There has been no beer in the house for weeks. This is not due to any sort of regime change, just merely the fact that supermarket visits have been infrequent and thoughts have not occurred to me at the appropriate times.
Last night, shortly after 10pm, it all got too much for me. Karen and I were in the kitchen in our dressing gowns, and she was hanging out the laundry on the clothes horse. I put my foot down, and told her that we were going to get dressed and go to the pub.
She realised the brownie points that she would gain by accompanying me, and ten minutes later we were in the Fag and Firebucket, a pint of Bee Sting for me, a shot of Morgan’s spiced rum for her.
There was a pool table. It was unoccupied. We made it ours. We played on the table.
Steady on, Adrian.
Having only taken out £9 with me, we found that after two games of pool there was no longer enough in the kitty for two drinks, so we came home.
Abandoned on the pavement outside our gate was a bicycle. A child’s bicycle.
Long time readers of my work will know what happens when you introduce a child’s bicycle into my life. If you fall into this category, feel free to post lots of knowing comments. If you don’t know what I’m on about, feel free to be overwhelmed by your curiosity, inquisitiveness and all-round nosiness. I know how much you want to know. Yes. Calm down.
We stood over the bicycle for a minute, looking around as far as the eye could see. When we’d ascertained that there was no plausible owner within visible distance, we decided to move the bicycle away from the gate and lean it up against our front wall, and review the situation in the morning.
This morning, the bicycle had been moved. It had been moved from a position leaning against our front wall (where we left it) to a position leaning against our gate (where we definitely didn’t leave it).
Someone is either playing a little trick on us, or really really wants us to have this bicycle.
Here’s my theory:
Five years and one day ago, a little girl was riding her bike along our road, when she was hit by an estate agent driving a BMW with a mobile phone pressed against his ear whilst listening to Spandau Ballet and saying things like “Ya” and “Ciao” and fantasising about his wife licking Pamela Anderson’s nipples seductively.
Woah there, Adrian.
The little girl was killed instantly, but her spirit didn’t make a clean break from this mortal coil, and still roams restlessly to this day.
By placing a bicycle outside our front gate, she is trying to persuade Karen and I to have a brat, which she can then possess, allowing her to live again.
It’s only a theory.
Sweet dreams, readers.
So what where you doing on the pool table exactly?
What was the name of that hilarious estate agents operating in your area, again? I suspect there was a “pump” in there somewhere, but I forget the rest…
Vanderpump and Wellbeloved
*Makes mental note to get out less.*
As I was walking home this evening, a little girl was riding her bike in the middle of the street. She still had the training wheels on as she wobbled and struggled to peddle. It reminded me of when I was little and how badly I wanted a bicycle but couldn’t get one. My parents wouldn’t let me have a bike until I was 12; my mom was too afraid I’d hurt myself. I’d pass the bike section in the store and just look, having given up asking my parents about it long ago. I eventually did get one after much pleading and begging. Amazingly, getting my driver’s license at 16 and the subsequent borrowing of the family car passed without incident.
It’s as though Vanderpump & Wellbeloved are a local tourist attraction. I have no recollection of pointing it out to Lyle, but clearly it has made a strong impression.
… hang on a minute? Did Pete just suggest that we start a family? But how will I find time to write a weblog if I have children to look after?
It’s more that I’ve seen their signs all over the place while down in Reading, and the name does kind of stick in the memory.
Or at least it does in one as sad as I…
Oh yes, Bloke drops hints, chick has sprog.
Mein other half has given up smoking (bastard…) and is now convionced not only that smoking lowers the sperm count but also causes (relative) impotency. Now I have to cope with a broom handle every morning, and someone who wants me to engage in lesbian relationships so that he can impregnate every woman in sight.
And I’m supposed to take this seriously?
Pffft.
Giggle.
I believe that a computer user would refer to Gert’s last comment as a “sharing violation”.