A wave of confusion

DOG owners generally develop some very odd habits; purposefully leaving a bit of whatever they eat to offer to their mutt, for example.

It becomes an automatic reflex, done at every mealtime without conscious thought - to the extent that some will do it in posh restaurants.  You'll spy them squirrelling pieces of meat and other tasty morsels into their napkins and then smuggling that into handbags.

But the habit which confuses me the most, perhaps, is something the village-based dog owner will do when out walking with their trusty four-legged sidekick.

You'll see it in little villages and parishes throughout the UK.

Drive past them, and 98 per cent of the time, the walker will stop with their dog, watch you pass, and wave at you.

For years I have driven past people in my local village, thought they recognised me and were just being neighbourly as they waved.

I now know this is not the case. Travelling through random villages from the comfort of my five-door hatchback, I  have witnessed owner after owner stop and perform this choreographed oddity. 

I have no idea why they do this. They don't know me.  They often look quite proud as they do it: "Yup, I'm walking my dog... got my pockets full of biscuits, and any minute now I am going to be crouching in the muddy undergrowth with a little sandwich bag clearing up the end result of feeding my dog too many biscuits."

They could be doing it to thank me for not hitting their dog with my car I guess. But surely it would make more sense to wave in advance, just to make sure I have noticed and can swerve away from them if needs be?

Absurdly, I will wave back. It's like a rather rubbish, canine-related, two-man Mexican wave. And just like a Mexican wave you get swept up in the moment and then feel a little bit disorientated and grubby afterwards.

I've joined friends walking their dogs who will wave at traffic, then turn to me and ask: "Who was that?" I just stare back at them in disbelief. 

Nobody knows what is going on, we are all just waving (not drowning) and all the while the dog is blissfully unaware of this social situation and currently his sole purpose in life is to follow the human who hours before, filled his pocket with a napkin full of meat and has forgotten. Ahh it is indeed a dog's life. 

Revenge of the citrus fruit

LIVING by the sea you begin to view the weather like that nursery rhyme 'There was a little girl who had a little curl, right in the middle of her forehead; When she was good, she was very very good, and when she was bad, she was horrid.'  The weather tends to swing from extremes and in winter can seem very bleak.  I tend to get by with a decent winter coat, the hope that it will soon be Spring, and an endless supply of satsumas to snack on in a vague optimism that they will stop me a, indulging in fatty comfort foods, and b, venturing out in the cold to find said comfort foods.

Quite bizarrely, my favourites, tangerines, have disappeared off the supermarkets' radars - you cannot buy them any more. There isn't even a space on the shelf where they used to be - I only assume there must be a big tangerine cover-up by the government - and any supermarket staff who are so bold as to enquire when the next delivery of tangerines is likely to be are taken into a small hidden room and beaten with their own name-badges until they forget the fruit ever existed.   I now have to make do with the pip-laden satsumas, the unpeelable clementines or the ambiguous 'citrus fruit'  - some tasteless substitute for the fantastic tangerine which is that bland it doesn't even deserve an exciting name.  Nevertheless I have an unwritten rule that five or more of these must be within grabbing distance - a snacking device which has horribly backfired on me.

 

 My car has been smelling bad recently - I suspected it was due to a forgotten satsuma or even worse - citrus fruit - loose in my car somewhere and rotting.  Having searched under the seats I couldn't find anything and put the odd smell as being the window de-icer sprays I had bought; they were on offer so I got carried away and bought enough to keep 20 greenhouses defrosted for about two years.  With the snow last week I congratulated myself in being organised enough to buy this spray in advance and with a certain smugness ran outside before work to get the car cleared in time.  I mentally high-fived myself for my preparation skills, stuffing the car with a fleece blanket and a shovel. I hasten to add this was advised by people on the TV for anyone braving the snowy conditions and not because I wanted to shift a dead body as suggested by a suspicious neighbour.  As I opened the car boot I could hear heavenly choirs sing in celebration of my triumphant ability to be ready for the snow as I grabbed my wellies (which had sat in the car since my death-hike up to the Centre for Alternative Technology).

 Car running? Check. Snow cleared? Check. Blanket and shovel ready for snowy (not murderous) conditions? Check. Wellies on? Almost. Wearing the obligatory three pairs of socks required for wellies-in-snow situations I jammed my right foot in a boot... And screamed.

 Soaking through all three pairs of socks was what used to be a citrus fruit. A very mouldy, soft and smelly citrus fruit.   Source of bad smell in car identified? Check.  With no other option for practical footwear I cleaned the inside of the wellie as best I could, changed the socks and spent the entire day smelling like a rotten bowl of fruit and squelching when I walked. 

 

 How did the fruit get in my boot in the first place? I have no idea - probably linked to my carrying them for snacking with me all the time. But I just can't shake off the vision of a government official sitting at his large mahogany desk somewhere wringing his hands, smiling to himself and muttering: 'That'll teach her for asking questions about tangerines.'

Mechanics, milk bottles and moronic behaviour

THERE are three things in life which when found should be held on to tightly or the loss will always be regrettable.  The perfect-fit jeans is the first (once found, buy as many as you can afford that day), the second is your place in a queue in the supermarket - don't risk jumping to another seemingly shorter queue - because that solitary old lady standing there will pay for her weekly shopping in loose change whilst insisting on sharing all of her various ailments, contagious or otherwise to the cashier.  The third is a decent mechanic.  I learnt that last one this week after what can only be described as a traumatic experience for all concerned.

 I'm fairly neurotic when it comes to my car; I listen out for any rattle which might signify the tyres have fallen off, or the seat is about to eject itself, taking me through the roof, never to be seen again.  I'll interrupt all conversations with my passengers, however important they might be: "So the doctor said it might be terminal..." "Mmmm did you hear that banging noise - I wonder if that's my exhaust?"

 And so this week has been like any other ; a trip to town with the boyfriend and a backseat full of plastic milk bottles ready for the recycling bank.  Then it happens: a car noise that is actually heard by someone other than me.

 By the time we reach town I'm sufficiently freaking out and swerve into the nearest multi-national garage - a location I find about as desirable as headlice.  They are magnets for a combination of young spotty greasemonkeys who smirk a lot and tired old spanner dogs who call you 'luv' and always look severely annoyed you've entered their world - in their day women weren't allowed to drive.  A quick look at the driver's door and a kick of a tyre is enough to tell the garagefolk my car is fine and I really am as dumb as I look but just to be safe I should run it over to the local Renault garage. Of course, take it to another garage.  What did I expect? It's half four on a Friday, of course nothing is wrong with the car.

 And so to shopping, where I obeyed the queuing rule.  Just over an hour later I return to the car and decide to open the bonnet, except it's already been unlocked.  With shaking hands I unhook it and lift it up... my eyes rest on the windscreen washer fluid container and its lid open and hanging off.  Then my other half points to a pipe connected to the engine, or rather half connected and it feels as brittle as French toast. OH MY GOD. How have I managed to drive anywhere with the car like this? I contain myself long enough to speed-dial a local independent mechanic, who normally has to subdue my annual MOT panic attacks.  It's 5.45pm but he answers and after listening to my incoherent nonsense agrees to come out and look at the car.  The boyfriend is by now looking longingly at the bags of food shopping and mentally debating the perception of him eating a dry loaf of bread slice by slice in a public place.

 

 The mechanic arrives chirpy as ever and humours me by making eye contact as I relate my tale of woe.  He looks under the bonnet, sees the pipe and says that it's fine, not a problem.  Offering to take it for a test-drive to hear the mystery noise, I clamber into the passenger seat, and my only other witness to the noise slips into the backseat as the clatter of 30 or so milk bottles causes the mechanic to gasp at the sight of so much supermarket-bought dairy containers.

 "We're not milk freaks," I hear myself saying, "I was taking them to be recycled."

 With a degree of hesitancy in his voice the mechanic responds: "Erh yeah..."

 The pressure is on as the mechanic drives my little car around town, we all silently hold our breaths incase that prevents us hearing the mystery car noise.

 "There is a slight rattle but nothing major - is that the noise you heard?" I shrug my shoulders, seriously beginning to doubt my grip on reality.

 The need to find the sound begins to get to me and I resort to defensive behaviour; humour. "Okay when I tap the dashboard I want you to perform an emergency stop," I tell the mechanic and begin to manically laugh.   I feel a kick from the back seat and a clatter of milkbottle as the other half tries to shut me up - the response from the mechanic is one of confusion.

 Back in the car park, the mechanic patiently looks under the bonnet again for me and in a soothing tone explains that nothing is wrong.  I eventually get it; the car is fine.  Which is more than could be said for my sanity as I hear myself confess to the mechanic with all seriousness that what I actually thought had happened was that the engine had blown up at some point without me realising, removing the windscreen washer fluid cap, the pipe and popping the bonnet open in the explosion.

 The mechanic, who has maintained composure up until that point, starts laughing, advises my other half never to be left alone with me and gets in his car to leave.

 I ask how much I owe him for the callout after 5pm on the Friday before a bank holiday - by now I will quite happily pay any amount to cover the shameful behaviour - he just laughs again and shouts across the car park: "Are you kidding? The entertainment value alone has been priceless."

 I think there's a lot to be said for public transport.