Now before I go any further, I want you all to know that what I am about to recount is not a sign of aging or the onset of senility. I have been doing the stuff I describe below for as long as I can remember; it is a result of having too much stuff flying around my head, which in turn gets me into more sticky situations than I probably deserve to be in.That said, here we go:
I got into the house this morning and shook off the effects of a momentary rain storm that had liberally sprinkled its presence all about my person. I wanted to put my phone on charge and went instinctively to my back pocket, only to find I’d left it in the car. So I went back over the road, along the street and into the car park only to discover I had forgotten the car keys. I went back home, took off my shoes, got the key, left the house; realised I’d forgotten my shoes, came back in, put them on went over the car and realised I’d put the car keys down while I was putting my shoes back on.
I went back to the house; kept my shoes on and returned to the car; stood there for a while, trying to remember why I was over here, opened the door, picked up my laptop and came home. Got to the house realised I’d put the house key down while getting the computer. So I went back over the car, got the key, came back, got in the house and realised I’d forgotten my phone and the laptop.
Over I went again, opened the car door and an alarm I didn’t recognize went off. It wasn’t until a very large, red faced gentleman--- who came charging over with intent sparkling out of one eye, murder flaming from the other and a baseball bat swinging from his hand--- that I realised I was sitting in the wrong car. Or to be more precise: His car. When I explained to him--- in what I considered to be perfectly innocent banter--- that I was looking for a laptop and a mobile phone, he seemed to become even more agitated and proceeded to chase me around the car park; his baseball bat flying about his head like an unstable fair ground attraction.
I, for my part, was trying to multi task by locating my car keys, evading the bloated heathen and his gyratory baseball bat and the commentary on what his hearts’ desire and fondest wishes were, vis a vi, him getting hold of me. I must admit they weren’t very imaginative and seemed to revolve largely around his baseball bat and my skull.
Eventually I realised that I’d left the car keys in the house again; so now I had to put him off the scent, as it where, lest he discover where I live and call upon more help from other baseball bat wielding members of his rather excitable but shallow gene pool of a family. Suddenly I shouted ‘Look, an England Rugby fan’and with his anger momentarily miss-directed, I slipped out of the car park and into my house.
I waited for a while, checked to see if the coast was clear--- and that I had my car keys and shoes on--- tentatively headed back over to the car park--- where the large ginger man appeared to have either lost interest or widened his search for the elusive England fan--- nipped over to my car--- made sure it was my car--- opened it, picked up my phone and laptop then rushed home, thoroughly soaked but with everything finally under the same roof.
And people wonder why I get in the house at 7:00 but don’t get into bed until 10:30.
