Well a weekend spent dragging myself through tiny crawl spaces in old lofts was never going to be well received by my nemesis Ms Nature was it. True to form she has retaliated and her weapon of choice is righty. Having dropped a kettle I should have realised how things were going but sadly it took the loss of a full pint of beer before reality dawned.
Monday morning I would have presented a great comedy sketch to anyone watching as I berated myself for repeatedly dropping a towel “it’s a bloody towel, is that too much to ask!” The calming brew was a failure when I dropped the teabag before traversing as far as the cup.
Some careful manipulation has revealed a combination of factors that appear to be at work. First off there is an angry ‘jump’ as I rotate my wrist, rather than the granular motion I usually have and the smooth motion you have. This has happened before and is indicative that one of the bearing surfaces has moved and is presenting a notched face. I usually find that it ‘beds in’ over time. The other factor is an even more acute hyper sensitivity around the end of the graft which seems to have followed some trauma unknown and resultant blister.
After slamming the razor into my face during yesterday’s tidy up I have strapped righty up partly to apply pressure to the nerve which reduces the pain and secondly to remind me that, currently, he cannot be trusted.
But the more important news from the weekend is the discovery of sniper pigeons, after all not much can trump that can it? The discovery was made when I alerted Andrew to the sounds of pigeons in his loft, followed closely by him closing the door behind me. When he opened the door he immediately noticed the telltale red dot of a laser beloved by special forces and ultrasonic distance measures.
The only logical explanation was a sniper pigeon so I quickly completed the task and we retreated. Later we discussed this new development over a pint or two and soon an image developed of a pigeon, with rockwall tucked into its feathers as camouflage, perched high behind some natural cover. He would sit for hours, with one wing cradling his high velocity rifle, waiting for the perfect shot.
Having listened intently to the developing story of a platoon of highly skilled marksmen pigeon Helen was poised with a question. Not for her the technicalities of pigeon sized rifles or indeed the organisation of flying rodents along strict military lines, oh no she cut to the quick of the matter “how did they get in?”
Let that be a lesson to you, never let logic get in the way of irrational fear!
