The Story So Far

It seems to me that my destiny is to be the ‘eternal sufferer’.

No matter what I do; what precautions I take, things are just meant to go wrong.

There was the long saga with my rust-bucket car (deceased), the fence (twice), the guttering on the house (I haven’t told you about that, have I?), the laptop (throws tantrums like a petulant teenagers) and my desktop PC (oldoldoldoldold!) and now the garage wall.

Let me tell you about that wall…

It is an old … very old ,,, crack in the brickwork that dates back more than fifteen years, which is as long as my wife has lived here.

It was never repaired properly (according to the surveyor) but was masterly disguised by someone with an artistic bent.  When the missus bought this place it had been made to look just like any other wall.

Now, after all this time a rather large leak in the garage roof has revealed this wall to be, in fact, a forgery!

Ok. It’s too late to run to the previous owner (long dead,I’m afraid) and punch him in the face, so we braced ourselves for the worst.

Our  garage has an outer and an inner roof. The inner is just a number of one inch boards sealed together and fixed above the joists supporting the whole roof.  Above that is the outer roof. This one is also made up of one inch boards but water proofed, leaded and tarred. It has a life span (so I’m told) of up to fifteen years.

Sadly, it would appear that that fifteen years has long since passed and our waterproofed roof has gone to ‘garage roof heaven’ allowing all of the roof boards to slowly soak up water.  It has taken a long time but now the water, seeking an escape route, has begun to destroy the previous owners artwork allowing us to see the damaged wall.

Quotes fro the repair work are coming in thick and fast!

The work the are specifying ranges from stripping the roof down to the rafters and totally re-roofing to simply applying a heavy duty one-piece rubber sheet.

The rubber sheet seems to be favourite price-wise but, on the other hand, for £1900 we could have a new roof.

What do you think?

To other news now …

You may have heard that snowflakes have been seen in Britain!

The ensuing chaos has been widely reported and once again made us (Brits) look like bunch of idiots.

        Snowflakes here,
        Snowflakes there,
        A Country in chaos,
        Every-f***ing-where!

BLUCK!

Well hello there!

Welcome to the New Year!

Pull up a weekend and make yourself comfortable.

Take the weight off and let's gnaw over the bones of the year that was.

Was it all that you expected?  Nah, mine neither. I seem to recall rather too many things going wrong, costing money or just generally pissing me off  as opposed to anything happening that could, even in a half-hearted way, be described as being good.

No, no ... that's not strictly true, if I think on it. Some really good things did happen but, hey, this isn't an X-rated blog, so I can't tell you!

But on the whole ... it wasn't a good year.

My car ... the one that was always just a tyre tread away from disaster ... died! I was forced to run around like a headless chicken trying to find an affordable replacement within a week, or face losing a lot of money.

No car, no work!

January 12 started off with my garden fence panels (6' X 6') being blown to smithereens by gale force winds. £400-£500 repair costs.

March saw my soon to be deceased vehicle's suspension popping it's mount (£300, but could have been worse).

April ...

Oh God this is so depressing!

Gnaw over you own year. Mine is making me feel ill!

Oh, and this year hasn't started too well either.

I forgot to put my numbers on for the midweek lotto yesterday!

Guess who would have had 4 correct numbers and BOTH bonus numbers?

OK, so it wasn't the jackpot but would have been a nice little sum.

Lady Luck really hates me.

But never mind, eh!

I still have my blog-frie...

Hey?

Where'd everybody go?

(BLUCK = Bad Luck)

Old Age Road Rage

Sometimes it can be hard work trying to think of something to write.

I don't have that 'tick-tock' kind of mind that can, at the drop of a hat and with little inspiration,  rattle off something that will interest or amuse those unfortunate enough to actually land on my blog.

(As an aside, I was view my stats and checking out exactly where my 'readers' were coming from, I was slightly embarrassed to find that quite a number visited me via a ladies underwear page ... which, by the way, had a great range in see-through nightwear, knickers resembling tissues and push-up bra's that could make a woman look as if she were sporting a matching pair of goitres.)

I take my inspiration, as advised so long ago by several readers, from my surroundings and from my daily encounters with lesser mortals or from my family and dogs.

Today, whilst driving home after having just completed a shopping expedition which, thankfully, did not burn a hole in my pocket, I encountered the demon driver form Hell.

As I drove along, minding my own business, an oncoming car pulled across my lane.  I slammed on the brakes and liberally coated the road surface with rubber!

I stopped so abruptly that my naked troll-angel good luck charm broke free from it's fastening, bounced off the windscreen and flew back, hitting me square between the eyes.

I fumed, as you would imaging, and was ready for a spot of road rage!

As I stared daggers at the driver of the other vehicle my inner savage beast was calmed as I saw, almost hidden behind the steering wheel of her car, a tiny blue-haired and bespectacled old lady looking back at me.

She had stopped diagonally across my lane in shock, or so I thought!

Appearances can be deceptive and when what I thought was a harmless and remorseful old lady got out of her car, I learned just how deceptive they could be.

"Didn't you f*&king see me indicating, you idiot?"

I was struck dumb.

I expected to have to turn on the sympathy for a shocked old dear, but instead I was harangued!

I tried to diplomatically explain that indicating her direction of travel does not give her the right to turn across another lane unless said lane is clear.

"Don't you f*&king tell me how to f*&ing drive! I've been f*&ing driving since before you were f*&ing born!".  She was on the verge of hitting me with her handbag.

My experience of old ladies told me that after the rant would come the flood of tears followed by a  requirement for some kind words and comfort.

But this old bird hadn't read the 'Grannies Handbook'!

She questioned my parentage!!!

She used her forefinger as a weapon, jabbing me in the shoulder several times.

She was only 5 foot tall if she was an inch, so she had to stretch.

And I stood there, dumbfounded, and took it!

I didn't know what else to do short of giving her a knuckle sandwich!

Traffic was building up behind my car at this point but she continued to rant.

"You could have f*&ing killed me! Do you hate old people? Do you?"

A man from the car directly behind me joined the fray.

He explained, as I had, the rules of the road pertaining to crossing over the on-coming traffic lane.

"Oh!" she said.

She never bloody screamed at him! Why didn't she scream at him?

Anyway, placated somewhat, she returned to her car and started the engine.  But as I returned to my car I noticed her passenger window rolling down.

I saw her lean over and look out as she slowly moved away.

"Wan&er!"  she shouted and was gone.

I know, I know!  I should have written down her number and reported the daft old besom to the police ... but I was stunned!

She was in her late 80's ... maybe even in her 90's ... and she was ranting and blaming me for her mistake.

And all I wanted to do was a bit of shopping then enjoy the rest of my day off!

Mind you ... blog fodder is blog fodder however you find it!

Sym: How the Bond Was Forged

One day in late June of 2005, after several months of wheedling and moaning, my wife finally gave in to my request for a dog.

Not just any dog, either. I wanted a Border Collie!

Needless to say, within moments of her resistance crumbling and giving me the go-ahead, I was trawling the internet looking for someone selling puppies.

Most available Border Collie puppies were in distant regions of Wales or in England; too far to drive easily, so I turned my attention to the local newspaper small ads. Almost immediately an ad leapt out at me: ‘Border Collie puppies to good homes. £100’

Of course, I was straight on the phone. The excitement of a schoolboy awaiting the start of the school summer holidays was rising inside of me and I’m pretty sure that I made a very poor job of concealing it as I made an appointment to see the puppies.

The farmer (for they were farm puppies) on the other end of the phone must have immediately known he had already made a sale.

So, two days later, we went to Merthyr Tydfil to see, and hopefully select, a puppy.

The farm was located in the valley below the Merthyr Tydfil Mountain Railway. On the drive up there I managed to keep my boyish enthusiasm under control but, as we drove down the county lane and approached the farm, I felt me excitement resurface and had the feeling of butterflies in my stomach. I felt as I once did as a child on the eve of my birthday! I just know I was going home with a dog!

I have to admit that Julie, my wife, was taking this all rather well. She was all “let’s wait and see” and “Let’s be sensible about this” but I could tell she was a little excited too. She was hiding it well, but she was excited. I know it!

As we pulled into the farmyard we could see a Spaniel and a Border collie lying by a barn door, but no puppies.

The farmer came out to greet us and after some brief introductions, he led us to the barn and opened the half door.

Out came mum and her six puppies. There were two typical black and white pups and four grey and white. All of the grey and white pups had parallel white spots running down their backs making them look like plump, fluffy dominoes. One of them had a pink nose!

The farmer left us for a while to play with the puppies and to make a selection.

We knew what was supposed to happen now ... the right puppy would choose us, and not we the puppy.

So we let them mill around our feet and stroked and patted. They engaged in puppy rough and tumble and for the most part ignored us. Mum, having found us unworthy of interest, took herself off to a tractor in one of the out buildings and lay underneath it next to a bulldog that we had previously not noticed.

One by one the puppies left us to follow mum until we were left alone in the farmyard.

Or so we thought.

Behind us the puppy with the pink nose sat calmly and looked us up and down.

Julie bent down and offered a hand for him to sniff.

He sniffed.

He came closer and sat at our feet looking up, his tail was wagging.

He was not the biggest of the puppies, but he certainly wasn’t the smallest. His flanks were grey, his chest white and down his back a thin black stripe and the white domino spots.

His nose was almost entirely pink.

His beautiful brown eyes our gaze and we knew there and then that we had just been selected to be his new family!

A short time later ‘puppy’ (for he had not yet become Sym) sat in a cardboard box on my lap as Julie drove us towards the A470 and home.

Most of the journey was spent with ‘puppy’ resting his front paws on the lip of the box and looking out of the window wagging his tail. Every so often he turned his attention to me, climbing out of his box and giving me a lick on the chin.

This was all so new to him; new people, a car journey and someone to lick!

His head became heavy, his eyes closed and he slept in my arms until we arrived home.

As Julie parked the car he awoke. He looked me square in the face then leapt.

His front paws landed on my shoulders and his tongue assaulted my face.

At that moment I knew that I loved that puppy.

At that moment he became ‘my dog’.

At that moment the unbreakable bond between us was forged.

TWANG!!!

There are times ... hard times ... when I feel stressed.

You would never know when one of these 'times' was upon me ... unless you were very, very unlucky ... as I have become very adept at keeping it all bottled up.

But it seems that sometimes life and all it's horrors (that creep up on me like a very quietly charging bull elephant) are out to get me!

These are the times that my elasticated sanity is stretched almost to snapping point only to be thankfully twanged back into some semblance of normality, leaving me with a huge feeling of relief, in very much the same way as a first time bungee jumper will feel relieved when they realise that the bungee cord IS going to hold them after all.

Today is one of those days!

But I'm still waiting for the TWANG !

My dog has cancer!  My car is once again off the road!  Money is scarce!

And I don't have many friends (not everyone likes my sense of humour)!

And I just hate everybody and everything!

......

Ok! So I've just taken a short break from writing. I've had a coffee and trawled the internet for more pictures that I can add captions to,  and ... TWANG!!! ... I'm feeling a little bit better!

My problems are not gone, but I do feel a little bit more capable of dealing with them.

Common sense tells me I should now delete this post and keep my little secret but logic tells me that I wouldn't feel a little bit more able to cope if I hadn't actually started to write it all down.

So it's here to stay.

Of course, it could be all just down to watching all those women giving themselves wedgies whilst running in the final leg of the Triathlon on TV that cheered me up.

It Never Rains, But It Pours

Sym, Sox and Clover

Within the space of a few months Sox has become old!

It began with her food.  At times, she couldn't, or wouldn't, eat what was put before her ... even her favourite meal of tripe. 

Over the last six to eight weeks she has lost a lot of weight ... down from 20 kilos to12.5 ... and her back legs have become stiff with arthritis.  She can no longer sit, as she once did, to receive a treat. She spends her days walking slowly after me wherever I go or sleeping.

Now things are moving from bad to worse.

She is becoming increasingly more confused and, at times, seems to forget where she is or what it was she was about to do. At other times she seems to be her usual self, albeit stiffer.

Last night, for short periods, she seemed to lose a little control over her back legs and was very unstable. At 2.50 am we heard her cries of distress. I went downstairs and found her sprawled on the floor in a puddle of her own pee. I helped her back to her feet and cleaned both her and the floor up. From that moment on, she seemed fine and even took a turn around the garden. This morning, there are no signs of the instability that she displayed last night, but I fear that it will return. Soon, maybe very soon, we will have to make that sad decision help her 'over the Bridge'.

Sym, as I have written about before, has Lymphoma. He has had two courses of treatment over the last year and a half and, as I have also previously reported, only achieved partial remission after his last treatment .

At the moment, his lymph nodes are swollen but his condition is being held in check be a course of steroids.

It seems that there is nothing we can do now but give him the best possible care until the day comes when we have to make a decision to end his suffering too.

Clover ... a sweet and sensitive dog ... will then be alone.

And I worry greatly about that!

Clover, no longer a young dog ... we think she was about 8 or 9 years old when we got her in 2009 ... spent most of her early years locked in the kennels of a puppy breeder in God knows what kind of conditions, and when she arrived here as a foster dog, was accompanied by a whole host of problems. She was afraid of the outdoors. She was scared of parked cars and terrified by moving ones. White vans would make her stop as if paralysed. She would be sick at the very notion of actually getting into a vehicle. Sudden movements or the raising of an arm would make her cringe.

It became very quickly apparent that she was not the kind of dog that most people would want to adopt. 

So, as she seemed to like Sox and Sym, we kept her.

She has always taken her lead from Sox and treats her as ... excuse the expression, dog lovers ... as the Alpha female. She is also devoted to Sym and will follow him anywhere and everywhere. Through both Sym and Sox she has gained a confidence that allows her now to look forward to short car journeys, a walk, a visit to the park and a cuddle with her 'daddy' on the sofa.

She will follow them around the house and settle close to where they settle; always seeking their company; always seeking the comfort they provide.

And I worry about how she will cope when they are no longer around.

How I will cope? 

I know we will both find it hard!

Weeves And Jooster

Jooster climbed off the billiard table and strolled, stretching as he went, into the hallway.

"Dash it, Weeves! Can't a man snatch forty winks without being disturbed by that constant bally racket?" he said to his man servant,Weeves, who was approaching from the direction of the staff quarters.

"Sadly, sir, it would appear to be, as Mr Spud, the wurg wangler had informed me, 'normal behaviour' for the gentry in these parts" answered Weeves.

"What?" exclaimed Jooster. "But there were people screaming! I heard an ambulance earlier on and I thought I heard shots fired! And someone was bouncing around on a bed upstairs like a child on a trampoline! Normal?"

"Indeed, sir. The country gentry do have their 'little foibles', sir".

"Foibles, ay Weeves?. What would they be exactly?" asked Jooster.

"Well, sir, I gather from Mrs Purgatory, the cook, that young Edward, the boot boy, was once again discovered in the room of Miss Hipple, the housekeeper. She caught him wearing a pair of her bloomers, sir!"

"That would be the screaming in theWest Wing, I take it?"

"Very astute, sir".

"So the screams would be of the boy, Edward, being punished, would it?"

"Oh, no sir! Miss Hipple does indeed have a penchant for the slapping of unruly bottoms, but I fear on this occasion, it is was young Edward doing the slapping and Miss Hipple, the screaming"

"By jove, Weeves!"

"Quite, sir. A most unusual form of punishment, I agree, but very satisfying ... erm, so I've been led to believe,sir".

"And the ambulance, Weeves?  said Jooster.

"Old Mr Bracegirdle, the gardener, sir. An accident in the rose garden".

"And the shots?"

"Old Mr Bracegirdle again I fear, sir.  His Lordship recently purchased a new shotgun and he was keen to try it out, sir, hence the accident in the garden and the ambulance".

"I say! He shot the gardener?"

"Not at first, sir. He didn't actually score a hit until Mr Bracegirdle became ensnared in the Noisette."

"The what?"

"Roses, sir!"

"And what, by heavens, was all that racket in the room above the billiard room? The bouncing and shouting?"

"That, sir, would have been James, the footman, and Charlotte, the chambermaid, in Lady Agatha's bedroom. I believe, to use the common vernacular, James was, in fact, 'giving her one', sir!"

"One what?"

Weeves made a gesture.

"Oh! I say! Lady Agatha will blow a bally gasket!"

"She may well indeed, sir, but I fear that will only be the case should she run out of film".

"Film, Weeves?"

"Yes, sir. Lady Agatha is at this very moment indulging in her favourite pastime".

"Which is?"

"Home movies, sir".

"You mean ..."

"In her bedroom, sir, yes".

"Damn it, Weeves!"

"Sir?"

"These country folk are too strange for my liking! Car, Weeves! We're going back to London!"

"I have already taken the liberty of packing your Inflatable Ingrid and gels, sir!"

"Good man, Weeves! What would I do without you!"

"One shudders to think,sir. One positively shudders, sir!"

They Lied!

I have been assured, by people who purport to know these things, that bad things come in threes

They Lie!

The scum bags!

Bad thing's come in ones!

One after the other ... forever!

And ever!

I seem to have a target, as it were, on my back where bad luck is concerned.

As those of you who have been with me for some time may remember, I have always had car troubles.  Just when one problem was been dealt with, another one reared it's ugly, oil smeared head. You may also recall that I wrote about damage to house and property caused by high winds. And of course there was also the recent case of my dog Sym's lymphoma.

Well, there is still no silver lining to my black cloud of bad luck; no ray of sunshine seeking to warm the cockles of my heart (whatever that means).

You may already be wondering 'What's happened now?'.  I can hear the creaking of many (how many readers do I have?) swivel chairs as clearer screen views are sought.

Here's the latest!

My tyres need replacing ... far earlier than anticipated and without achieving the mileage they should have done.

Over night (Saturday to Sunday) there were once again gale force winds battering our house and garden (it may well have battered the homes and gardens of others. I didn't notice) and quite severe damage was caused to our fence (a rather large piece of which narrowly missed our kitchen window).

And, of course, there is Sym! His recent course of treatment resulted in only partial remission.

Now ... that's only three, I hear you say. And you would be right ... I can count.

But there's also ...

Sox (older dog) ... Ill
The lawnmower ... fuel leak!
The strimmer ... busted!
The hedge trimmer ... locked solid!
The DVD-recorder ... dead as a dodo!
The wife's PC ...well, OK! I killed that one.

And it goes on and on and on and on and on and ....

Need I say more?

Yes! They lied! They really did!

I'm A Luckless Motorist!

I hate my car.

I really, really hate my car!

Every time I get a little bit of money scraped together my car can be heard (by anyone that speaks fluent Car that is) screaming "Gimme dat cash!"

And it's happened again!

It's due a servicing ... fair enough!

All cars need to be kept in trim for the rigours of the highway.

But after booking a servicing slot the following happened;

1. The cigarette lighter (to power may satnav, charge my phone) gave up the ghost.
2. It began to miss-fire
3. An oil slick appeared on the driveway where my car stood 
4. My indicators (the indicator arm, not the lights) has decided not to work
5. The ignition sporadically decides not to play
6. The door seal on the rear passenger door has disintegrated

Now tell me ... is that fair?

There I was, expecting to have a bill for, oooooo, maybe £170 and then all that stuff goes wrong.

I am beginning to think that the world in general is out to get me!

Ok. Moving on.

I received an email of complaint from one of yesterday's late arrivals.

She seemed a little bit upset at missing the first part of the joke.

So, for all of those that couldn't be bothered to turn up on time for this, here's the first part of the joke again.

      There are two nuns in a bath.
    One said "Where's the soap?"

There you go.

Yes, I know it's an old one, but I am getting on a bit you know!

The Crow And The Short Fat Woman

It was a bloody big bird.

And I'm sure it was smiling at me. The kind of smile that could only have been the bird equivalent of "Heeeeeeeeere's Johnny"!

Yesterday I pulled onto the car park of the The Harvester pub in Penarth and parked near the entrance at the grass verge.  The crow appeared, as if from nowhere, and perched itself on the bonnet of my car.

It cocked it's head and peered at me.

And it smiled!

I was at least fifteen minutes too early to visit my next client (and let me tell you, this client doesn't do early!) so I had intended to just wait in the car and do a few sudoku puzzles.

But the crow landed and a staring match ensued.

It didn't take it's beady black eyes off  me.

Once or twice it partially unfurled it's wings or puffed-up it's feathers against the cold, but it's eyes never left mine.

This crow was a natural for a starring role in any re-make of Hitchcock's The Birds!

Eventually though, I had to get out. My client was waiting.  I expected the crow to fly off, but no!

It just stood there, spread his (or her) wings and said "Caw"!

I slammed the car door closed and looked at the crow. It hadn't moved.

"Think you're tough? Think you can scare me?" I asked the bird.

A voice behind me said "Are you f***ing talking to me?"

I turned and there, hands on hips, stood a short but incredibly fat woman.  She held a rather large brown handbag that she looked ready to swing.

"I was talking to the damned crow" I said, turning to indicate the bird.

It was gone!

"F***ing weirdo! she snapped as she waddled off.

Damned bird!

Heart-stopping Question

There is a question asked by children that can strike fear into the heart of some parents or grandparents.

I would, if pushed, hazard a guess that the dad's out there will fear this question more than the mum's.

D'ya wanna know what it is?

Yes, you've guessed it! It's "Where do babies come from?"

Anyway, that's the question, but that isn't what I wanted to discuss today.
Listen up and I'll tell you why I brought it up.

So, there we were ... waiting for a green light ... at a pedestrian crossing.
A young woman with baby in a pushchair had just pushed the button an was waiting to cross.
My client, a  young man with learning difficulties, had up to this point, had been silent.  He's not a talker and, when spoken to, produces little more than one word answers.   As we waited for the woman and child to cross and the lights to turn back in our favour, I noticed him begin to grin. He was about to give me one of those "Where do babies come from" moments.

"I know how she got her baby" he said as the woman crossed the road.

Oh-oh! I thought.  What's he going to come out with now?

I was somewhat shocked and taken aback by his statement and before I could respond I ran through all the possible permutations of how this dialogue would progress. Had he been watching dirty movies? Reading dirty books?

I tried to ignore the question and concentrated on the lights.  Change, please change I thought.

As the lights changed and I drove on, I still had not replied as I feared that the only place this conversation would go was down hill and into the gutter. But after a few minutes, just when I thought he'd forgotten all about it and I had relaxed, he said again "I know how she got her baby".

This time, before I could engage my brain and attempt to change the subject,  I asked "How?"

I feared the worst and tried to think of excuses that I could tell my boss in case she ever found out that I had a discussion with a client about sex.

With trepidation and butterflies fluttering around my stomach I feared the worst as he tried formulated his answer.

It took a while but, when it came, I breathed out hard and the butterflies in my stomach flew off to pasture new.

I hastily and readily agreed to what he said and steered the conversation to safer ground by asking him "Are we there yet?"

Now I can hear you all asking "What did he say? What did he say?"

Well, for those that haven't worked it out for themselves, this is what he said ...

"Jesus gave it to her!"

Alarms, Bladders And Road Rage

For most of us, the day begins with an annoying noise.

Our alarm clocks remind us bluntly that we don't deserve another minute in bed and we should get up or it'll get louder.

The slumber button is always so difficult to find when your eyelids are still pasted shut.

The effort of finding the button and pressing it, finally silencing that ear-piercing din, albeit only for five minutes, is sufficient to get your brain working just enough to register that your bladder is screaming out for attention.

There is a squirming and a wriggling under the quilt as you attempt to find a posture that would give your bladder another couple of cc's capacity and, after realising that No! You ain't gonna have an accident, you settle back down to your slumbers.

The alarm peeps or rings as again.

'That was never five minutes' you think as you waste precious sleeping time struggling to read the time, in stead of just pressing the slumber button again.  I think that everyone does this so they can catch their alarms cheating.

Your bladder is increasing it's pressure for attention.

The slumber button pressed for a second time, you settle back into your warm bed, but by now you are starting to get a little crabby because ... damn it! ... you work hard and need your sleep.

The insistence of your bladder reminding you that you are in desperate need of taking a leek is ... excuse the pun ... pi$$ing you off and, in that special way of 'holding on' that you developed as a child, you begin to jiggle your legs in the hope that sloshing the contents of your by now basketball-sized bladder, will ease the problem.

The alarm peeps or rings as again.

The pressure by now is horrendous and you are faced with a choice: vacate or flood?.

Fuming, you decide against the latter and head for the loo.

Be careful stepping over the remains of your alarm clock, won't you!

After a pee timed at 4  minutes and 13 seconds, during which "Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!" was sighed several times, you admit to yourself "I shouldn't have waited so long".

From here on in, it's going to be a 'down hill' kind of day.

A shower fails completely to 'pick you up' and dressing (all those straps and things!) is soooooooooo difficult as your eyes, still convinced you should be in bed, are half closed and convinced you are just having a nightmare.

Slouching downstairs  you are determined to strangle anyone with the balls to say "Good morning!" to you.

Cereals don't help either and that smell of bacon and coffee that your other half is preparing just makes you want to vomit.

Eventually you leave for work and you hear radio reports of loads of road-rage incidents happening all along the stretch of road you are travelling on.

Funny that you haven't seen any of them.

Perhaps you would if only .... "Get outta the way you fugging ass hole!  Up yours!" ... those others would drive ... "Ba$tards! I'll kick yer head off'f yer shoulders!" ... more  ...  "Yeah? You and who's army?" ... considerately.

What happened at work?

No! Not today.

Maybe I'll rub your nose in it another time ...

... Erm, you did get to work, didn't you?