One red car wheel please

No blog yesterday. There were a couple of reasons for this that in the spirit of honesty I’ll share with you.

1. I was much too grumpy
2. Grumpiness leads to laziness
3. Ergo I could not be assed

(Actually you can tell I’m still in a mood because I only use two exclamation marks in this blog. Well below average. Although my love of brackets remains intact)

Who would have thought a half mile trip to work could be so exciting, what with fallen trees and yesterday I noticed a funny noise. When I got out of the car I discovered a flat tyre. Arse!

It turns out it was a big rubber piercing nail.

But thankfully Roma has AAA membership so they fixed it for free, meaning I did not have to go out my skirt, heels and nice coat to try and work out what to do (David showed me once and I’m sure given 3 hours or so I could have done it if absolutely necessary) But if I’m honest (and I am - see my earlier spirit) I would probably have exhausted every possible avenue before me going out to put the spare wheel on would become a reality.

Despite my car-fixing father and brother I know nothing about cars. Once David needed new tyres and I made the comment about ‘red car wheels’. You see, I did not know that a wheel and a tyre were different things. I’d like to say that I was 8 or something but I was in university.

I know the important thing, how to drive one and I’m happy enough with that. My brain has far more interest in retaining useless facts and knowing the day of the week things happened on than to have the understanding of what a carburettor actually is or how to change the oil. (Although I think I should receive some credit for knowing the word ‘carburettor’ and that oil needs to be changed)

But the thing is I’m not the least bit sorry about my lack of knowledge of cars. If that’s what you are into then great. I’m not. But maybe I’ll come to when I need help. And maybe you will come to me when you want to know the capital of Nevada* or somewhere.

I went back to my favourite place to feel like a fish out of water to get the proper tyre fixed, the service and parts department of the car place. Everyone who works there, no wait everyone – employee and customer alike, is middle aged, male and of course, has a mullet. Me, stick out like a sore thumb?! Even the man who helped me when I broke my petrol door remembered me and said hello.

While they were fixing it I was reading the local free newspaper. I saw this advert (it’s really just one for the Irish Methodists – sorry everyone else):

Hopefully I’ll be out of my piss awful mood in time for the festivities at Jose’s tomorrow night, otherwise I’ll be known as that grumpy Irish girl. I’m sure by Monday I will be out of it. But if I don’t write you’ll know why.

Oh, and if you know me at all you will know not to try and coax me out of my grump by posting a comment or sending me an email telling me to cheer up or asking what’s wrong. And definitely do not call me pointy. I hate that and may never acknowledge your existence again and/or cause you harm. Leave me to wallow in my grumpiness. I will get out of it myself in my own good time. Thank you.

*Carson City