I’m not saying it was cold and icy tonight but…
I took some stuff out to the recycling bin, which is round the front of the house ready for it to be whisked away on the morrow.
I took it out in a washing basket because there was quite a bit of it and I only have two human hands. And it was cold. So I didn’t want to do multiple trips.
I decided to make the most of the fact that, sometime next week, the car will be going and replaced with a new shiny one, and put the basket of stuff on the roof of the car while I fought with the bin lid, which had iced shut, and also the branches of the fir tree which were hindering any chances to open the bin.
Basket on the car.
Turn around to open the bin.
Boom. Hit by the basket of recycling, as if it has been flung by a ghost. Except it’s not a ghost – unless it was filmed and featured on the Slapped Ham YouTube channel in which case it definitely was a ghost because there COULD NOT BE ANY OTHER EXPLANATION.
Now, me putting the recycling out has turned into a game of skill.
I’m having to find the point at which the car roof doesn’t slope and/or the point at which the slope of the car roof is offset by the weight distribution of the basket.
I got none of that.
All I got was a basket sliding around all over the shop. It was like the car was trying to prove how much fun it still is even though it’s definitely on its last legs and, if push came to shove, those legs wouldn’t necessarily be able to stop it if, say, it was going down a hill. But this was the playful car that we had come to know and love. Earlier in the week it’d been the twat of a car as it refused, point blank to allow a bag of stuff I had collected from within the car to balance on the seat, choosing instead to tip it over and spill the contents onto the pavement.
But now it was the fun car. Look at me, it seemed to say, you can have endless hours of fun with me when I’m all icy. Except on hills. That would be lethal. I mean, we all fondly remember that time it was icy when I set off for work and slid into the car from the pathway to the house and all anyone ever asked me was whether the car was alright.
But then, if we were going to be having endless hours of fun with it, there’s no way I would have been allowed to put the basket on the roof in the first place for fear of scratching or whatever.
I’m more surprised, in all honestly, that I put the basket on the roof and it slid towards me. The way the universe normally goes for me, it would have slid the other way, unbeknownst to me, and the first I’d have known of it would have been the sound of tin cans skittering across the road surface closely followed by the word “fuck!” echoing round the neighbourhood.