Tuesday, 7 March 2017

Jet...

My good mood teetered over the weekend precipice and carried on through Monday which was lovely.  I think it's down to the weather we're having at the moment.  Let's face it, a day which doesn't start with being mud splattered to the calves and soaked through to your smalls has to be a good one, doesn't it?

The trouble is, when the weather is fine, thoughts turn to my car, which has spent the last three months in high camouflage.  Every now and again, I take a face wipe round my headlights so that I can see where I am going, but other than that, it tends to stay a streaky brown mess.  This perfectly describes the inside too. 

I have to blame the dogs for this, because however much I try and persuade them that the back seat is their seat (they even have their own cover to remind them), on a long journey (by long, I mean further than the end of the drive) Percy tends to creep forward on to the front seat, while the ever needy Reg likes to squeeze his head between the window and my headrest so that we are cheek to cheek. Depending on how I am wearing my hair at the time, the pressure of his whiskered chops can cause me to drive with my head at a quizzical 45 degree tilt which isn't ideal. 

Percy on the other hand loves riding shotgun, and often rests his paw on my hand as I put it on the gear lever.  It's almost like he's telling me 'Woman, know your limits', and that the speed I am doing is quite sufficient and no changing up is needed.  He hasn't twigged that my car is automatic bless him.  After all, he is just a dog.

So yesterday, after a particularly muddy walk in the woods, I glanced round at my back seat and my good mood came close to going up in a puff of smoke.  Not only had I forgotten to put the rear seat cover on, the two of them had spent a very happy ten minutes leaping about in a large muddy puddle, with a good helping of mud on the outside before settling down on my rear seat,.  Dropping the dogs off at home, I made the decision to head off to Tesco's and get my poor old car washed. 

There was time for a coffee and a squinty look at the blurry pictures in the paper (left my bloody glasses at home) and then it was back into my gleaming car, which smelt of something I have yet to distinguish (the trouble is that they hide the air freshener so that you can't get rid of it).  Driving home, I prayed for no puddles, no rain, and no having to swerve up muddy banks to avoid oncoming traffic.

All was going beautifully until I reached the junction where I turn off the main road.  Possibly for the first time in the ten years I have lived here, I was behind another car at the junction, waiting patiently for the traffic to clear so that we could turn off.  There was quite a long queue of cars coming towards us, so I prepared myself for a bit of a wait.  What I didn't prepare myself for was the driver in front deciding that in this spare bit of time, he would wash his windscreen.  Thoroughly.  Two jets of water shot over the top of its roof, and straight onto my bonnet and windscreen.  Four times.

Now this was a dilemma.  Of course, no matter of shouting without moving my lips helped (it was still daylight, and I'm too old for backing up my road rage), and I didn't want to put my wipers on as that would ruin my clean car.  So I just sat there with the water running down my windscreen, waiting for the traffic to clear and for the bloody person in front to STOP PRESSING THE BLOODY WASHER BUTTON.

Refusing to let this spoil my rather splendid day, I simply did what every normal person would do in this situation.  I got my chamois leather out once I got home and gave it a once over.

That's normal, isn't it....


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