Mahinda’s Little World

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!