Mechanical Hero

by brightonsauce

Read this through a couple of times, then launch on the world, delete in haste, let me see now x

 

I am handy with a car, or any vehicle [you like].  [AND YET as] Like any young man I have [suffered]had setbacks [upon the highway] – the intense knocking sound came from the front wheel,  I had travelled all night, Roy Orbison,  to return home, [with] only the one mile long, and high Bideford bridge to traverse before immersion in [a] breast/hearth twin-set.  But for now vehicle-bound I accelerated – to cross the enormous suspension structure when my wheel fell off,  bounced the length of the bridge, ahead of me.  Spot-lit [my wheel pogoed the highway], [I] Chased  the free wheel from my [steering] chair,  steered amidst sparks and headlights, ploughed on into an earthen bank, the far side, crossed the bridge, but never found that tyre [ever again].  The same bold spirit -adventure – sees mankind sledge Arctic polo land, sees mankind row the Irish Seas I said to the Samaritan volunteers who arrived aside my destroyed vehicle.  People in anoraks, I am certainly not a suicide, god dammit, I said, and indeed it was me who called the RAC to investigate mysterious circumstantials.

Also I detailed the whole episode amidst my infant children held [juggled] in my loving arms at the police station. Naturally, I blamed Tim, a sound engineer colleague, at the time.  I told Tim hours before about the problem with my knocking wheel, and he a fool, [god] rest his soul, diagnosed air filter transmission aerial, advised somebody take a look at it, mate he said, all in the days before google medicine, you understand.

More recently I purchased brake fluid, delivered  plastic brake fluid bottle contents to my oil reservoir, mistaken technically, but yes, at my job a man needs to be handy with engine, drill, screwdriver all-rounder, and I definitely am an improvement every day, circuit-breaker among menkind.  Well, I can only detail obliquely my intense career in agriculture.  Farming – like the Secret Service, and if M or S were to discover THAT technical revelations regarding intensive upholstery had been passed to the Chinese bureau…I would probably/certainly be executed, dragged to slurry pit lagoon, drowned before a clutch of sector managing directors in suits, wellingtons.  I fear the day, image tattooed underside of my eyeballs when I sleep, my living hell, [under my face] my pyjamas.  At least the children, my children are now all grown [up], and also living on my face, most of the time, bless the children, asleep until 4pm, or

‘Get a job, shithead,’ the words of my darling wife.

She was very much in the mood for career guidance, motivation that came late last night, a half bottle of whisky shared, inspiration. [it is weekend whisky only]

‘Move [on]out of our house, now,  now you go, we hate you…’ she said.

‘Baby, we don’t hate the children, please.’ I said, wore my weekend referee’s outfit, black shorts, black shirt like my heroes.

‘Get off that sofa, get off that facking facebook, and answer me, nnnnnnnn,’ she said to my poor little weakling.  He minded his own business in his mother’s  home.’

‘And we, yes…baby, baby,’ I said, supported both sides come confrontation, UN, I said, ‘did we, did we not in our day strive in our working, yes son, she does have a good point, get a job.’ I said.

‘Father please, make her [be] quiet.’

‘I know, my lad you are the voice of a new folk-acid guitar movement, but please Theseus, could you not try a little job?  The theory of mine, you…have a job in parallel to the main thrusts of your…ambition?’

‘I understand what ye sayeth, wise man,’

‘Yes, son.’

‘Get a fucking job,’ said my wife, remained irritated for one reason or another, and that dark night our refrigerator was completely/entirely stripped of chorizo, cheese, raw mince and milk, a 3am raid, stealth, or vengeance – although I slept through the assault.

 

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