Carole went out this morning to deliver some wash bag thingamaguffins to a local NHS place being the caring and compassionate soul she is.
She left the house, drove away and within a minute the phone rang.
This is never good.
This always means there’s something wrong with the car. Always.
I answered the phone.
“There’s something wrong with the car…”
See? Told you.
“It’s making an awful dragging noise…”
I assumed it would be a football because, you know, feral children are super feral at the moment (although mainly nocturnal) because they don’t have anything to do. Including, I would hesitate a guess, any school work whatsoever because they’re shits. But anyway, it was not a football.
Carole thought it might be a cat. It was not a cat.
It was, in Carole’s words, a massive branch.
I set off to walk up the road to where she’d pulled over to help her extricate the branch.
I got to the end of our road and she rang to say a nice man had helped her.
So off she went on her NHS mercy run.
She came back. And revealed, in dramatic fashion, the massive branch.
Now, I’m not saying that Carole is prone to exaggeration – there was the leak in the bathroom where water was “pouring down the walls” which turned out to be one thin slow drip trail, and that time the car had “six inches of snow on it” and I went out with a ruler to show her how it was nowhere near six inches.
The branch was what would best be described as a twig.
A big twig at best.
The lengths this girl will go to to get me out of the house are ridiculous…