Another day of stunning achievement. Two Blokes spend the morning removing two water tanks from my airing cupboard and then report – would you believe it? – that the overflow pipe from one of them has been leaking. Well, that would explain why the tanks have been sitting in a pool of water for the last six weeks, and why a bucket beneath them has been collecting a couple of pints of water every day, and why that whole part of my house stinks of damp. Imagine my surprise. I politely suggest that it might be quite a good idea to repair the thing, if they have absolutely nothing better to do, and they do so. I could say “I told you so” to someone, but just in the nick of time I remember hearing that no-one likes a smart-arse.
Instead I cheer myself up by cancelling a big boozy lunch in Newcastle tomorrow, for which I do not really have the stomach, and booking two big boozy lunches in mid-January instead. I might have cheered up by then. Oh, and my house might no longer smell like a pair of schoolboy swimming trunks that have been put away in a locker for a week while they were still soaking wet. And Northern Rock might have been sold at a price that will satisfy all its remaining shareholders, and Gordon Brown might once again have a ten point lead in the opinion polls, and the Pope might announce his conversion to Islam.
The amazingly unlikely true story of how a grumpy old man and lifelong bachelor won the love of a beautiful young woman and started a family – and all by writing a curmudgeonly blog about his lonely journey to the grave.
Now who would have predicted that?
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