Francis is up at 5.00 am, early but not bright, to make the journey to work by train. And so, owing to the audible nature of his misery, are the rest of us.
"Fifty miles away and it's going to take me three hours. I'd be better off using a pack horse."
"Hang on, darling," I say, "I'll nip out and see if anyone's left one out for recycling."
I get The look. Normally it's just A look - 'The' look being reserved for occasions when it is imperative to communicate, without words, how fundamentally I have failed to measure up to theoretical wifely standards - as defined by Francis, anyway - by being flippant when a mature, considered approach is called for.
"I'm not a horrible, unpleasant bitch," I say, indignantly to Vicky later.
"You're not?" she says. "Then why the bloody hell am I friends with you? You'd better shape up or they'll have you carted off to Lovely Land with the other mothers and we'll never see you again for the clouds of platitudes. Tell you what, I'll text you some insults to get you started. They're left over from a dinner party we had at the weekend. And I want to see them all used up by evening."
I'm not expecting Francis back until late and am just contemplating the prospect of cooking the children's meal with disfavour, wondering if raw chicken really is as harmful as they say it is, when there's a strange roaring noise from outside.
"Good God," I say to Deborah, who is trying to deepen the scandal of middle class drinking habits by wresting my second glass of wine from me and downing it in one while I fight her off with the bottle, "What do you think that is?"
Before she can reply, the front door opens and Francis appears.
"The good news," he says, "Is that the office have found something I can drive till we sort out another car."
"And the bad news?"
"Come and take a look."
Outside is an enormous truck. It's not so much a cross between a Jeep, Land Rover and cement mixer as an of amalgamation of all three. It has a vaguely militaristic look to it - though one that is immediately negated by the paintwork, which sports the company logo floating in a vibrant seascape, complete with mermaids, sardines and something I greatly fear is an octopus peeping coyly from from one of the wheel arches.
"Nice," I say.
"Nice?"
"Just wait," I say, and call Beth, who has been more than unusually pouty and unpleasant since she came back from school, ever since I told her we might have no way of transporting her to her next social engagement.
"You will be able to go to your disco at the weekend after all," I say. "And just look at what we'll be taking you in."
Beth stares, then a look of total, unmitigated horror crosses her face.
"No, please, no," she gasps, and runs into the house.
"Every cloud....." I say to Francis. "Fancy a beer?"
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19 comments:
Keep on truckin'!
Dumdad: We're off to get the matching tatoos.
I thought for a minute it just might be a Harley Davidson; not that I've anything against them, you understand...
Your daughters - so funny.....
Debio: I'm flattered you think we have the sort of ambience that would make a Harley-D feel at home....
Think I'm with Beth on this one! I mean, a girl is entitled to get to all her little girlish engagements without the additional embarrassment of a hideous family vehicle, don't you think? Child abuse comes in all sorts of forms of course, but I really do think Francis ought to have considered a little longer before accepting this alternative means of family transport...
All of which is just a very roundabout way of saying thank you for your comment, which as usual Blogger wouldn't allow me to publish. And no, no excitements, no thrilling developments: only a rotten cold, a failing hip joint - and a lecture from my grand-daughter on the subject of writer's block...
Her solution: start blogging again. My response: NEVER!
IB: Well it's always lovely to hear from you. Really no blogging ever again? You'll have to set up website when book published to enormous acclaim, however.
Silver linings abound and you won't be caught dead in it either, of course.
Oh horror, neither would I, but men are always oblivious of these things, aren't they?
It's hard to keep your sense of humor and dignity while driving around in a happy clappy tank like truck. Lots of sarcasm will be uttered by you and all onlookers, no doubt.
I feel for your daughter and shudder in sympathy at her agony of having to be seen in this contraption. It will haunt her for the rest of her school days, maybe into university.
Yes, I know, I am full of sarcasm myself. It is the best defense against any potential depression.
Sweet I: Bless you for your words of wisdom. And your sarcasm.
Yep every cloud!
I also love sarcasm!
Casdok: I don't appear to attract much in the way of idealistic enthusiasm over here. Can't imagine why.....
I would almost go so far as to say that you planned the whole thing!
Crystal xx
CJ: I'm picking up a tiny note of cynicism here...As if I would.
All sounds perfect to me. I know about the look although mine often comes with a mouthful.
elizabethm: It is, as you say, that look....Even thinking about it twists my face into an involuntary grimace. Mind you, it doesn't take much.
I hope it came with the required CB radio.....
I know now why you want to swap. I have sons. Much easier than daughters. I know. I am one.
So you're quite right, I am backing out of this one and will stick with what I know. Girls might make me suicidal!
Returning pack horse with thanks. Perhaps daughter would prefer this mode of transport? *ducks*
P.S. Thanks for linking. Already linked to you! ;0)
crazy cath: OK. As you were. And am doing link next. Promise.
Almost as if it were carefully orchestrated, you clever thing!
Kelly: Thank you. I live my life in search of punchlines. It's exhausting but well worth the effort.
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