Repetition

It has to be said that my history of illness and accidents has been well documented over my blog life.
I managed to hurt myself baking.
I feel like I should take a small bow for that.
Although it's not strictly true.
A decade ago I got RSI, it's the kind of thing that just hangs around waiting for you to piss it off at some point in the future.
"Aha" it thinks "you have spent mighty long typing today, I shall give you a little pain".
Or in the most recent case "Aha, so you thought getting into baking would be a good idea? Well let me show you what I think of your whisking, beating and stirring". It didn't think a whole lot of it and my goodness it made me pay.

I was uncharacteristically sensible and rested. I remembered a decade ago, when it got so bad I had no grip in my hand at all and had to have my food cut up for me. I can't decide if that was like regression or premature ageing....
Either way, it's improving slowly, although my online time has been somewhat curtailed.

Add to the fact I had spent Saturday baking, I then decided (before my uncharacteristic sense kicked in) that I would work in the garden. I dug and weeded and planted and fought with ants. This did not help the pain in my wrist (funny that eh?)

I had parked my car in front of my garage, then I came to want to close the garage but the boot of the car was in the way. So I put the key in the ignition and the sound that came out was all wrong. A little like a flooded engine sound. Not a good sound. She's always been a good Beastie and started first time. Until she was in the most inconvenient spot. I tried, dodgy wrist and all, to give her a shove but, shockingly, she was rather heavy and refused to budge.
I made a call and Tim came and helped with the shoving, we closed the garage and abandoned the Beastie.

I saw the man in the garage the next day, Monday. "I'll come out in the afternoon" he said.
Then Tuesday rolled around. I was out all day, I asked my Mum to ring and they said "we'll come out this afternoon".
Wednesday then rolled in. I dropped back in to the garage. "I'll come out this afternoon" he said.
5.30pm rolled around, I felt like a shower, so I decided we were moving out of afternoon and into evening and stepped into the hot water.
I put shampoo on my hair, I made a good lather...
The phone rang.
I ran.
"Are you with your car?"
"I can be."
"See you in five minutes."
"Ok, no worries"
Shit. Shit. Shit.

Thus followed a very fast dive into the shower, a desperate rush to rinse the shampoo and failing miserably. Deciding in my wisdom to push my wet legs into the broken pair of jeans. Broken because the zip 'handle' part broke so the zip slides down if you pull it up, and as a measure before replacing it I put a safety pin in the zip. Which means the movements for dressing in jeans you can't undo are more than a little bizarre, combined with your wet legs and bubble filled head it's really not a pretty picture.

I stroll down to the car, hoping the fact my head is acting like a child's pot of bubbles isn't too noticeable. They arrive from the garage with a tow rope. I am not filled with good feelings.
I cross my fingers and hope that she will turn over and start, as she always has.
But she doesn't.
The two men from the garage look at each other and in an almost duet utter the words "cam belt". Which, when said in a negative tone, are not two words I wish to hear. My heart sinks. I feel the Beastie slipping away.

The bonnet is popped, things are poked, hmming noises are uttered as the engine turns over and the sentence "Oh maybe it's not, there's still movement."
These words are a joy. The Beastie is still with me yet.
I watch her be towed away with a lump in my throat and a tear in my eye.
I'm a giant softie.

Thursday comes and goes. No word from the garage.
Friday arrives. Friday afternoon flies by, suddenly my phone rings.
It's Mum, "What's your licence plate?"
I relay it and she says "We've just seen it driving down the road"
I do an embarrassing dance of joy and keep my fingers crossed that the fact the Beastie is working doesn't also mean that i will be destitute after having paid for her surgery.

I arrive at the garage, "something wrong with your ignition, it's going now, don't know how long it'll go for though". There's no mincing of words at my garage. Which is actually pretty much how I like it.
So, I carefully took the Beastie home (after giving her a hug round the steering wheel when I was sure the mechanics weren't looking) and my pocket was just £50 lighter.

I am a happy bunny, I really missed her.
It was a genuine disaster for me to be threatened with losing her.

And on a lighter note. I have learned that, if you apply some of that holiday skin fake tan lotion that takes a week to show up and then take a bath and scratch your leg, it will remove the fake tan in that area and leave you with the mother of all streaks. Just call me McStreakyLegs. And yes, it really IS as attractive as it sounds.