Photo Editing in Real Life
Yesterday was a glorious day in the chronicles of the Jabberwocky. The kind of day which, if we were in a musical, would have been a song. If we had been starring in an 80s film, it would have been a montage and if we’d been in ancient Greece, it would have been endless, perplexing epic poetry. As with all things, it began with starting the van, much to the obvious delight of the neighbors, at 9 am on a Sunday morning. We needed to get it clean before our army of Jabberwocky enthusiasts arrived to give the Beast its true colour. After trundling to the local pressure-washer and back the Beast was arranged in a nest of tarpaulins to steam in the sunshine while we gathered our tools, our thoughts and our beer. I had imagined the sanding would take longest, but...
Jabberwocky HQ
We have spent the last few days in the throws of one of life’s most celebrated torments: Househunting. A process that makes a roller-coaster of emotions look like a carousel of indifference. It started when we found Westlea Road. The house spoke to us, we loved it, it seemed just right. There was a back room that would be perfect for adding a catering kitchen and a garden out the front that we could sacrifice to the Beast so that it might come and live there with us. We put in an offer. It was turned down. We regrouped, considered once again the second entrance and the really nice layout and made another offer. It was turned down. There was, we were told, another bidder. We considered finances, moved things around and mentally started decorating the living...
It’s ALIVE
The glow plugs were indeed not working properly and the battery was, indeed, dead. The mechanics of Leamington (including the much hailed “returning tomorrow” of the previous post) had fought and fallen before the Beast, at times (I can only assume), cowering in fear and possibly weeping wretchedly. At any rate, none of them showed. Hell does not have enough bile reserved for people who do not hold up their end of a deal, but hope was in sight. Hope in the form of the same brother and father who had witnessed the awakening of the Jabberwocky way back here and who came armed with an arsenal of tools and demanding only tea, some peanuts and a packet of minstrels. The waiting was tense. This was our very last hope, beyond this lay the black pit of...
Moodbanking
I don’t believe in luck. I prefer to savour the good times, and bank them in the ISA of good feelings for a rainy day. Lately there have been a fair few rainy days, and they have been making regular withdrawals, but I’m still determined to save. DEBIT: The van has been fighting all attempts at working, still sits in our driveway pretending its primary purpose is to provide shelter for the local cats. CREDIT: Tomorrow possibly the only person in Leamington able to fix it returns from holiday. DEBIT: Earlier on Gogo, Barny’s Toyota MR2, decided not to start. Perhaps she was feeling neglected after we took Stevo the Stilo up north over the weekend (saw Penguin Cafe, was pretty good). Whatever the reason – nothing turned over, just a few...
Garlic Supernova
Take a box of baby tomatoes, give them to Barny and let him chef at them for a few hours in a low oven. The resulting slow roasted garlic tomatoes are a thing of such exquisite beauty that for a brief eating spree you forget that you don’t even like tomatoes, twisted non-fruit as they are, and succumb to enjoyment. Feeding frenzy over I must confess that the Jabberwocky is still stationary. It languishes on our drive, its glow plugs frayed and apt to make the cab smell of burning plastic if you use them. Mechanics flee before it, claiming prior engagements or electronic ignorance, and all the while our insurance ticks away, rust digs deeper into its ageing frame and the rat race drags us forward. The Jabberwocky will, one day, free us from the man. Being...
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