The Two Ends of Responsive.

I needed to send a package to America today, so I had to go to the post office for the weighing and Customs declaration. They all recognise me; I’ve been going in there for years. Today I got the starchy one so, just for a bit of fun, I put on my very best Scottish accent and said ‘I want tae send this tae America, please.’

I thought she might look at me quizzically and ask ‘Why are you suddenly speaking in a Scottish accent?’ and I could reply ‘Dunno, it just came over me. ’Cos I’m mad, I expect.’ And she could shift her expression very slightly and say ‘Oh.’

But no. Nothing. There’s just no rousing some people. I’ve always been a bit suspicious of her anyway; she’s far too well groomed for my taste. I always wonder what excessively well groomed women are hiding. I know why men do it – pure conformism. It’s what their mothers told them to do. But women are usually more complicated than men.

And so, the other half of the post. My new motor. Now that I’m coming to terms with the unconventional throttle/clutch balance, we’re starting to seriously get along. She purrs like a pussycat and flies like the wind. There’s a steep hill coming out of Ashbourne. Old Frothy, bless him, would just about make 60mph by the time we got to the bottom of the hill, and fall back to about 45 by the time we reached the top. But my new mademoiselle (she’s a Renault) – sacre bleu! No trouble at all hitting 80-85 at the bottom, and she hardly lost anything going up it. I sat in the overtaking lane and overtook everything. Everything. I’ve always wanted to do that.

Sad isn’t it, that I’ve come down to this level? Nah. Life and life only.