My last Tale of the Uber-Moggie, I promise.
And a second tale of Maestro-related woe.

My family was away for a few days, sadly I didn’t get to do anything hilarious, host a party, have an orgy or anything worthy of QOTW.

I had been out along the back roads again taking some more pics of Scotland In The Rain ™ (I was a budding photographer at the time) and was wending my way home as darkness fell. Now on this route was a ford, and we all know how much fun it is to go ‘Kersplash’,don't we?So I was nipping along quite nippily, around the corner we go, and there was the ford. My alleged brain had about two seconds to digest the following:

‘Ooh, that looks a bit bigger than I remember’
‘Hasn’t it been raining steadily for about a week?’
‘Why are my headlights underwater?’

Uh-Oh.

As the current started to push me off the roadbed, I managed to slam it into first gear and rev like a nutter. We got about 2/3 of the way out before ‘phut’. Now the bloody thing won’t start with the exhaust underwater, I’m 20 miles from the nearest civilization, it’s raining, it’s getting dark, and basically I want my Mum. Oh, and there’s no-one at home to come and get me, and I don’t even know the road number (‘it’s the wan where you turn off by the big patch of bracken and the boulders’ is not useful to the AA).

Bollocks. Steeling myself, I wind down the window, and Dukes Of Hazzard out of the car, sploshing into the water with the grace and style of a pre-menstrual hippo.

Handbrake off, and HEAVE. At this point, I discover that the roadbed is extremely slippery with algae, so my legs are pistoning like a cat on laminate flooring, and we are actually rolling backwards. Into the maelstrom. Terror switches on the adrenaline (not the drowning bit, just of explaining to my Mother) and with a superhuman effort I manage to push the thing up the hill just far enough, and then dive headfirst through the window, scrabbling for the handbrake, and nearly ripping my nuts off in the process. I could just have opened the door but that would have been sensible. Finally seated, muscles aching, soaked and shivering, Glory Be, the damn thing starts.

I drive home, and thinking of the cold and empty house that awaits, I decide that can’t be arsed cooking, and some nice hot scoff would be just the job. Chippy. Pie Supper, Salt & Sauce (none of your Englander ‘vinegar’, thank you). Lovely.

Squelch into the house, put supper down, and trudge off to find dry jeans & boots. Righty ho, time for some high-cholesterol sustenance, thinks I, as I walk in to the room, wondering what the strange sound is. A bit like an industrial waste disposal unit?

You.

Hairy.

Bastard.

He’s half way through my pie supper. I never even knew he liked chips.

Cat looks me in the eye, licks his lips, sneers, and waddles off hiccupping.

I may have cried.

Still finished the supper, though.
(osok Rebel without a clue, Fri 25 Apr 2008, 11:53, Reply)