Every Picture tells a Story

Every picture tells a story    

 

When the garage returned the car I was surprised to see the scuff mark on the wing mirror still there so presumably they just restored the damaged insides.  That is the only visible damage.

The insides must be quite complicated because they enable you to move the mirror from the driving seat any which way.  So clever but expensive to replace.

 

I used to do Talking Newspaper which meant driving to a village about ten miles away, often in the dark so MTL bought me the personal alarm.

Just recently I thought it best to have one for the night I walk back from the Wellington Inn - now the nights are drawing in.
I couldn’t find one in Minehead and then discovered my old one which had been hanging in the kitchen all the time.  Testing it - it still had the appalling screeching scream which threatens one’s ear drums.

 

This Tuesday was the evening meeting where we dine together.  Dining is rather overstating the case.  The Wellington is great value – popular with the holiday makers- god bless ‘em but it not the Ritz –as Kim would attest.  We were thin on the ground – just V our leader, P male and J male and I.

We had quite a jolly evening scoffing variously sausages and mash, chilli con carne, a very chocolaty pud and Belgian waffle with fruit compote and ice cream.
V’s car has failed its MOT so she asked P, who passes her village, if he would give her a lift which of course he was happy to do. She suggested that J who lives on a parallel lane to mine should walk me home and he agreed.

 

He has done once before but I like to be independent and always have the option of a taxi.  I had meant to walk, had my alarm and had stripped my bag of all but a few pounds and my lippie.  J would not think to offer – think Doc Martin – but happily agreed when it was suggested.  P has already been to tea which caused my grand-daughter to tell her father;

‘Grandma shouldn’t have these men in her house.’

 J and I had quite a strenuous walk up the lane –he walks very fast and has long legs.  I asked him if he would like a coffee – it was still quite early and he said he’d love a cup of tea. I fished in my handbag for my bunch of keys – they are clipped in my hand bag so unlocking is quite a knack – which I haven’t quite managed, we walked through the garage and as I fished for a different key our ears were assailed with this god awful screaming screech.  Dammit I forgot to tell you that it had stopped working, the last twice I had tested it.  Poor J‘s hair stood on end even more than it does normally and I frantically pressed it to switch it off.  No luck so I thrust it to J to try and dashed into the shed.

 

Why on earth is the light switch out of reach when the floor is littered with implements?  Suddenly I notice a wooden mallet –goodness knows where that came from.  I gave it to J and urged him to smash the smithereens out of the ghastly alarm.  Frantically we looked around for a safe surface and decided on the garage floor.  One mighty blow did the job and before you could say Jack Robinson we were sitting at the kitchen table sipping tea.  Neither of us were hungry and after a chat about our dearly loved spouses off James strode into the darkness.

See photos below.