Over the last few days, I’ve once more become aware of the ‘good/shit’ dynamic that dominates my life. It has yet again been played-out with much gusto as clearly, nothing positive can occur without something horrendous bounding ’round the corner to remind me that life will forever have my arse clenched between its molars.
Within hours of us discovering that K had been successful in her quest for employment and us leaving the house in search of a celebratory XL Double Whopper (good), the car decided to die. Joy.
After coughing and spluttering as we persuaded it gently down an ‘A’ road at a sympathetic 35mph (though it must be said that other drivers were perhaps not so sympathetic) and cajoled it to at least get us as far as the front door, we deemed it unfit for further travel (shit).
Fortunately, we have really great cover and within 2 and a half hours of picking up the telephone the next morning, we’d had a visit from a ‘man in an orange van’ to diagnose the problem, someone to remove the car and take it to our Dealer’s service place and the delivery of a hire-car as part of the deal, as our Dealer was out of courtesy cars (shit about the lack of courtesy cars, but overall, very good).
In my haste that morning to be up and vaguely presentable before the breakdown man visited, I hurriedly exchanged the “legs” of my pink, striped pyjamas for a velour ‘Chav’ tracksuit (no, I do not wear such things in public, I actually use them as sleepwear – I just thought that they looked less PJ-like and therefore less generally ridiculous than the pink, striped affair on this occasion). Once said man had been and gone, I took to the order of the day: sitting in Chavvy tracksuit, drinking tea and mindlessly surfing the internet under the guise of “working”.
We were told that the garage wouldn’t even be able to look at the car until Monday/Tuesday. By 5pm Saturday, they called to tell us that they’d replaced the Oojimaflip (or was it the Flandoogle?) that had something or other to do with the second cylinder, which I think may or may not be engine-related, and now our poorly little car was feeling muchly better so could we come and get it. You know, NOW.
Cue us braving rush-hour traffic and reaching the garage nanoseconds before closing in order to get our car. We wait for a Rep from the rental place to turn up in order to do the change over (who never turns up), frantically call the rental and de-hire the hire car and ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ over the shiny, shiny new models and mentally pick which car we’d like next time. Then, leave in our little car that now seems even less shiny than usual after being sat next to all the new, shiny, shiny ones that were very shiny with the shinyness.
Now, for those of you not following closely the manic order of events, all of the above was done in public with me wearing Chav pseudo-pyjamas and a camisole I’d slept in the night before, fluorescent bed socks, trainers, no bra, not a speck of make-up and I think a hairbrush my have been still lolling drunkenly from the back of my head with its bristles securely mangled in a mass of ratted tangles. Although, I can’t quite remember as I was too busy trying to drown my forehead-smacking humiliation with the deluded optimistic mantra “Just remember, your path will probably never cross with these people ever again”. (Shit, shit, shit!)
Monday had been designated as the day we’d go up to the Council Offices to put our names on a the Housing Register (good) which according to the woman at the desk, has a brief and breezy waiting list of at least, oh about 12 years. Although our wait will be even longer, as I chose that particular day to realise that I’d lost my Birth Certificate and now have to go and get a replacement (shit, obviously).
Yesterday saw K take to her induction day like a house cat to scuba-diving (decidedly shit). Consequently, she’s opted to not take the job (the shit just keeps on coming). In case you haven’t noticed, we are now due a back-payment of ‘good’. Here’s hoping it arrives soon.
A full-time wheelchair user since 1998, Claire lives in an adapted bungalow in England with her Partner of 10 years and their two dogs: 
Yes, I know that feeling. Like the other week..got everything done, ahead of myself. All good, bad weather coming but got provisions and a gas stove, bought a new thermostat for the Arsetrap, shopping done etc..all was good.
Driving home, the heaters went cold. No water in the engine. Add water, go home. Chugging like a sherman, white smoke everywhere. My aged 102,000 mile engine had decided to blow it’s top..literally. 2 days in a local garage to have a new head gasket, and £350.
Now things are back up..work and stuff are OK, new laptop on offer, car running fine…and now we have the spectre of the governements bloody ridiculous “put more tax on the driver” road taxation hanging over us.
Life is definetely a see-saw. And a house cat WOULD take to scuba diving if you encased it in concrete…
So sad, Claire, but hilarious writing — don’t stop.
Could have been worse.
Could have been raining!
By way, me like me oojimaflip in flandoogle sauce.
mmmmMMMMMmmmmoojimaflip.….
Karl:
I think either my see-saw is busted or I just have a feather sitting on the other end of mine as there is definitely more “down” than “up” my end…
I’m not a cat person either
Dvd: Cheers Dvd
Monstee: Very true. Next time, I’ll make a point of calling you instead of the RAC — I’d love to try flandoogle sauce.
OMG! I think your probably right, you do seem to have more down than up, why not just put several bricks on the other end of the see-saw and then you’ll have more up XD
Hi
In a fit of wandering the web looking for something to read, I found you! Very true with the good/bad stuff occurring — I am most definitely a Bad-Slant magnet, especially after nearly killing myself yesterday. Still, it gave everyone else a lot of laughs.
Anyway, bookmarked you now, so I will return. Now to read your blog backwards. Not literally backwards of course
Erm, forgot my point
As a fellow Essex-Dweller, I think you’re safe going out in that ever-so-fetching sounding combination of Chav clothes and PJs… Most of the Essex-Chavs look that way anyhoo, so you probably blended in! hehe
Dan: Hi Dan, thanks for dropping by
It’s the best way, there’s even Backmasking in my voice-posts purely for occasions such as this
That was my main concern…
I took my daughters to pre-school in my pyjamas one morning. Pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt at any rate. Nobody seemed to notice. In fact there were a few ensembles on some other mammies that looked just a little too casual to be casual-wear too.
I try to set the highest example for my girls where “highest” is a function of my morning coffee intake.
And at least I didn’t take them in their pyjamas.
heh, thought you might like to know that after listening to your voice posts in reverse order, that yes, you DO sound like an Essex Gal! And consider this — I live in Basildon!
Anyway, carry on
PCB:
Dan:
Why, thank you
I noticed the word shit appeared several times in this entry.. I wonder why that could be?
I am surprised you’ve been given the usual crap about a waiting list of 12 years — usually people with “needs” (i.e. single parents, homeless, disabled, etc) get a better deal. That said, Anna (brother’s now ex, mother my niece & nephew) is now both homeless and a single parent and there’s bugger all they’re doing for her. At the moment she’s stuck in a f..king dump of a woman’s refuge.
I hope things look up for you soon
(And I bet you looked dead good in your chavvy tracksuit ;))
Jem: Firstly, yay Akismet didn’t obliterate your comment.
Secondly, yes, my life is full of shit right now and thirdly, my local council is a nightmare with housing… Bloody Tories selling off fucking council housing and not replacing them… 
Having “needs” just makes the process worse as it whittles down suitable accommodation to near-on nil. Trying to find a suitably adapted place is going to be nothing short of a nightmare.
On the upside, I ROCK teh chavsuits