The rat pack have run me ragged, my sleep pattern has been blasted out of all proportion and the new Zimuvane sleeping tablets “do not do exactly what they say they should do on the tin”. My own bed and my home comforts will be welcomed tonight with opened arms.
Apparently the master of the house is stuck on the M25, in Parker the Mini, being a 4X4 he just hates to be stood still, and so does the driver, so, you can imagine just how wound up both are going to be when they eventually arrive home, how do i know this information?, i received a voice/text message via his Apple watch, thats Chris’s not Parkers, all very slow, sad and robotic sounding, “I … AM … STUCK … ON … THE … M … 25” ……. Then silence!
I have to admit, i thought i was prepared for these five days of isolation here on our ranch, out on the isthmus, and to be honest, i was not. Ranch? Isthmus? Oh! it’s just my fun way of describing our habitat, we are out on the headland, almost by the National Park, and when the weather turns in, it can feel like we are somewhere completely away from any form of civilisation, apart from the local natives of course, all ten of them in their respective homes, truth be known, all of them strange, us included, preferably leading quiet lifes and minding our own businesses.
We are less than three quarters of a mile from the town centre, it can at times be a very pleasant walk into, but, when raining, or the wind is blowing up and into every orriface, it can be dire. As I’m not feeling 100 percent at the moment and the car has not been at my disposal, i guess i can wear the “i really messed up this time” badge with pride. Talk about Mother Hubbard and her bare cupboards, poor old sod, now i know how she must have felt, even more so as this months “salary” disappeared a week earlier, due to an emergency which was not expected, its been tight, no, actually, its been all too typically rather “church mouse ish”.
The puppies are going to go into screams of delight upon Chris’ arrival, ETA 15:00 hours, believe me, it is going to be manic, and that then will be my cue to exit and head across to Paignton, with £23 in lose change in my pocket, i shall attempt to fill a trolley for this weekends survival, thank heavens the golden eagle shits on Monday.
I hear you used to be able to get paid for peeing in a pot, hence the title.