So, finally, the little white lies catch up…

how hard can this be?
how hard can this be?

Together with ‘you’ll have your eye out with that pointy stick’, ‘liar, liar, pants on fire’ are well up there in the armoury mums use to convince their offspring to leave something well alone. That and ‘the wind will change and you’ll stick like that’.

I’ve always believed this to be total balderdash, however this last week proved me wrong.

After the incident of the attack by three airborne canoes on the M6 facilitating the removal of himself’s bumper on the old tank that is his beloved Land Rover Discovery, we made another discovery.

The offending canoodler’s insurance would be paying for us to swan about in a very swish Volvo 4×4. This was met with spitting indifference by him indoors. ‘Ruddy over engineered, too complicated, what’s wrong with a manual choke and a starting handle?’ (both of which he has, in the other, even more ancient Land Rover).

So it was with some enjoyment that I slipped into the leathery seat and shoved the automatic purring beast into ‘drive’ – until I realised that meant himself would be driving my car. Hmm.

Anyway, JF wouldn’t touch this beastie – apparently – with a barge pole he had to whittle himself. So I was in trap one. So my next foray up to the holiday let cottage project is in the purring thingy, however, we found ourselves in an unforeseen near death situation.

Being, obviously, a ladyofacertainage, one does find oneself becoming hot rather suddenly. Usually this emanates from the chest area, flushing the neck and face and making you want to burn anything made of fleece and dunk yourself in an ice challenge with anything handy, someone else’s G&T for example.

As we began the drive, my pants got hotter. Pretty soon I was sure all the lies I’d ever told had caught up and my pants were in fact, on fire. Turns out it was the heated seat. Turns out we couldn’t find out how to turn it off. So, with the help of the photographer friend I was travelling with (to do the marketing shots of the cottage) we were in a layby, her riffling through the handbook while I stood outside with my burning arse turned, graciously, to the winds of Cumbria.

Imagine my surprise when, on returning home, I found JF with a hideous eye injury. He’d been cutting kindling with his very show-offy American axe and yes, he’d been hit in the eye with a pointy stick. Duh.


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