Dia Uno …. Licensed To Drill

P1010853.jpgAnd here we go again, early start, Super-dude and Mrs Sally Sat-Nav have left us all behind here at the happy ranch out on the isthmus and are heading back to their Motherland.

(Without Prejudice) 

Destination home of the original Dagenham dustbin, the Ford Escort. Where sun-bed tanning salons have more hours clocked up than Marbella has actual sun. The white sock is de-rigueur and there are more pupils in a classroom named after a grape variety than any wine region in the Southern Hemisphere. This Motherland in question of course happens to be Essex, that’s if you hadn’t already sussed that bit out.

(I jest of course) 

In a way I envy the Super-dude, off to see his dear Mum, in another I know how hard it is when a parent gets older. And as a loving child, one does what one has to. Now matter what a four-day visit will put her to ease and her world to rights. I sure wish I could see my Mother again.

Anyway, that’s enough of the maudlin stuff …. back to the day ahead.

The slightest of noise and the four mutts ears fire up, ‘Head-boy’ leads his little rejects straight into choir practice, whooping and Aroo-ing [1] in unison, this has to stop, and stop it does RIGHT NOW. In my big daddy P voice I point at them and shout out ‘I WILL NOT HAVE THIS BEHAVIOUR’ as each one scuttle off to their individual stations, indiscrete grumbles and profanities can be heard as they mutter under their breaths.

The front gate opens, it’s the delivery man, he arrives juggling a large box of doggy dietary goodness for the unruly bunch and his “gizmo signing thingy”. We briefly exchange a few loud nice words over the noise of the frothing mass, the scoundrels are kicking off yet again. Already this early in the morning and I am exhausted, a promise to finish this damned kitchen alteration is paramount, it has to be. After nine weeks of on-off, on-off, and passing crates of dirty dishes over the fence to a neighbourly dishwasher the final hurdle is in sight. I shall certainly breathe a sigh of relief as soon as complete, talk about everything but, and a kitchen sink!

Day of all days, an email pops up, item I listed on an internet auction site reads ‘SOLD’.   So its tools down, a definite change of priorities, time to pack same said item, and get into town to post as promised, quick payers always get priority treatment, as is right and polite.

The BIG rigid book of ultimatum is read aloud to the mutineers “I will NOT be held to ransom AND do NOT even start to think about it.”  Flames shoot out from behind my flip-flops like a hot-rod at a drag race doing the quarter-mile as I head toward Brixham. Small talk from my once school friend now the Post Mistress puts our world to rights too. The ever favoured routine of popping into see the *me* from “and Millie” with my usual very sugary Double Espresso ensures my battery is recharged for the return leg.

Four very happy wagging tails greet me back at the institution.  No guilty faces. No mess. No upturned waste basket. Not a single peak ….. Surprising just what the threat of being recorded can do eh!  … ChewStix all round me thinks.

Kitchen? … pfft, there’s always tomorrow. I know, I know, a day less to complete, but do we have the technology? … Yes we can!

[1] Whooping and Aroo-ing = Howling their tits off.

See you all tomorrow.




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