It had been a day just like any other, a mundane routine that required the barest effort on my part. I had my breakfast and idled away the morning hours with errands and television until the time drew near to depart for work. I stared up at the sky as I made my way to my vehicle, contemplating the chances of the promised storm. The wind had just begun stirring the leaves and there was a certain oppressive quality to the air that made it seem rather likely. I settled into my car with barely any though, fiddled with the audio system, and finally pulled out of the driveway.
I did not go far. I had barely reached the steep incline to the main road when I noticed something was wrong – the car was shaking a great deal more than usual and seemed to be losing speed, rather than gaining it, regardless of how hard I pressed the accelerator. I thought to persevere but before I could turn onto the highway an omen seemed to indicate that I would not make the surgery at this rate. Conceding defeat, I retraced my proverbial steps and with a dejected sigh coasted the car to a stop in front of the garage where it promptly died.
A cursory overview with my father seemed to suggest an innate failure with the power system so with nothing for it, I swapped to his vehicle and set off to work in decidedly worse spirits than a mere half hour before. The surgery was busy but as always it offers little in the way of intellectual stimulation and I had far too much time to contemplate what I could only view as another incident destined to cast me into financial ruin. I must admit my fingernails suffered abysmally for my overactive analytical obsessions. Still, there was nothing to be done until the following business day and I did my best to put it from my mind.
Unfortunately, my obsessive tendencies leave a black mark on my consciousness at the best of times and I spent the evening in the makings of one of my trademark dark moods. I can imagine the picture I painted on the couch, hardly uttering a word nor moving a muscle, while vacantly staring at the flickering image of the television – stuck as it was on UKTV as I could not find the motivation to move for the remote control. The Weakest Link, Gavin and Stacey, The Mitchell and Webb Look, and on it went, drawing ever closer to the inevitable horror of Eastenders, as I feared I would become possessed by the channel. Tellingly, the promised storm broke over the district. My slide into teenaged melodrama and self-loathing was curbed only by my mother’s change to tennis which led to the discovery of the single most hilarious game of doubles I have ever had the privilege to witness in my life. It was an exhibition match featuring Pat Rafter, Henri Leconte, Pat Cash and Wayne Arthurs, and was more circus than tennis. It was well worth our attention and we quite enjoyed ourselves watching the madness.
Yet one cannot ignore reality, and I cast a sad eye at my now abandoned vehicle as I headed off to work yet again in my father’s car. Having this new dilemma to solve, I had to unfortunately cancel an engagement with ever-understanding Elizabeth, and was yet again cast in a less than amused mood. While I was toiling away at the proverbial salt mine, my father set the grounded vehicle alight as he later informed me with barely subdued mirth. No permanent damage was done, but it is still not the most comforting news to receive. After some contemplation, we set off towards the Daihatsu garage and acquired a set of ignition leads that they luckily had in stock. A light lunch later, my father dutifully directed me as I set about replacing these leads. Wonder above wonder, it seemed to do the trick. Two of the old leads were cracked and broken causing spark to escape before it could deliver power to the engine, thus the lack of acceleration and alarming shuddering. After cleaning the engine and allowing it to dry, I drove to the supermarket to replenish my chocolate supply and I can happily report that the car is back to its regular form. All hail Jack, the car that will always revive.
My mood somewhat lightened by this miraculous recovery at a considerably lower price than I feared, and I am feeling a little calmer about the state of my life. I am currently beset by the urge to draw, as per usual little detracted by lack of actual skill in this department (something that usually only bothers me with crushing force once I have completed a drawing), and have turned my rooms upside down searching for my visual art diaries to no avail. I must concede the point and purchase a new one, at which time the others will no doubt make an unexpected re-appearance. That is the law with such things.
I shall now make my best attempt to enjoy the aforementioned chocolate while contemplating the location of my drawing pencils, and perhaps avail myself of a film afterwards. I suspect I may have fallen somewhat in love with RDJ’s Sherlock Holmes but as I cannot watch that film at the present, I feel Iron Man will suffice nicely – “This is the fun-vee, the humdrum-vee is back there.” Tomorrow there is yet more work in my future – unexpected and tiring, but not wholly unwelcome in light of my upcoming travels – and an afternoon hopefully spent in friendly company. Come next week, my mother and I will be preparing to jet off to Afrique du Sud for a weeklong visit with the maternal branch of the family.
And so, as ever, life goes on.
Music: LG Faud - Motion City Soundtrack