Every time I drive to Lou’s, a seagull shits on Bergman. I’m not sure how much longer I’ll have him, just as the ULEZ is closing in and we will all be forced to join the doomed electric car experiment if we want to drive in London. Maybe the seagull doesn’t like internal combustion engines either. With the price of fuel these days it’s finally less competitive than the privatised rail network, but only if you’re a solo traveler, and the rail doesn’t take you door to door. They should really do something about that, but everyone is supposed to be making money, according to the people who make policy. And by everyone they mean everyone they know. Because those other people? Yeah well they don’t count.
Anyway, a seagull did a really messy poo all over the passenger side. Bastard.
“I’ll have to get that off,” I said to myself as I grabbed my leather jacket from the back seat. “It eats into the paint.” I pick up Lou.
“You’ll have to get that off,” Lou remarks as she gets in. “It eats into the paint.”
I go to get it off. It eats into the paint, don’t you know. The local car wash is closed.
I’m not in a bikini. I’m in a sodding waistcoat and converse. There’s a self service jetwash. It’s only a couple of quid. You spray your car with stuff that has been sitting for weeks and smells of feet. Your car gets shinier. You get the seagull poo off. You drive away wondering why everything smells faintly of feet. It is cheaper than a car wash.
Arguably I could’ve taken the waistcoat off. Nah.
Bergman is clean again. None of that caustic poo. We will be zooming up to Coventry and back tomorrow… And I’ve just realised that the residents permit, tax and insurance and MOT will all run out while I’m in Sardinia… Fuck. Another thing to think about. We are approaching our first anniversary, Bergy and I. I doubt we will make a second. But giving him some attention today has pleased me.
More wandering today, eventually taking me home again through Glyndebourne and Lewes. My friend is staying this evening and we walked in the park. Glad she’s in my life. But I am knackered. My bath is pretty much good to go next door. This is me, clocking out.