To add insult to serious injury, I think my car may be in need of urgent attention; she is old (not unlike me) and complaining loudly about the abuse she is presently being subjected to (also not unlike me) as I bounce to town and back (between court, cop shop, lawyer and kind, obliging money changer) with scant regard for her ancient bodywork which creaks rheumatically at every bump (and there are a lot of those).
Concern for her welfare does – at least – offer brief distraction from my numerous other woes. But – despite the fact the air-conditioning has gone – again – and it is hot – in the run up to the Long Rains – I do my driving with the windows up because I find her whining tiresome, not to say worrying. Having paid legal fees, I don’t have the wherewithal for a new suspension so car will just have to manage on arthritic chassis.
You see: I was not joking when I said that in my next life I want to come back as an African lawyer: it will mean I shall be able to afford a car that I do not have to listen to whining, and nor for that matter does every body else in the vicinity, often long before I appears over the horizon.
We are expecting a visit from a neighbour; indeed he has just pulled into the drive. I only know he’s arrived because I can see his headlights: he drives a shiny new 4×4 which you cannot hear coming, it does not grumble loudly like my car, it whispers in subtly contented fashion. He is rich and likes to crow about his own (many) successes whilst being prophet of perpetual doom as to our (many) failures. Anthony and I have taken bets that he will tell us – on account of own recent debacle – to skip the country.
Watch this space!