The yellow cones are outside! It's happening tomorrow!

   



I'll have to get out there early and drive, drive, drive round the corner to safety!

Then spend the whole day working from home, anxiously peering out of the front window every 10 minutes to see if they've finished, and when they have, run, run, run round the corner to get the car and drive it back into my space, while every second it'll be open to unwanted vehicles!

Big truck full of road signs and traffic lights outside my house, alert!

They finished work and all naffed off at 12.45, so I've put my car back.

But I've got a lingering feeling this might not be the final end...

The truck did come back, but it was just one of them, and he merely collected up the cones, took some pictures of their handiwork with a tablet and departed.

At least I didn't have to exercise the car this Monday, because it had a couple of good runs on Friday.

I have to have my car MOT'd tomorrow.

That means my parking space will be open to unwanted vehicles for at least 2 hours, and possibly several more

MOT day is here

My car is now MOTed and back in its rightful place.

There was only 0.9m to spare at each end though, which is a triumph of tight parking by my standards.

When I got home from Sainsburys this morning I found my neighbours had put cones in front of their house, and halfway in front of my house, so that their builders could park their van.

It's not that that's unreasonable in itself, but they might have flipping well asked me, just as a matter of politeness.

I am quite cross about this and it has renewed my determination to move house.

Neighbours brought round a peace-offering yesterday in the form of a bottle of wine, which was much appreciated.

Unfortunately I had to get out of the bath to answer the door, dressed only in a coat I'd hastily grabbed from one of the hooks in the hall.

Perhaps the element of farce helped defuse what might have been a difficult situation.

I have printed out a guide on decluttering your house prior to selling it. And got a quote for storage space.

I'm outta here!

I put my car back in its rightful place when I came home yesterday.

So perhaps I can get some fl*pping peace and quiet till Monday now.

They put a note through the door while I was asleep at lunchtime, apologetically saying that the disruption won't finish till 5pm Saturday!

I'm going to go and stay in a hotel next weekend I think, I've had enough of this, and I deserve a break.

Oh, exciting. Are you going to a hotel out of town? Always a great excuse to sample local fare. Something about hotels - the anonymity, the mirrors, the pervasive atmosphere of it all. Endless possibilities ranging from extreme ecstasy to being murdered.

And location permitting, potentially trouble free and cost free parking. You can just carelessly drive through the car park and swerve in anywhere you feel like.

Sean doesn't really appreciate my love of hotels. From being told 'my God Tanya, there's people through the wall', to his I thought very rude remark that the writing desk chair might not support both of us, to his almost parental disapproval of my Blu Tak alarm disabling technique to enable enjoyment of a joint in the bath without worrying about fines, our hotel experiences so far have not been promising.

It's generally been a case of eye mask on, sleeping pill swallowed, goodnight to you too. And we've had to have a few chats about my dislike of men who spoon and cuddle in the night. Good sleeping pills are like gold dust these days (yet another Tory side effect was to put the kybosh on confetti like prescriptions and easy import generics), there aren't extras going begging if you get woken up - and with my selection of airline logo eye masks, you'd need to be blind to think I was an easy sleeper. 

Hotels, yes - I miss that about single life. The option to tell them to get dressed and get out can't be priced or underestimated. You make the most of your hotel weekend. Apologies to all for the political tangent but in this instance it was relevant context.

cosmictanya wrote:

extreme ecstasy to being murdered..

Same difference.

Nightjar wrote:

cosmictanya wrote:

extreme ecstasy to being murdered..

Same difference.

You could well be right.

I should write into the tips column in Woman's Own type magazines with my Blu Tak trick. I'm sure I've seen ones in the dentist that pay money for the star tip of the week. 

And that handy tip is all thanks to a hotel room. I was invited over to the Sheraton Park Lane (actually on Piccadilly, so naff name misuse imo) by a 19 year old Kuwaiti, where I learned exactly that.

Sure it used to be called something else years ago, can't quite recall. Nightjar might know. Their harp afternoons were happy hunting for the unhappily married wallet.