Last night I was wrenched from sleep by a very, very loud bang. ‘What the hell was that?' I mumbled through closed eyes. 'Sounds like the dog exploded.’
Ignoring my half-conscious nonsense, the hero of the hour was out of bed at a speed I’d never seen him achieve before. He was away down the stairs with half an arm in my Estee Lauder robe (one of those free gifts they throw in to make it look like the obscenely-priced perfume is, in fact, excellent value) before you could say ‘burglar’, leaving the front door wide open.
Only mildly curious, I snuggled back down and would have gone back to sleep easily had it not been for the icy draught creeping up the stairs.
I read somewhere once that the best way to keep warm is to lie still. I think it was a survival guide in case you got lost on a snowy mountain. Apparently that way, your body only has to heat up the immediate centimetre surrounding you, like the Ready Brek glow, whereas if you wriggle about, the glow gets confused and tries to heat up the whole world, leaving you with lots of cold bits.
Well let me tell you, if you rely on this information at night on the Matterhorn, you’re going to die. I have now tried it, and it doesn't work. I lay stiff as a corpse for a good five minutes but it made not a jot of difference. Then I wiggled about a lot, thinking (as I had done originally, when reading this silly advice) that raising your body temperature has to be a better way to keep warm.
Eventually, furiously, I stomped downstairs planning to slam the door loudly enough for the village hero to get the message but not loudly enough to wake up the kids. It’s a delicate skill but I've done it so many times I've nailed it.
Having got there, it dawned on me belatedly that he'd shot off unhesitatingly in the middle of the night and that maybe I should be concerned. I poked my head out and, seeing nothing but darkness, tugged my t-shirt a bit further over my bottom, donned wellies (good look that, t-shirt, wellies and yesterday's make up) and crept out into the drive. I called but there was no reply. No sign of him.
I ventured to the end of the drive. In the gloom I could make out shadowy figures milling around a few doors down and, yes – there was definitely a man in a fluffy robe.
There had been some kind of car crash. Hoping it was nothing too grim, I put the front door on the latch and went to investigate.
It astonishes me that there aren't more accidents outside my house. We are positioned in a 30-mile-an-hour zone mid-way between two hairpin bends, but the speed some of the lads (sorry, but it is always lads) manage to crank up in the few short yards in between them is breath taking.
Turns out this one cranked it up a bit too much and lost if halfway round the bend, taking down a garden wall and ploughing his car into the ditch.
He was not hurt but was beside himself, not least because it wasn't his car. His cousin, who’d lent it to him, was also beside himself when he turned up, but not nearly so friendly. He was determined to get his car out of the ditch. I can’t tell you what he said to us when we suggested he go home and sort it out in the morning.
After a great deal of shunting, grumping and swearing (which our hero stayed out of for fear of getting my robe muddy), the lads managed to extract their battered motor from the ditch and drove off very shakily in the direction of home. This all took about an hour.
Two minutes later, the village police raced up and screeched to a halt. Leaping out they addressed the assembled neighbours.
‘Hear a car slammed into the ditch,’ they announced excitedly (not much goes on around here as a rule).
The men in dressing gowns looked at each other and then back at the bobbies.
‘Yes,’ said one of them, pointing slowly in the direction from which the police had just arrived.
‘That would be the one you just passed going two miles an hour in the opposite direction with the headlights hanging off and the doors bashed in....’
You know all those TV dramas where the policeman says to the reluctant witness, ‘...but you must have seen something unusual’?
Ignoring my half-conscious nonsense, the hero of the hour was out of bed at a speed I’d never seen him achieve before. He was away down the stairs with half an arm in my Estee Lauder robe (one of those free gifts they throw in to make it look like the obscenely-priced perfume is, in fact, excellent value) before you could say ‘burglar’, leaving the front door wide open.
Only mildly curious, I snuggled back down and would have gone back to sleep easily had it not been for the icy draught creeping up the stairs.
I read somewhere once that the best way to keep warm is to lie still. I think it was a survival guide in case you got lost on a snowy mountain. Apparently that way, your body only has to heat up the immediate centimetre surrounding you, like the Ready Brek glow, whereas if you wriggle about, the glow gets confused and tries to heat up the whole world, leaving you with lots of cold bits.
Well let me tell you, if you rely on this information at night on the Matterhorn, you’re going to die. I have now tried it, and it doesn't work. I lay stiff as a corpse for a good five minutes but it made not a jot of difference. Then I wiggled about a lot, thinking (as I had done originally, when reading this silly advice) that raising your body temperature has to be a better way to keep warm.
Eventually, furiously, I stomped downstairs planning to slam the door loudly enough for the village hero to get the message but not loudly enough to wake up the kids. It’s a delicate skill but I've done it so many times I've nailed it.
Having got there, it dawned on me belatedly that he'd shot off unhesitatingly in the middle of the night and that maybe I should be concerned. I poked my head out and, seeing nothing but darkness, tugged my t-shirt a bit further over my bottom, donned wellies (good look that, t-shirt, wellies and yesterday's make up) and crept out into the drive. I called but there was no reply. No sign of him.
I ventured to the end of the drive. In the gloom I could make out shadowy figures milling around a few doors down and, yes – there was definitely a man in a fluffy robe.
There had been some kind of car crash. Hoping it was nothing too grim, I put the front door on the latch and went to investigate.
It astonishes me that there aren't more accidents outside my house. We are positioned in a 30-mile-an-hour zone mid-way between two hairpin bends, but the speed some of the lads (sorry, but it is always lads) manage to crank up in the few short yards in between them is breath taking.
Turns out this one cranked it up a bit too much and lost if halfway round the bend, taking down a garden wall and ploughing his car into the ditch.
He was not hurt but was beside himself, not least because it wasn't his car. His cousin, who’d lent it to him, was also beside himself when he turned up, but not nearly so friendly. He was determined to get his car out of the ditch. I can’t tell you what he said to us when we suggested he go home and sort it out in the morning.
After a great deal of shunting, grumping and swearing (which our hero stayed out of for fear of getting my robe muddy), the lads managed to extract their battered motor from the ditch and drove off very shakily in the direction of home. This all took about an hour.
Two minutes later, the village police raced up and screeched to a halt. Leaping out they addressed the assembled neighbours.
‘Hear a car slammed into the ditch,’ they announced excitedly (not much goes on around here as a rule).
The men in dressing gowns looked at each other and then back at the bobbies.
‘Yes,’ said one of them, pointing slowly in the direction from which the police had just arrived.
‘That would be the one you just passed going two miles an hour in the opposite direction with the headlights hanging off and the doors bashed in....’
You know all those TV dramas where the policeman says to the reluctant witness, ‘...but you must have seen something unusual’?
more please, I love your writing . . . now hooked....... wish you lived here and "Boshamed ON!" but I guess that hasn't quite got the same ring to it?? love from Kate (in yes...Bosham)
ReplyDeleteMy first read of your blog -and it's a good'un.
ReplyDeleteThanks for making me smile.