Car locks

The lock on the driver's door of my little car has finally called time. A few days ago when I had stopped to fill up with diesel, I got the key stuck in the door and had to be rescued by a helpful Welshman who, fortunately for me, appeared, seemingly out of nowhere to offer assistance.
Today, going to town to do Christmas shopping seemed higher on the list than sorting out the lock - that is until I parked, locked the door from the inside and climbed over to the passenger seat to get out, when I discovered that the key was now slightly bent and so wouldn't lock that door either.
Plan B was heading off to the shop where Giles effected a sort of repair, which involved dismantling the inside of the door, which was a little worrying. I had visions of driving to work on Monday exposed to the elements. However, in spite of his efforts, the general consensus was that a new lock is needed, which I shall have to wait for.
So should you hear on the news about someone being catapulted from her car in North Wales early one morning next week, you will know who it is. James Bond, eat your heart out!

Cats Galore

Word has got round. Little Ginger Cat has been blabbing. You can just hear her.
"Psst, if you want a free saucer of milk, hi-tail it round to Jennyta's. All you need to do is stand at the back door and look forlorn and abandoned. It's a piece of cake, folks. Go on, give it a try!"
So this week, we've had Jack (smart, well-fed marmalade cat) from next door popping in a couple of times. But Jack is a bit on the nervous side, so he doesn't hang around, just gives the kitchen a quick once over and scoots out again.
And then this morning, we had a big black and white feline bruiser pressing his nose to the door. In the distance were Little Ginger Cat and Jack. Maybe he was on a dare.
"Go on! Prove you're hard. Get in there!"
But he didn't. Guess he didn't look forlorn and abandoned enough.

Tired syndrome

No time or energy to blog this last week. I think it's something to do with the hour going back at the end of British Summer Time. Not that I ever take advantage of it to have an extra hour's snooze. No, Sod's Law guarantees that that is the morning that I will be wide awake at the crack of dawn.
Not so this weekend, however. Elder Daughter came to visit and stayed Saturday night. We had a lovely gourmet meal prepared by yours truly (OK, for those who know me, we had a fairly edible meal) and a couple of bottles of very pleasant French wine, of which I had no more than two, that's TWO, glasses. So it was rather annoying, to say the least, that I spent the whole of Sunday dragging myself around with a bad head, feeling like death warmed up. It happens these days. I take a few sips of wine, my liver watches the cascade with horror, throws up its hands and dives for cover.
They do say that it's more difficult to tolerate alcohol as you get older but, come on... TWO MEASLY GLASSES!!!
Anyway, that couldn't apply to me...I'm still 18.


Plaster board and dust

So, we're still no further forward on the British Gas smart meter front and I've given up making non-existent appointments with them...