Monday, September 29, 2008

With greasy aprons, rules and hammers

Monday, September 29, 2008
I notice that Tony Lee, whomsoever he may be, has referred to me as a 'woman'. At least I believe it was me that he was thus addressing. Perhaps he was talking to Sniffle. But I've met Mr. Andcry and why he may well have a soft and sensitive side, he certainly does not exude femininity. I, on the other hand, am, if not all woman, then at least 50% lady. So I thought I would take this opportunity to regale you with a tale, which took place while I was sulking away, a tale that tells of my undoubted occasional manliness.

I got lucky with my first flat, in that it happened in our driveway.

'Hiss!' said Purple, as V and I emerged Kaluha-laden from our trip to the offy, 'Hiss!' This was not, as I first suspected, a comment on my recent rectitude towards driving and all its horribly wonderful evils. It was merely air emerging from Danger's non-Canadian Tyre. Tire? I don't fucking know. (Clue me in Canucks, on what the name of that wonderful shop wherein I purchased my first and last baseball glove is all about.)

My initial reaction, it must be said, lacked traditional masculinity. The weeping, the having to be explained to the concept of removing a tire from a car to facilitate its fixing, the downing of six quick Caucasians in an effort to separate myself from this concept. Some hours later I fell into a restless sleep filled with dreams of inflation by mouth.

The next morning, crippled by a most manly hangover and secure in the knowledge that with no tire-fixy there would be no dinners for the coming week, I tackled the problem anew. Common Law had sloped off, masking well her massive rage at being denied her now traditional Saturday lift to work.

I spent some time pottering about the boot of the car, vainly seeking a spare. There was a bolt under the carpety stuff but nothing with which to open it. I was about to abort the search and go next door to see if I could borrow a jack, vaguely planning to abandon the children somewhere and cycle to the nearest petrol station with the hissy-fit wheel upon by back, when Mother in Common Law popped up on the blower looking for the C to the L. Without thinking, I shared my woes. With much thought she unleashed a barrage of useful information and passed remarks. Oh, the remarks she passed.

This masculine bit isn't really coming together very well, is it? Watch me get all Hemingway on your ass, right about now:

I found the wheel. I found the jack. And most crucially, I found the little manual that tells you how to do shit. I braked. I loosened. I jacked. I took a quick break to jack off. I removed. I replaced. I unjacked. Drove fearfully to Fast Fit. Got sorted. Drove back.

See? Manly. Belatedly, perhaps, but still incredibly fucking manly.

8 Johns and Janes for the comment whore:

Ellie said...

I'm very proud.

Conan Drumm said...

And you had a cigar, right?

problemchildbride said...

It's a rite of hissy-air passage.

"For if you can fiddle with a tyre, then, then my son, you too will be a person who can fiddle with tyres."

- Abraham Lincoln.

problemchildbride said...

Welcome back, Gimme.

fatmammycat said...

And somewhere across the webosphere an email was sent containing only one word. 'See!' is all it said. But there was venom in that particular sentence.

gimme a minute said...

Thank you.

And a number of other Pink Floyd titles.

Thanks, Sam.

That made me laugh, thank you.

savannah said...

feel better, sugar?

gimme a minute said...

About the same, about the same.

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