We can’t have nice things, can we? It’s only a few weeks when there was all sorts of chaos because of the snow, if I remembers right, and now we’re getting weather warnings because of a bit of sunshine.
Sure, where else would ye get it at all? Still, at least we have bread this time, which is one-nil to the sun versus the snow, in my book.
I love an auld sambo, so I do. I’m not one for all this avocado and pesto carry on. The most exotic I’ll go is a bit of chorizo and some of that spicy cheese they have in the shop down the road.
Speaking of which, I was on me way back from the shop the other day when I walked past Davy’s gaff.
Davy was sitting flaked out in the deckchair with the bandy leg that I fell off at Christmas.
Me ankle was banjoed for weeks after that – not that Davy was bothered. He just broke his heart laughing at me.
“Howya, Gaz,” he roars at me. “I’d offer ye a seat, but I know ye have a bit of difficulty with staying upright on them. There’s a knack to it, ye see.”
“Are you still wearing that stupid shirt,” I says to him. “Have ye even washed it since last time I was speaking to you?”
“Of course I have, ye bowsie,” he says to me, looking hurt that I’d question his hygiene. I’ve questioned worse about him, to be fair. “Maureen washed it the other day.”
“Would ye not wash it yourself?” I says to him.
“Ah, Maureen takes care of the washing,” he says. “I’ve never been able to figure out that machine.”
For all of his talk of equality and what not lately, Davy is still a bit of a dinosaur, really.
“Did I hear me name being mentioned,” Maureen roars at us as she walks down the hall.
“I’d never take your name in vain, Maureen,” I says to her. “Davy was just telling me about how enlightened he is in relation to the whole feminist thing, these days.”
“That enlightenment hasn’t extended to doing a tap around this place,” she says, as she slaps him on the back of the head with her free hand as she walks past him.
She had a big glass of water in the other hand that was near overflowing. I thought she must be fairly thirsty because of the hot weather, but she walked over to the flowers in the garden and started pouring dribbles on to them.
“What are ye doing, Maureen?” I says to her.
“Watering the flowers. What does it look like?”
“Would you not use the watering can,” I asks her.
“I don’t want to get a fine,” Davy pipes up.
“A fine?” I says to him. “Sure, that’s only if you use the hose. You’ll be grand with a watering can.”
“Ah, I can’t risk it,” he says. “We’ve the holidays next week. I need the few quid for sangria and the likes.”
“I can’t wait to get away,” says Maureen. “I bet there’s no water shortages in Spain. They’re used to this weather.”
“I’ve gotten used to it meself,” I says to her. “Sure, why would ye want to be going anywhere at all?”
“Ah, it’s good to get away though,” says Davy. “Recharge the batteries, like.”
“They look fairly recharged from where I’m standing,” I says to him. “Anyway, yis might be going nowhere. The pilots are going on strike.”
I was already sauntering down the road when I shouted that back at them but had a little chuckle at the pair of them roaring “Wha’?!” in unison.