Mahinda’s Little World

It’s been a looooooooong time since I last blogged, and boy have I picked up some stories since then! I’ve just blogged my tale from last night, but there’s plenty more where that came from.

I’ve been called blond, and white, and obese. All in the space of five days.

I’ve been to Rome…and the sprawling metropolis that is Leeds.

There have been a couple more weddings, obviously. And a couple more to come. I even even wore a kilt. And no, I’m not going to dignify _that_ question with a response!

Unfortuantely, while the three months either side of today will have featured four weddings…it’s also featured a funeral of Aunty Hosana, someone who’d been very close to me when I was growing up. I’m not going to report on the funeral, but I’ve reminisced before about what she meant to me.

Continuing the sad theme, I’ve still not found love, so there’s no gossip for all you vultures out there. Well, there is gossip, but nothing of the positive variety…and I’m not going to go round blogging about it for a change.

On a lighter note, I’ve turned 30. Yes, I feel suitably old. 

Lastly, I’ve just been promoted, but not to the job I’d applied for. It’s weird — I’ve had four job titles in my 8-year odyssey at [company name withheld], and only one of them was a job I’d actually gone for.

I’ve not blogged for bloody ages!

Sorry folks, but it’s just kind of happened that way. I should get back into the habit — I’ve picked up a few good stories since I last wrote, anyway, and I’ll start with last night’s episode…

On the way home from work, I dropped some books and a shower head (don’t ask) off at Rosy’s place. As I left his house and headed back to the car, there was an old man on the street, with lots of shopping bags, who thought I was a taxi. I told him I wasn’t, and he begged me for a lift home, just on Yew Tree Road. He was harmless enough, just a bit doddery and drunk. And Irish.

The chap looked absolutely freezing, and I had nowhere else to be (for a change), so I thought I’d do a good deed.

He turned out to be called Oliver, and well into the "you’re my beshth friend" stage of drunkeness. 

So I drove him down to what turned out to be a little close just opposite the Man City training complex, and helped him with his bags — he was spilling turnips everywhere. When I realised that his place was just off the close, I decided that I should probably lock the car up. 

So I locked the passenger side door…and realised just as it slammed shut it that the central locking had decided to work for a change…and lock the driver’s door too. I was locked out of my car, with the engine on and my phone in the door pocket.

BUGGER.

I helped Oliver home with his bags, and asked if he had a phone — my plan was to phone home and see if I could get Housemate Andy round to pick me up so I could find my spare keys. Oliver couldn’t find his mobile, which I figure was probably just in a different pocket. No matter — he took me round to a neighbour’s place…who allegedly had no credit.

At this point, I was thinking of running home anyway…but there was another neightbour to try. "Lovely girl, I’m sure she’ll help" slurred Oliver.

We knocked on the door at no.4. A small child in a Cyberman costume stared back at us through the window. Eventually, the door was opened by a woman (a rather pretty brunette, as it happens) about my age.

"Is yer mother in?" asked my companion, "My friend here’s lost ‘is phone".

I shushed him and explained what had actually happened, and Emma (for that be her name) let me use her phone.

Turns out Oliver was trying to get hold of the (older) woman in the flat above. Close enough, anyway. 

So, the phone call home. No answer. All the other useful numbers were in my phone.

Oliver wasn’t helping — he’d gone into "manic but well-meaning mode" if you see what I mean, where someone’s drunkenly trying to help but really isn’t. I ushered him home, told him to get some rest, and asked Emma if she’d mind keeping an eye on the car. I then started running the two miles back home. Got to Wilbraham Road…and realised that leaving my car with its engine running, in Rusholme, for at least 40 minutes, was not a great idea.

It’s at this point that I realised that I’m an RAC member, and they do things like that…so I ran back to Emma’s and asked her if I could use her phone again, this time for an 0800 number. The RAC said they’d be 45 minutes, so she invited me in and we sat there chatting for a while. It was her son’s 5th birthday, and we talked mostly about spiders.

Eventually, RAC bloke got there, laughed at me, poked a metal rod in between door and frame, and pressed the button to wind down the window. Job done. 

Well, they say one good turn deserves another…which sort of applied. I’d much rather not have needed one myself, though!