Wet, Wet, Wet

I bit off a bit more than I could chew when I decided to stop off on the way home from bridge to get the car washed. I dialled in my code, drove the car into position and turned the engine off when the Stop sign appeared. As the brushes hit the windscreen and water began to gush out I suddenly remembered that I hadn't removed the aerial from the roof. Usually the person in the kiosk reminds you, but she must have forgotten. In a split second I had weighed up my options: leave it and hope for the best, but the last time I did that the bill to replace the mangled one was horrible; drive the car back out, but would the car wash go on without me and I'd have to pay for another one?; or get out and remove the aerial. Again, I considered how long it would take me and how quickly the water would cover me. I thought I might have enough time, so I jumped out, remembered to slam the door behind me, and rushed to the back of the car to unscrew the aerial. Well, it was wet back there. The spray soaked my sleeve as I reached up to the roof, and it sprayed my hair, my face and my glasses too. But it wasn't a drenching, and I got the aerial off. Just as well. I watched from the sidelines as the brushes scraped and ground across the roof and I know that innocent piece of metal would have been history. Back in the clean car I dried my face and hair with tissues, and my sleeve was back to normal in minutes.

On the way home I was interested to see that the sheep pastures of Heveningham Hall are covered, and I mean covered in molehills. Poor Mr Hunt, him of Foxton's fame who owns most of eastern Suffolk, can he not afford a molecatcher? I wonder if I should tell Sid to go touting for business. He'd never have to leave once he got there. He could hang all the little blighters up on a line as a warning to their friends. But the lucky escapees might head in my direction instead so perhaps I'll keep quiet. Perhaps I shouldn't have mentioned this subject. I know what vengeful little buggers they are.