Michael and Selby

No, I can’t tell you what the food pilot is called. It’s not that it’s bad luck. It’s just that I’m not allowed to say anything. But thanks for your good wishes.
This morning I drove my daughter to Paddington. The traffic was catastrophic. We made it but I had to stop in a wine bar and borrow their restroom. Not literally – I left it fitted to the wall.
I had my pink Crocs on and slipped on the floor, landing on my knee. One of the regular drinkers looked at me and pondered as to whether to knight me with his ham baguette. He offered his hand instead.
I drove home in the teeming rain dodging all the traffic by taking what is a now a familiar route, West-ish, thanks to LBC.
I ate a lot, and continued to do so on the way back to Sussex, stopping off in Gypsy Hill for a spot or two of chocolate. I never normally eat it but the last week has reduced my strength and a good boost of milk chococrap really did the trick. Hello to the woman in the offy.
When I got into the suburbs of T’Wells I got lumbered behind a little white Robin Reliant.
I thought about how I never really watched ‘Only Fools and Horses’ as that kind of comedy ‘classic’ used to irritate me. I thought about how I could call the little white RR ‘Trotters’ something or other but felt it would be fraudulent since I don’t know the series that well…

Then I got extremely arsy as they were going about 14 miles an hour and I was beginning to fall asleep at the wheel. So, I overtook them by the butchers and looked back in my rear view mirror. There, stuck on the windscreen, as bold as brass, in good old sticky backed plastic was the name of the driver and his consort – Michael and Selby.
When I told Jim, he asked me whether they were gay. I couldn’t really see into the cab as the rain had been raining and everything was murky. But Selby looked awfully small in the passenger seat, so it may have been a woman or a very small geezer, whilst Michael sat straight backed and completely oblivious of the chaos around him.
Slow drivers really are the curse of Tunbridge Wells. Not content with being disgusted, they are often disqualified for being distracting on the road.
I bent down lower, better to see in my mirror, so I could get a really good glimpse of Selby. I wanted to see what the owner of such an unusual handle looked like. But I nearly ran over a fox. Selby, if you ever read this blog, give us your details please, and remind Michael he needs to drive a tad faster – he is not a milk float.
I finally arrived home, safe but flustered. Jackson was so happy to see me whilst Emmy meowed until I fed her – twice. The garden is very green, the flowers are mostly dead, some apples have been blown off the trees but the lushness is, well, lush.
Apart from a letter for BB demanding important documents for her grant – she has missed the deadline – ruddy students, the post was pretty benign. Although my phone bill from the States was humungus. Well, I knew it would be. It always feels worse when the deed is done and you’re home again. If I had remained silent and just thought about Jim as opposed to talking to him, we would be quids in. But then, if my auntie Becky had Gonads, she would have been uncle Becky.
Jim is driving back after the show tonight. We’ll have a lie in then enjoy the cottage for a day.
I’m staying here this week, so I think it’s time I started writing. My book is singeing – how to you spell that burning word? – on the back burner.
I have no idea what is going to be thrown at me next. This living in the moment, apart from demanding choclit, is fab. I can do whatever I want. And so I shall.
It’s 20.28. I shall settle down to some calls from girlie friends. I should have gone to a hen night tonight but by the time I got home I was clucking knackered.
That’s it. Short, brief and fitting for for a Saturday night in. If you had water problems, I hope you are coping. TTFN & CUSoon.