DARK COMEDY EPISODE 29
My Suitor In Sparkly Leggings . . .
Driving to meet Eustace through clouds of spray on the motorway
Excuse me waiving my usual style of address pet, but I am feeling somewhat out of sorts. This may have something to do with the sudden plethora of suitors competing for my attention!
I spent most of last week engaged in frequent — and prolific — correspondence with my new chum Eustace, who hails, naturally, from a city located at the other end of the country. By the end of last week, we had mutually decided that we had to meet, and that this meeting was going to involve us both driving hundreds of miles to a centrally-located rendezvous: the city of Middle Bit. I was a little alarmed at this thought dear, as I, myself, have not driven on a motorway for nearly a decade! And there was also the slight matter of having to inform my other two suitors of exactly what I was proposing to do.
Guthrie, when informed, maintained an imperturbable demeanour, and kindly offered to take me on a few laps of the nearest motorway to show me how to do it. This was certainly very good of him, and it was most useful being re-acquainted with the latest truck speed limits and methods of overtaking anyone who had the temerity to be in the actual way. ‘Concentrate,’ he said. ‘Concentrate very hard, all the way.’
However, I also had to inform my newest chum, one Maxwell from just around the corner, who had invited me round to help him assemble his new refracting telescope. (Satellite tracking, as you know pet, is a subject with which I am well acquainted.) Imagine my mortification then, when said Maxwell’s disappointment — upon hearing that I would not be available on the agreed day — seemed solely due to his need for someone to tap in the baseline settings for his new device!
I must say that I was in a state of high, and increasing, anxiety when the Banger 0.9L and I motored down the ramp to junction 58 of the M460. In fact, the Banger was probably in the throes of a nasty wake-up-call, never having been required to drive more than 20 miles at one time for the past decade.
It was, of course, raining and the juggernauts ahead — the ones with multiple sets of very wide tyres — seemed obscured in massive clouds of spray and were a daunting sight. They were a particularly daunting sight when one lorry tried to overtake another at a speed only slightly exceeding its comrade on the innermost lane. I hung back pet; it seemed a petrifying prospect to attempt to motor past on the outside lane. However, given the time it took for the two lorries to accomplish their manoeuvre, I believe that I was in error. One skilled gentleman, encased within a Lotus, just motored through the spray, disappearing — at one point — inside it, and I do believe that this method, of simply dealing immediately with the problem, was the correct one. So, the next time it happened, the Banger 0.9L and I motored past in exactly the same way. Wonderful. And to think that I have been avoiding excitement of this nature for quite some years now. I have been dead on the motorway verge of life!
Within four hours of non-stop driving (well I didn’t dare to actually) I had arrived at our rendezvous: the Sopwith Hotel, and was parking the Banger 0.9L adjacent to a large shrubbery in the car park. I did detect the slight aroma of burning rubber emanating from under the bonnet, but possibly this is natural for journey of such length? I decided, in any event, not to investigate.
Now Eustace had requested that I array myself in a particularly fetching pair of red lacy stockings and cherry-coloured high-heeled boots, and this took some moments to accomplish in the Banger’s less-than-ample back seat. And Eustace himself — given my propensity for colours of a vivid hue — had promised to arrive in sparkly leggings and iridescent head gear! I could hardly wait, I can tell you!
The hotel staff, meanwhile, were most accommodating and I was soon ensconced in a comfy seat awaiting coffee. I think they may have wondered a little at my constant pacing of the hallway in the lacy red stockings, but there was a very weak telephone signal in these premises and I couldn’t communicate with Eustace. Eventually, I did relate the whole story to several members of hotel staff, and they were soon lined up against the windows, noses pressed against the glass, in the wait for Eustace to motor up in the Spandex get-up!
Eventually — for I was one or two hours early — the unsuspecting Eustace flashed past the glass. And he was not a disappointment! In fact, we were all agog as this sparkly apparition mounted the hotel steps. The staff, however, were professional enough to feign disinterest, and I don’t think Eustace noticed as they busied themselves with floor-polishing, hoovering, and such-like.
Well. Eustace and I woofled down some croissants and engaged in some actual dialogue regarding what we were going to do next. Eventually, we decided to motor off on a visit to the closely-located “Doughnut World,” who were promising to offer “unlimited doughnuts.” Just fancy that!
After one-or-two detours and enquiries regarding the way to these premises, we finally arrived. I don’t know if you have ever been to this emporium have you dear? It has eighteen car parks and all the metal railings are painted in luminescent fuchsia pink! It was very hard to find a parking place since the whole of Middle Bit seemed to have fetched up there for the day, and Eustace and I found ourselves demurring somewhat. Eustace was particularly demurring at the entry price: £25.00 each! I myself did not think this to be a material objection; after all, a lady is not expected to pay when she is on a first outing with a gentleman. However, examining the set of Eustace’s jaw, it did seem prudent to suggest a (free) ride on a purple, wiggly, snake instead. And this is what we did pet — each munching on an unlimited quantity of doughnuts as we sped through the spray of water coating the interior of the slide!
As for what eventually happened, well, I think we were both somewhat dismayed by each other’s accounts of deranged former lovers. Indeed, we were both obviously hoping that this cast of crystal-wielding, cockroach-resembling, personnel had not followed us in our respective travels up-and-down the motorway. And one must look on the bright side dear: at least I must have blasted ten years of coke (the fuel, not the drug . . .) out of the Banger’s rear end in my peregrinations from one end of our green land to the other.
Yours
Aunt Evangeline
