Just back from Southport, having taken the car in for its 38,000-mile service. Apparently (and I say this because, having no automobilular knowledge of my own to fall back on, I am at the mercy of every lyin', cheatin', adjustable-spanner-wieldin' grease monkey in the world and have to take what they tell me on trust) it needed a Really Big Service this time round and so I return home nearly 600 quid the poorer. I comfort myself with the fact that work done today will not have to be done in Feb when it's due for its first MOT, but it's cold comfort indeed.
My ever-so-slight dischuffment was not ameliorated by the fact that today our Trusty Posty decided to leave a parcel not in the relative safety of the porch as is this normal custom but on the drive in full view of the pavement, where any passing Scally* could nick off with it without a "by your leave" or a "with your leave". I complained to the Royal Mail of course, and now have an apology, an Official Complaint Number and a sneaking feeling that Trusty Posty will somehow Wreak Awful Revenge upon us for dobbing him in to The Queen.
On the bright side though, we're off to Glasgow tomorrow to see the deeply splendid Common Rotation gigging at some low dive on Sauchiehall Street. Oh how we do love their subversive pop-folk-rock stylings!
*though if said Scally had indeed performed said act of thievery, he would have been mighty disappointed with the contents - somehow can't see a rather nice dress shirt going with the obligatory shell suit.
And, as a sartorial aside, there are apparently places in Liverpool where people habitually go to the supermarket in their nightwear and slippers. It's a mad world, my masters!
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