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Jul. 8th, 2024 07:50 amI've been wondering for the best part of half an hour whether the repair-guy delivery status page is a lie.
It's 9 minutes to 8 and our call window opened at 7:15. We're still number one in the queue.
In passing: last night my head began to spin narrative. Instead of having a book feeding distantly into my ear, I canned the audio so I could focus on the setup for amber hood arriving at a pub.
A car has been parked in a side street opposite the pub for most of the day. The woman who manages the office on the corner of the side road has clocked them and noticed that the local traffic warden hasn't ticketed the car that the car has never moved. There are people in the car. Are they police? Are they somebody heavy enough to scare nasty Nigel the traffic warden, known for even ticketing ambulances, off? One of the things that makes 99 also nasty though is that his name is Simon.
In the meantime the office manager has carefully placed a calendar in the corner window opposite the pub.
The sun is sliding down the sky, the rush hour is over, the office types and mechanics are heading home after a quick one, the regular crowd who conceal themselves in the back room are gathering and the two men, a hulking bodybuilder wearing too much jewelry and a small man in a grey silk suit, who have made the front of the corner table of the pub their own in the last few days, have been sitting with their heads together for some while.
In an hour or so, a small woman will step out of a car, maybe a private hire taxi, maybe an Uber, it's difficult to tell from here, straighten her black leather jacket, tuck an awkward ringlet back behind her ear, pause outside the classic car showroom peering in at 1965 Mustang as if waiting for somebody, then walk decisively through the bright doorway of The Marley.
Dark figures in a car parked in the side street will stretch and shift and, coincidentally, a cardboard calendar in a nearby office will slip off the windowsill to the floor.
Still waiting for this blooming repair-guy, an hour and twenty-five minutes after expected time of arrival. It could be any time 'til quarter past 10, now. I'm unimpressed, after all the very cool support, three way conversations and shared camera inspections of Friday. Some things don't change😄
It's 9 minutes to 8 and our call window opened at 7:15. We're still number one in the queue.
In passing: last night my head began to spin narrative. Instead of having a book feeding distantly into my ear, I canned the audio so I could focus on the setup for amber hood arriving at a pub.
A car has been parked in a side street opposite the pub for most of the day. The woman who manages the office on the corner of the side road has clocked them and noticed that the local traffic warden hasn't ticketed the car that the car has never moved. There are people in the car. Are they police? Are they somebody heavy enough to scare nasty Nigel the traffic warden, known for even ticketing ambulances, off? One of the things that makes 99 also nasty though is that his name is Simon.
In the meantime the office manager has carefully placed a calendar in the corner window opposite the pub.
The sun is sliding down the sky, the rush hour is over, the office types and mechanics are heading home after a quick one, the regular crowd who conceal themselves in the back room are gathering and the two men, a hulking bodybuilder wearing too much jewelry and a small man in a grey silk suit, who have made the front of the corner table of the pub their own in the last few days, have been sitting with their heads together for some while.
In an hour or so, a small woman will step out of a car, maybe a private hire taxi, maybe an Uber, it's difficult to tell from here, straighten her black leather jacket, tuck an awkward ringlet back behind her ear, pause outside the classic car showroom peering in at 1965 Mustang as if waiting for somebody, then walk decisively through the bright doorway of The Marley.
Dark figures in a car parked in the side street will stretch and shift and, coincidentally, a cardboard calendar in a nearby office will slip off the windowsill to the floor.
Still waiting for this blooming repair-guy, an hour and twenty-five minutes after expected time of arrival. It could be any time 'til quarter past 10, now. I'm unimpressed, after all the very cool support, three way conversations and shared camera inspections of Friday. Some things don't change😄
