The Tradesman And I.

Lordy Ladies, it’s been one of those days…

I mean I haven’t done anything to deserve the kind of pickles I find myself in, and yet its just one fine mess after another in the world of Alison May.

I got ready this morning in a charming but eccentric fashion. Scarves and necklaces galore, mad hair and my £3.00 Primark trainers. It’s  a wacky combination , but what the hell hey? Finley was in the mood for doing nothing. Literally. Lying on his  tummy talking to a mini Ford Transit van as naked as the day he was born and definitely not in the mood for being cajoled into clothes. So I didn’t bother cajoling. I shoved them over his head, and dragged him out the door, leaving the bedlam that was the house behind. And there on the doorstep, stood the oldest postman in the world, Steven. Ninety- eight if he’s a day.

"Hello Mr Postman" said Finley "How are you today?"

"Why Hello, Finley" said Mr Postman, "I’m top of the world, thank you very much.

And then without further ado he fished in his pocket for a handful of coins and pressed them into Finley’s hand for a bag of sweets. So far, not creepy right? Wait.

Flashing me a toothy grin, the oldest postman in the world winked at me and said, now then young lady, I’ve been meaning to tell you…

He winked again and I held my breath.

I’ve been meaning to tell you that I saw you in the street the other day and you were looking mighty sexy in a fine pair of red stiletto’s. Very sexy indeed I might add…

Said with a leer of which you have never seen the likes. Benny Hill would have been proud.

Lordy. Now what have I done to deserve this little horrible event? I mean haven’t I got enough problems with Milky, the pervy milkman?? Ok so maybe red patent leather stilettos weren’t suitable garb for the Sunday Morning in question, but I was only running a couple of doors down the road and they were the only shoes at hand. I certainly never imagined that accesorising them with a woolly scarf would give a dirty little old man ideas…

So what did I do? Did I rant indignantly and say I’d never heard the likes?  Did  I threaten to  ring Royal Mail? Or clobber him with his postbag?  Readers I  am ashamed to say I blushed to the tips of my toes and  thanked the  daft old bugger. I said Thank You!!

Then in such a fluster was I, that I rushed down the path, got in the car and drove away at speed. Only to be bothered by a sound which sounded distinctly like a dying man saying D’oh over and over again. Occasionally groaning d’ooooooohhhh when we went over a bump. Stopping at traffic lights, all went silent, and then we raced away and off he went again. I wasn’t worried until I saw the light flashing on the dashboard. And hmm, peculiar light flashing + funny noise = trouble, right? Well even I know that.

So we went to see the only mechanic I trust. And lets just say I am using the word "trust" liberally, mostly because I only go to him because he is the spitting image of Huey from The Fun Loving Criminals without any of yummy Hueys louche charisma. So we rolled up and Huey’s doppellganger came out and I told him the trouble, and Huey got in the car and I got out and he pulled that worrying face that all tradesman wear to perfection, and then he whizzed around the car park with my son in the back of the car and then he came back and talked gobbledygook about something that is apparently nothing to worry about. But worried I was. And I said, well yes, but what about the noise? And he said, aah, yes, I forgot about the noise. Very serious indeed that noise. A case of a double hernia I suspect. And I nodded knowingly because maybe cars do get hernias- who am I to say? And Huey laughed. And Finley laughed. And Huey shook the car in an alarming fashion and then leaned down and pulled out a sadly rather squashed talking action man, and told me in no uncertain terms that the problem was more likely to be a battery than a hernia, then took himself inside the garage to laugh at me with his other boiler suited friends…    

I drove away in mortal shame. And we did what we had to while my cheeks blazed and then we went home and I squeezed into the  smallest parking space in the world cheered on by Milky, who then tried to cheat me out of another £1.50 for eggs I didn’t order. I smiled a bit too brightly, ducked the hand heading towards my head to stroke my hair for the hundredth time and put my key in the door.

But heck there was no need. The door was open. Alarm bell’s rung. Oh heckity pie, though there was no sign of forced entry, there was no doubt in my mind that we had been broken into. So wielding a baguette, I edged my way into the house and stood shocked by the mess. Toys strewn everywhere. Dishes on the arm of the sofa. A child size dressing gown abandoned by the stairs. The kind of mess only a three year old little criminal with a tired Mummy could create…

In my hurry to get away from the mad postman I had forgot to lock the door  and the damning evidence of my  slipping down life was there for all to see…

Roll on the weekend!