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Thought that'd get yer attention. Just been down the doctor's. Long story, so just steel yourself, pretend you enjoy written English and that you have a sense of humour even if Number Is Everything for you. So, where was I, yes, I was repairing the potato stomper which I got at Tesco's five years ago when banks were still honest. Ok, they weren't honest but everyone thought they were. Most folk think its called a potato masher, a thing with little holes that the potato is crushed and forced through when you STOMP it, but it isn't, its called a potato STOMPER, ok? But then, today, it was happily stomping potatoes when the metal plate with the little holes in came away from its plastic bracket. So I washed it and put it to drain dry and went and got a tube of superglue from the local hardware shop. Its OK, they know me in there. As I was fitting the little metal leg on the plate with little holes into the plastic bracket (becket?) a big glob of glue popped out and began to ooze down the outside of the plastic becket(bracket?). I stopped to rethink what I was doing, working now at the absolute limit of technical knowledge and ability. I began to look vaguely for a piece of something to wipe or scrape glue away with. Spotted a piece of rag asleep under my cat on the shelf above the bench. Committed to planning its acquisition. Actually got my fingers on it and was about to execute a Tommy Cooper* when the phone rang.
Now I know some of you reading this will be tempted to snigger here, but just don't, see, do not laugh, grin, giggle, smile or otherwise allow unseemly, indeed, unmanly silliness to sully your stern aviationary demeanour. Remember who you are. Think Professional. Think Mature. Think Logic.
No, not the landline, I had a landline in the outside workshop but my Aunty ate it. My mobile. My mobile in my pocket. Everything nearly went alright. It was going brilliantly. The rag stayed fast asleep as it flew, well above stalling speed, out from under the cat. I remembered to tilt the stomper so that the glob of glue could only roll away from my finger. But then the cat woke up, thought I was playing and clawed at my defenceless upside-down stomper-hand which I then jerked out of the way, inadvertently allowing my finger to contact the glue. With my other hand now grasping the rag, I was forced to place the stomper back on the bench and fish the phone out of my pocket with the remaining unglued fingers. Carefully, I pressed the little green phone symbol and placed the phone against my ear. Hello Mr Jingogunner, I'm Wendy Cole and I'm calling to tell you about something really special happening at Cornhall Insurance, which as you know is the biggest liar of motor insurance in the East of England. Can I ask if you've ever insured with us before?
"Oh yes", I said, "weren't you people fined and ordered to refund money you'd screwed out of people by telling them lies or something last year?"
I'm sure you must be getting us mixed up with someone else, we are very honest people, Mr Jingogunner.
"Well, that's a shame, I only deal with liars as a matter of principle, they're much more honest than people who tell the truth oh BUGGER BUGGER DAM I've just glued my phone and my finger to my ear with superglue so please die."
There was a long silence while Wendy Cole absorbed this new information. Then she began to talk again. I could not easily disconnect from the caller and I had to say: REMAIN SILENT DISCONNECT RING OFF GET OFF THE LINE GO AWAY STOP TALKING!
She was still talking when I finally broke the connexion by giving myself a Chinese Ankle Hernia of the Wrist. My first thought was what was Mrs Jingogunner going to say. Mrs Jingogunner has witnessed this sort of thing before but has always had an apt and pithy commentary. No one likes to be laughed at, of course, but Mrs Jingogunner has become practiced in laughing gently, if thats any help. My second thought was that I would have to drive to the doctor's with my phone and one hand glued to my ear,- since engineering woud obviously be involved, I must necessarily go to the surgery which has the equipment to unglue me. What would happen if the police stopped me? Would people be staring at me when I got to the surgery? Perhaps I could get an ambulance to the hospital instead, more anonymous – everyone knows me at the surgery, I've been going there for twenty five years. And then, in the stark silence of my confusion, horror and terror, the speaker from the front door bell chimed. I'd forgotten my business appointment with a chappie from some copywriting agency who thought, God help them, that I could write something for them. Not about consumer goods, unfortunately, because I would have had a lot to say about domestic hardware products. Nobody has ever paid me for writing about what I want to write about, nor do they laugh at my jokes, which is really rude, when you come to think about it.
OK, just in case you're getting bored and don't want to hear what happened with my appointment and how I got to the surgery and what happened when I got there, I will wait until enough aviationarily positive individuals have expressed at least a little sardonic interest before continuing this narrative. Tune in the same time next week.
*See Tommy Cooper on youTube
Now I know some of you reading this will be tempted to snigger here, but just don't, see, do not laugh, grin, giggle, smile or otherwise allow unseemly, indeed, unmanly silliness to sully your stern aviationary demeanour. Remember who you are. Think Professional. Think Mature. Think Logic.
No, not the landline, I had a landline in the outside workshop but my Aunty ate it. My mobile. My mobile in my pocket. Everything nearly went alright. It was going brilliantly. The rag stayed fast asleep as it flew, well above stalling speed, out from under the cat. I remembered to tilt the stomper so that the glob of glue could only roll away from my finger. But then the cat woke up, thought I was playing and clawed at my defenceless upside-down stomper-hand which I then jerked out of the way, inadvertently allowing my finger to contact the glue. With my other hand now grasping the rag, I was forced to place the stomper back on the bench and fish the phone out of my pocket with the remaining unglued fingers. Carefully, I pressed the little green phone symbol and placed the phone against my ear. Hello Mr Jingogunner, I'm Wendy Cole and I'm calling to tell you about something really special happening at Cornhall Insurance, which as you know is the biggest liar of motor insurance in the East of England. Can I ask if you've ever insured with us before?
"Oh yes", I said, "weren't you people fined and ordered to refund money you'd screwed out of people by telling them lies or something last year?"
I'm sure you must be getting us mixed up with someone else, we are very honest people, Mr Jingogunner.
"Well, that's a shame, I only deal with liars as a matter of principle, they're much more honest than people who tell the truth oh BUGGER BUGGER DAM I've just glued my phone and my finger to my ear with superglue so please die."
There was a long silence while Wendy Cole absorbed this new information. Then she began to talk again. I could not easily disconnect from the caller and I had to say: REMAIN SILENT DISCONNECT RING OFF GET OFF THE LINE GO AWAY STOP TALKING!
She was still talking when I finally broke the connexion by giving myself a Chinese Ankle Hernia of the Wrist. My first thought was what was Mrs Jingogunner going to say. Mrs Jingogunner has witnessed this sort of thing before but has always had an apt and pithy commentary. No one likes to be laughed at, of course, but Mrs Jingogunner has become practiced in laughing gently, if thats any help. My second thought was that I would have to drive to the doctor's with my phone and one hand glued to my ear,- since engineering woud obviously be involved, I must necessarily go to the surgery which has the equipment to unglue me. What would happen if the police stopped me? Would people be staring at me when I got to the surgery? Perhaps I could get an ambulance to the hospital instead, more anonymous – everyone knows me at the surgery, I've been going there for twenty five years. And then, in the stark silence of my confusion, horror and terror, the speaker from the front door bell chimed. I'd forgotten my business appointment with a chappie from some copywriting agency who thought, God help them, that I could write something for them. Not about consumer goods, unfortunately, because I would have had a lot to say about domestic hardware products. Nobody has ever paid me for writing about what I want to write about, nor do they laugh at my jokes, which is really rude, when you come to think about it.
OK, just in case you're getting bored and don't want to hear what happened with my appointment and how I got to the surgery and what happened when I got there, I will wait until enough aviationarily positive individuals have expressed at least a little sardonic interest before continuing this narrative. Tune in the same time next week.
*See Tommy Cooper on youTube
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