact that I had flooded the engine.  He left smiling.

An hour later, another emergency man arrived.  He didn't leave smiling after being informed that original emergency man had sorted the problem and so he wouldn't be getting a call-out fee.

In the meantime, Vanessa had taken the car out for a spin to nurse the engine back to health.

 
She can take the bin out next week too.