Custard comes home.

 

It is a fact long-acknowledged to be true that I cannot do anything in my life without complications and funny consequences.

Not only am I having to go around looking as if I have the World’s Biggest Bogie (Booger) hanging off my nose, today I wanted to pick up Custard, our new van.

First I was thwarted by the insurance office being closed until 2 p.m., but that was only a minor irritation. When we got up there, we handled the paperwork, wrote a cheque, got given one set of spare keys and were doing quite well.

He who shall remain nameless refused to believe that the key in his hand was an electronic one until I pointed out the padlock symbols on it. He chuckled cheerfully to himself, jumped into Myfanwe, our Renault Trafic and sped off.

I’m left asking for a photocopy of the service history etc., then go outside to find that my nice yellow van, Custard, is locked. When playing with the spare key, He who shall remain nameless had pressed the lock button. Yes, they do work over a considerable distance, don’t they?

Fortunately I had my mobile phone and could get a signal (the two occurring together is a rarity) so I rang home. He wasn’t there so I left a polite but terse message to the effect that he should haul his withered old buttocks back to the garage forthwith.

The owner’s wife, a kindly soul, took pity on me (either that or I was making their garage forecourt look untidy) so she drove me home, we picked up the spare key and shot back again. Bingo! Click! Custard is now open and I have both sets of keys, a situation I hate. However, Custard is also in dire need of a drink so I take him to the petrol pumps across the road and stand him 50 euros-worth of guzzle.

He’s a great little ride. Handles well, gear and clutch are lovely. He has a surprisingly high top speed for such a little van. We get home and I try to park him in the barn as I was instructed and realise to my horror that I have about 1cm of headroom. Backing out is going to take the aerial off and I have had enough. I down-tools, demand that a bottle be opened this evening and get on with dinner while the Nameless One re-organises garaging, puts the battery on charge and generally atones for being a dickhead with the keys.

Welcome home, Custard. Yes, I’m afraid it IS always like this here. You’ll get used to it. I have.Custard

 


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