Weekends (or Tired Feet)

They’re not really homophones – weekend and weakened – but they seem to share the same sound in my head these days, as well as having very similar meanings. And you can add ‘weak ends’ to that collection since it very much feels as is my feet are ready to drop off.

Regular readers (surely there must be something better to do? not that I’m suggesting you should) will know by now that I have been having ‘problems’ with my car. Now, not to get all MS on everyone, I must admit that my condition does mean that a car has become something of a necessity for me (I’d use one to get from the living room to the kitchen if I could fine one small enough) – so the ‘problem’ was becoming something of a ‘situation critical’ type of thing for me.

Anyway, the garage (bless) finally called on Friday to say that my little Rover is no more. She’s expired and gone to meet her maker. She’s a stiff. bereft of life, she rests in peace. She’s… well you get the drift. And Python-esque or not, I shouldn’t (of all people) really laugh about it.  But get this – the final, fatal, diagnosis is that the Rover has a major problem with its wiring loom. In all probability it is suffering from a series of damaging short circuits somewhere deep in that electronic brain – none of which is funny until you compare its symptoms with that of MS, a condition whereby the Myelin sheathes that insulate our nerves are eaten away, creating short circuits between the nerves themselves.

MS isn’t contagious – but I think my poor old Rover has caught my condition…

So, Saturday was dedicated to finding a replacement vehicle and for once I had some immediate success. I’m now the almost proud owner of a second-hand (but very smart) Peugeot 307 – an ideal vehicle since I can get in and out of it without too-closely resembling one of the clumsier clowns at Billy Smart’s latest circus offering; it’s automatic, well-maintained, very reliable (or at least that’s what the man selling it said, not altogether unsurprisingly), clean (for a few weeks anyway), and most importantly it’s mine, all mine!

Be that as it may, though, it was still a very tiring experience. Half a weekend gone and nothing but yawns (and a nice car) to show for it.

And so Sunday arrives (ensuring that the calendar receives another successful brownie point for good, if predictable, behaviour). Today (always assuming I’ve stayed awake long enough to complete this and it’s still Sunday) I am facing the last dregs of the move to downstairs living – the last new shelves, to be exact.

I left the start until after the Chinese Grand Prix – a tiring watch, of course – but then got stuck into the final three bags of  ‘miscellaneous’ items, all of which deserve shelf-space and in one or two instances genuinely demand such respect (a collection of Terry Pratchett-inspired Discworld figures and some early scribblings from the pen of yours truly.- from back in the day when I could still work out which end of a pen was supposed to be used on the paper).

The two shelves were already in my possession, but of shelving brackets there proved to be a distinct dearth. Actually, more accurately there was just one bracket – and I’m fairly certain that I could never have achieved quite the same level of secure fixing with just the solitary prop, no matter how good my balancing skills are these days. And this is a guy that can trip over a level floor.

Anyway, that gave me a good excuse… I mean, reason… to take a short drive to the local DIY store where I was able to gloat at the shiny ‘newness’ of my Saturday car purchase while a queue of lesser mortals wound back from the car-washing service to the entryway of the car park. With a little luck and some careful parking when I drive to the office (the seagulls there seem to take delight in repaying the employees of the company with the contents of their bowels, presumably because the company named its advertising seagull ‘Steven’ – Steven Seagull, I kid you not), the thin sheen of wax that currently dazzles me whenever I look at the car will last a few more months yet.

So it was though that I returned home sporting four brackets and one insufferable grin. I say ‘insufferable’, but if course mean ‘justifiable’ – from this side of the teeth, anyway. Just four hours, twenty holes, one drill bit and an overflowing swear jar later, and all I need to do now is set out the reserved contents of the bags and my weekend will be finished. And me with it.

Maybe it’s not really comparable with the pre-condition days, but it’s been a successful weekend. But a weekend that leaves me feeling weakened and with weak ends…

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