The Life and Times of One Mister Forty One

So I notice that these blog posts are becoming kind of a weekly thing. Don't think this is some sort of routine though. I still haven't completely defined that word for myself. The last post ended with me having a puncture. Because I have nothing substantial to do at the moment I shall regale you with what happened next. Maybe the tepidity of my life will inspire you to live yours more interestingly.

For the record, that's a picture of my new car. Not a very good picture mind you, but notice how good it looks even in that bad picture. I am smitten. The next day I couldn't really go get the puncture fixed. It was wednesday you see, and apparently all the markets in my area stay closed on that day. You wouldn't believe how depressed a flat tyre can make you feel. You wouldn't believe it until it happened to your brand new car. Anyway, thursday evening I get back home and promptly bully the local tyre-wallah into coming down to my house with a pressure jack. The tyre detached, we go down to his workshop and he hands me a 3-inch screw that has apparently travelled right through the tyre tube. Screwed by a screw. The irony in the air is so palpable I could churn it into buttermilk. As I contemplate the screw my good friend the puncture guy silently labors away at fixing my tyre. His business concluded, I pay him and we troop down to my place to re-install the tyre. That done, profuse thanks are issued and much admiration/information concerning the new car exchanged. He gives me his views on the new car and kindly tells me that the model I bought is probably going to be phased out soon. I (not so kindly) tell him that when he has his own money, maybe he can buy the "new" model and park it up his driveway. As I walk into the house I can't help but wonder whether telling the guy from the local workshop that I own a new car and then showing him its location might have been a good idea. Dissing his opinion on my purchase might even have kindled hatred in his heart for my kind soul. Yes, I am paranoid. No, I don't trust people.

The next morning my dad tells that the tyre's gone flat again. I am, for lack of a better word, bamboozled! There and then, I decide to wage a personal jehad against the bloody workshop wallah. Can't believe I called him my good friend in the last paragraph. Vengeance must be extracted. Knowing that I'll get back home late in the evening I ask my father to give him hell and let him know that this will not go unpunished. The wrath of a thousand disgruntled accent owners be upon him! I shall have my revenge.

I come back home a bit tipsy the next morning. The fact that I've had about 8 pints of beer doesn't stop me checking the tyre for non-flatness. True to his promise, my father has gotten it fixed. On second thoughts though, maybe getting down on my knees and actually touching the tyre was a bit too much checking. I might even have yelled out an impromptu hallelujah. The people who dropped me off sure seemed to think that (or maybe they didn't see it at all). Nevertheless, I go to sleep a sound, happy and thoroughly drunk man.

The next day I am rudely awoken by my phone. I promised to meet a friend who's here from out of town. We meet up, beer is drunk and KFC is had. Car showing off commences and results in rides (although no drives) offered by myself and accepted by others. Much happiness. No flat tyres and zero smoking bonnets make the world a nicer, happier place. I drive home preparing for a life-changing (or should I say life-threatening) moment that is soon to come: Pun23's engagement party. More on that in the next post because its 3.10am on a Sunday morning. I really shouldn't make that promise though. It is quite likely I won't manage to get anything out for a long time. But hey, I've got no editor and you've got plenty of time to waste. Do I look bothered?