The Quest: Concluded

In a previous Witter, I shared our adventures in the quest for a new car.
We had tried a teeny tiny car in an effort to downsize from the wide open comfort of the Ugly Bug; we tried a bigger car which had a suspicious rattle somewhere under the dashboard and we tried yet another which smelled like a fisherman's tacklebox.

Anyhoo, the following weekend we decided to go for a nice walk along a sunny beach. Lovely. We strolled past ecstatic dogs chasing driftwood into the water, past families exploring rockpools and two game but deluded souls attempting to surf ankle height waves. It was very relaxing and refreshing and after we'd enjoyed a leisurely lunch His Nibs suggested we take a little detour on the way home. Lulled into a false sense of security by coffee and pastries, I agreed sleepily.

Shortly after, I found myself being escorted round another showroom far away from Bowing Salesman land and now clearly in uncharted Shiny, Buffed Salesman territory. His Nibs and I ambled around for approx 25 seconds before being set upon by Mike ['I'm old school, me']. He let us pause for a nano second before affixing us with a look not unlike that of a cobra about to strike.
I knew we were facing peril and yet I was transfixed.
Before you could say "Just browsing..." the fatal blow fell. He asked His Nibs to look at the very model which had caught his eye from the car park. Uh oh.

It had been love at first sight and Mike knew it. Poor Bowing Salesman didn't stand a chance. Neither did the savings account.

Suddenly, the deposit was paid and His Nibs was picking up The Big Sexy Beast the following Thursday. I did my best to joust with Mike but it wasn't easy with His Nibs all but self combusting beside me with excitement. It is his dream car. "Those are not headlights dear, they're rocket launchers...". You get the picture.

To cap it all, the Big Sexy Beast has a name.
Black Betty? No. Kit, like from Knightrider? No.

I spend hours jousting for glory and he names the car Marvin.

Grow for it

Some time ago, a retired ambulanceman told me that a garden reflects much about the life and personality of the owner. This person had reached this conclusion after many years attending hundreds of patients in their home. This person said that in general they could tell from the walk to the front door what might await them inside.
A tidy, well maintained garden usually preceded a tidy, well maintained home. The patient generally enjoyed good mental, physical and emotional health. The visit was usually for an unexpected injury such as a broken limb as opposed to a chronic condition.
A chaotic garden generally reflected a chaotic lifestyle or chronic condition.

Now, I cannot establish the veracity of the theory but it did get me thinking. Our front garden is reasonably tidy but needs new bedding plants and moss removed from the path. The back garden continues to be a work in progress. The soil has been turned over and shrubs pruned but much more is needed. It once looked fabulous but is undergoing a major overhaul. With a bit of effort and some cash it will be a wonderful oasis again.

If the ambulance man's theory is correct or has even a grain of truth in it the whole family will need to lend a hand to get things in order. I'm confident that in time our gardens will say good things about us.

Busby Berkeley eat your heart out!

Last night I went with friends to see a local AmDram production of the much loved musical, 42nd Street. A work colleague is a member of the chorus so we were showing support. I'd gone for two reasons - I loved the professional production I saw a few years back in the capital and this local Am Dram company enjoys a good reputation.

Now I haven't seen any previous productions but unfortunately this one was memorable for all the wrong reasons. Quite apart from problems with the poorly managed sound system, the casting was either ironic or misjudged.

The chap playing the wolfish Billy Lawler was as camp as a row of tents.
The Two Hoods and their Victim struggled with US accents. They were less New York, more New Kelty. Think Broadway via Ballingry.
Three of the principal dancers looked as if they had eaten the choreographer and half the orchestra [including the instruments]. Having said that, they flung their legs about gamely although their dancing skills were almost overshadowed by the very large, unfettered bosoms careering about in their leotards.

It was all very enthusiastically delivered. The ensemble pieces were great and the performances of the two female leads were super. I might be tempted to go again. It's like savouring a huge piece of cheese without the calorific cost.

Maybe I should mention that to the dancers...

Motivation, motivation, motivation

Since none of our student sons is currently gainfully employed, you'd be forgiven for thinking they'd be doing lots of odd jobs around the house. Not so, dear reader. "We're on holiday too" they cry, petted lips at the ready. The bedrooms are dark, junk infested hovels I dare not enter. His Nibs insists that the more we do for them, the less they'll do for themselves. He has a point but their inertia/grunge tolerance level is significantly higher than mine. If left to their own devices the house would explode. Or I will...

So the question is not, "How do we get them to change their wicked grot generating ways?" but "How do we get them to do what we want them to do with resorting to cattle prods and water cannon?".

Yesterday, I did the unthinkable - I asked them nicely. Normally this doesn't work but I had a trick up my sleeve. I fed them their favourite lunch first. I then adopted a you're-both-so-much-stronger-than-me attitude and steered them in the direction of the garden. Thereafter, they set about digging and clearing in good fashion. The bedrooms are still junk infested hovels but the garden has been revolutionised. All the donkey work has been done, leaving me free to finish off.

Result!!!

I'll do the bedrooms myself when they've gone out socialising with their equally slothish mates.

Now, how do I get them to obtain paid employment without screeching "GET A JOB!!!!"...????

Lances at the ready

Time for a test drive dear reader.

Our showroom saga continues

We once again had the little bowing salesman beetling back and forth getting an assortment of data and car keys while we mulled things over.
The first car we test drove [which His Nibs was initially very keen on] turned out to be a tad claustrophobic. This was ironic because we had fully intended to downsize. This car, however, turned out to be a downsize too far.

So, having gone on the shortest test drive imaginable His Nibs took us all back to the showroom to rethink the whole downsizing thing.
We had a wee wander round the lot and fell upon another [much larger]car to test drive. It had a lot more bells and whistles and, therefore,it cost more. So then we adopted joust positions. I mean, we did like little bowing man but he was a salesman and we were customers so a purchasing joust was inevitable.

We were invited into the shiny, buffed showroom for a shiny, buffed coffee while he did that one finger typing thing. Once all our details were laboriously keyed in he nipped out twice - allegedly to check details and have someone called 'Gary' to print them off for him. I think he was having a fly chat with his manager or a comfort break. He certainly didn't return with any printouts. Maybe 'Gary' had suffered some catastrophic injury whilst preparing the printouts and had to be airlifted to hospital from the car lot. Who knows.

In any event, the car had a price on it. A big price. Strike one to bowing man. We had the geriatric Ugly Bug as part exchange. The price didn't shrink much. At all. Strike two to bowing man. We countered with a series of questions on spec and reliability. Strike for the home team! Then we did the 'Here's my limit'-and-walk-away thing. That seriously wounded bowing man. He offered to find us similar within our price range. Beads of perspiration dripped from his lance. [Sounds Freudian that, sorry]

We walked away, armour and honour intact.

He rang us before we'd left the car park with another offer. We'll let him sweat a bit and joust with a few other salesmen before we claim our prize...

Are we there yet?

For one reason and another we haven't been away on a 'proper' family holiday for a couple of years so when the boys asked for one recently it was a pleasant surprise. They'd made it clear in the past that they preferred to head off with their friends instead of their boring old parents. We suspect that since none of them is earning, the reason for this change is entirely financial but nevertheless we are excited to revisit the happy Doherty clan holidays of yore.

We've had some eventful holidays in our time:

a terrifying caravan holiday in Scotland where His Nibs shredded his arm rescuing a toddler son who decided to step off a grass sledge at 40 MPH

a 'quaint chalet holiday' in Ireland which turned out to be a shed over a septic tank. [His Nibs, out of misplaced Irish loyalty, will deny this as an exagerration]

a wonderful holiday in Canada tainted by a trip to a colonial heritage site full of unfamiliar plants which triggered a hayfever attack so pronounced I narrowly avoided a trip to A and E, leaving me slit eyed and swollen faced for two days. Fantastic.

With all these delightful memories bobbling around in my head I've been looking at brochures galore. Croatia, Crete, Italy and France... Where to go? The boys are at an age where the usual family destinations are a bit childish but they probably would tire of museums, art galleries and other cultural highlights quite quickly. Their father certainly would. Sigh.

In the meantime I'm enjoying perusing the options. We'll likely end up going somewhere completely unexpected but I'll be taking full first aid kit, antihistamine and extra cash for a speedy getaway. Just in case!

The Quest

When was the last time you bought a car? Our current car was bought four years ago and it's getting to the stage where bits are conking out, dropping off or bursting outright. The car's not in great shape either.
So, His Nibs and I went to trawl the local car sales rooms for ideas and potential replacements for our car, affectionately known as The Ugly Bug. The propect of a new car was quite exciting.
The first showroom had the obligatory cars tipped up on ramps thing going on - all shiny and buffed. It must be company policy because the sales team were equally shiny and buffed. It was all very Stepford.
We left in search of the unbuffed but hopefully sincere salesman. Is there such a breed?
The next place had only a few of its cars up on ramps and the others were dotted about the car lot, like little cherries ripe for the picking. We ambled about happily until a little, middle aged man appeared out of nowhere [as salesmen do]to ask if we needed anything. We replied we were just browsing for ideas and he withdrew backwards like a character from the King and I. I liked that. We should have more bowing on car lots. Yes, less buffing and more bowing.
Anyway, the little man disappeared and left us to it. Very wise. I hate being hassled to buy something.
Right on cue up pops another salesman. All buffed and shiny. The manager no less. [He must have escaped from the Stepford showroom] He slotted into 'Sell these dozy nitwits something. Anything.' mode right in front of me. Lots of questions oozed from his lips to form a puddle at my feet. He was the living embodiment of sales techniques. His name badge all but throbbed with intent. Yuck. I countered with 'Teacher glare' on full beam. He retreated, muttering something about stats and just in the office if you need me...

Two thirds round the lot we were set upon by a 3rd salesman who might have been the lovechild of Jack Nicholson and Santa Claus. He was freakishly jolly. Lots of wild eyes, wide smiles, and ho ho ho ing going on. When we told him we were just looking he replied 'That's allowed. Look away. No charge for that. In fact, today's so cold we should be paying YOU to look...'

Um, ok, whatever you say mate.

We all but sprinted back to the start whereupon little bowing man reappeared to offer keys, his card and a test drive at our convenience. His colleagues hovered on the horizon like vampire bats.

Things are clearly very slow in the car industry. Loads of car sales locally. We might yet bag a real bargain, if our nerves aren't shot to hell in the process.

Re: cycling

Today the spring sunshine and the prospect of two week's holiday prompted me to get astride a bike. No big deal I hear you say but for me, it was a major feat. It's been more than two decades since my bottom graced [!?] a saddle so the bike and I took a minute or two to get acquainted. This was a freecycle bike and it was clearly used to a more experienced rider.
This saddle was meant for smaller, tighter butts. A real cyclist's butt. It decided to teach me a lesson. The bike speared me like a harpoon does a whale. It's hard to cycle whilst being impaled.
It's fair to say that my memories of cycling were somewhat rose tinted.
In days gone by I was photographed elegantly pedalling along the coast; hair flowing like a L'Oreal commercial, cool cheeked and bright eyed. A vision of composure and grace.

Today anyone daring to photograph my scarlet face, helmet hair and heaving chest would have met a sticky end. Actually perhaps not. I wasn't fit to speak, far less assault any passing papparazzi. I must have looked like an anti smoking campaign.

At one point I walked my bike up a steep hill [well, steep for me]and met with a withering look from a child on a trike. And no, I'm not making any of this up. Stoically, I adjusted my helmet and continued walking despite the urge to give up and phone for rescue by His Nibs in the batmobile.

Happily, I eventually found a flat stretch so I got on again. This time the bike decided to introduce me to the mysteries of gear changing. My previous bike, a three ton tank - sorry... a Raleigh shopper with bags and baskets galore, had 3 gears. I repeat - 3 gears.
Plenty.
I mean, why on earth have 18 gears??? It's not right. Not for me anyway. I had a choice:- direction or gear changing. I couldn't quite master both. Not today. I almost fell in hedges twice. My legs were spinning so wildly my jeans nearly caught in the chain. Not a good look for anyone. Passing drivers were slowing down to ogle and smirk. I think they were friends of the bike.
By the end of this forty minute ride I needed tea and Victoria sponge to recover. It was a cake emergency.
Honest.

The bike was left to snigger in the hut till the next sortie.