‘TWAS a bright and sunny day; the larks were twittering, the dog was asleep, and I had a long list of random tasks to fulfil before lunch.
Henry (the car) and I set off with a fool-proof shopping list and high spirits, and within minutes had completed our first task – get rid of the rubbish.
We sailed through Tasks 2 and 3.
4 was achieved with luck and cunning, while 5 (Mercadona) was a doddle.
Blithely we approached Task 6 – an easy one: Henry needed his tummy filled, and I needed to remove his aerial.
I went to his rear, stood on my toes, and discovered that I could touch his aerial, but was about an inch too short to grasp it. I hopped hopefully a couple of times, but I was still an inch too short.
I saw that struggle was futile, but once again Luck intervened. A car drew up behind me, and a lady got out to stretch her legs. She looked like someone blessed with a good helping of common sense.
‘Is your husband tall?’ I enquired in hopeful tones.
I was right. She had common sense in spades. ‘He’s 6 foot 2.’ She replied, unfazed.
‘Could you ask him please to take my aerial off?’
6 foot 2 arose out of his car, and with sublime ease unscrewed Henry’s aerial and handed it to me.
Why did I need his aerial removed?
Could my charmed luck continue through to Task 7?
Would it continue to be a charmed day?
