The Joy of Speed

Ladies and Gentlemen, I have had the pleasure of being driven around the Norfolk countryside this weekend. As you know, one of my favourite things to do is to drive around the Norfolk countryside. I will do so just because. I love getting lost, taking back roads, going in the general direction of....Sat Navs are for whimps and cowards. The places I've discovered because I took a wrong turning: babbling fords, gorgeous water meadows, fields and fields of poppies. Beautiful moments in a countryside like no other. Generally speaking, I don't make a terribly good passenger. That changed this weekend.

On Friday, I was driven around in a bright yellow, MR2...at speed. And I loved it! Damn, I want to learn how to drive that well (that noise you heard, was the sound of me adding to my To Do List). There is something about the singing of a performance engine as you move at speed round a corner. Now, as you may have figured out by now, I am a bit of a control freak. The gentleman who drove me, races bikes, amongst other things; he knows what he's doing. Whether on a bike or behind the wheel of a car. He's probably the only man human being in my acquaintance currently, I would let drive the Funmobile. That says a lot.

On Sunday, I was driven around in a green Rover 10 at a glorious 10mph. We were in top gear. I loved it! The wind in our faces as we rattled around, on the road. This car is 83 years old and has been lovingly looked after by Z's Sage. We went down the drive, up the road to the church and came round again. It was glorious. British engineering at it's finest. Nothing that can't be fixed with WD40, duct tape and a hammer.

As I missed The Wall Party (*sniff*) because I was in London being NLPd, when I got a whiff that there might be more party action at Casa del Z, I dropped a hint that Z was far too ladylike to deny. I finally got to meet Z's fabulous children and grandchildren, who are far cuter than described. How Z doesn't burst with maternal pride, I don't know.

And by the way, should you ever have the opportunity to go to a party hosted by Z, accept. Cancel any other arrangements happening on the day. You will not regret it; she and the Sage are marvellous hosts who know some truly fascinating people, not to mention have fantastic kids. Oh...and also...wear drawstring trousers.

Three Cheers...!

Hip hip - horray! To Inspector Monkfish who came at short notice and took my computer to one side and showed it who was boss. Boy is now back on the Internet, and within 24 hours, has lost the frown lines which had taken up residence between his brows (especially when he looked at me).

I sent IM an invitation he could hardly refuse - come fix my pc and I'll show you a good time (but not THAT good a time). He turned up here and we exchanged news and gossip. He fixed my pc and I made him a chilli. The chilli was a bit of a disappointment, I used a different type of chilli powder - it said 'Hot' and it lied like a cheap rug. I'm going to dump it and go and get some from the local Veg and Fish Shop.

I even convinced him, okay, so I twisted his arm, to look at shiny cars. Well, who told him to say he was thinking about looking for another car? I have a sneaking suspicion I have developed a bit of an obsession with my car. When we finally went to the showroom this afternoon, both he and the poor sod of a salesman just kept on laughing at me. It's not my fault! It's really not. Just because I kept interrupting with facts and figures about the car (constantly) and I went on and on about the environmental benefits and economical bits...anyone would think I don't have a life and have turned into an anorak...oh...ummm...

Anyway, Boy and I are going to salsa regularly now. Tomorrow, we will be shaking our funky stuff at the Forum...if anyone wants to join us - please do, bring some blokes. It has proved beyond a shadow of a doubt what I've been saying for years...a single, straight guy who is willing to dance is never without female company.

When we went to Stalham on Thursday, we had such a good time. My feet didn't work very well, but I'm a firm believer in the 'as long as you don't stop moving, people won't care' School of Dance. It's good to be moving again, I hadn't realised how much my energy levels had plummeted until I started pushing myself.

I'm actually feeling very pleased with myself at the moment. I have been getting up earlier in the mornings and have been exercising every day before going off to work. I can't be too smug though, the workouts aren't exactly tough, they're the Rosemary Conelly ones and I've been doing the cardio one day, toning the next. But, I have to start somewhere and the good thing is, although it is hard work, I'm not as unfit as I was when I first got the dvd. I remember suffering to get half-way through. I can't even begin to think about doing the Nell McAndrew yet, it'll take a couple of weeks before I kill myself doing that. However, based on Amazon's recommendations I forked out for a Davina McColl set, but there is no way I can do that for at least a month. Those work-outs are really tough, even if they are only 30 mins a pop.

I suppose I'm just tired of listening to myself whinge. I like being fitter and healthier, I have more energy and I can cope with things better. I did it before and foolishly let things lapse, so I'm working it. I have a goal: I want to be 8 stone in 2 months time. I want to be fitter and stronger than I am at the moment. I know life isn't automatically going to become 'rosier', but I really won't miss feeling rubbish about my body shape, and sluggish and just generally bleugh.

So if you've made a New Year's Resolution to doing something similar, let me know how you're getting on...let's cheer each other on!

Trouble in Threes

Trouble 1.
I had to travel to a meeting on Saturday, in my fabulous, new shiny car. The world turned into an icy grey sheet, no distinction between sky and ground, white bits floating in the biting wind. I'm not travelling too close to the car in front, we pass near a farmyard entrance, there's mud and crud on the road. I actually see the stone fly up from the car in front's back wheel and hit my windscreen.

*crack*

There is damage, but it's not greater than a pound coin and I carry on regardless. The next day for the Sainsbury's shop I realise the small crack now thinks it's a spiderweb and is trying to head towards my steering wheel. So, I ring the insurance company, arrange for the Glass People to ring me and arrange a mutually convenient time to fit a new windscreen. I grumble, but hey ho, whatcha gonna do?

Trouble 2.
I'm getting ready for work this morning, usual rush around muttering expletives under my breath, when I realise I can't find my wallet. This in itself is not an unusual occurrence; I am the world's worst at putting things down and walking off with no memory of said action. I head down to the car, beginning to panic...and my passenger window is littered across the pavement and on the seat. In the next hour I make tearful calls to my bank, the police, my insurance company and the DVLA. Several neighbours stop and were brilliantly helpful. One knew it had just been done because all was well when she came back from swimming at 7.30, it was now 8.30. The other was an off-duty copper who was calling the incident in as I was waiting to hear from the police when they would be able to send someone round. He was an absolute sweetheart. He took the details, was sympathetic as I burst into tears yet again, didn't tell me what a muppet I'd been, got my crime number and helped me try to secure the window. The CSI was a honey, did his dusting thing, which came up zilch.

Chances are it was an opportunistic crime. If I was stupid enough to leave my wallet there, they were stupid enough to have a go. They have basically got bugger all. I was able to stop my cards and there was little cash and change there.

In many respects I was lucky. The good neighbours, the off-duty copper, the very kind and sweet bank tele-people (and you know how much I hate my bank). It's an inconvenience, I'm without my car for a few days, but thanks to the Director who has let me borrow the MR2 again. Even so...it's been a crap day.

Trouble 3.
I pick up the MR2 from the garage (service interruptus) and park it at work. I try and get my head around the bits of paper and tasks that have been waiting for me all day. One of the smokers says to me 'where's your number plate?'

What?

The number plate has fallen off/been nicked off the front of the car. Joy. Fortunately that can be sorted fairly quickly, but even so, it's yet another thing.

Basically, I've had quite enough of today. I'm beginning to wonder if I'm jinxed.

Vroom Vroom

Over the festive period I realised that as much as I love the MR2, the Director loves her more. Despite my sobbing pleas, begging and general arse kissing, he was adamant that while he was more than happy for me to be bombing around the Norfolk countryside in her, she was still his and her return would be eventual.

The problem with driving a fabulous red sports car, is that it rather spoils you for anything sensible. Viking loves his Ford Focus and made many attempts to impress upon me how good, reliable, quick and affordable the brand; his brother and father also drive various versions thereof. I took his advice and whiled away many a half hour on Parkers and compared performance, price and sexiness of several brands of car.

I made the mistake of looking at the local BMW dealership website. Oops! Who told me to do that? I think Boy was disconcerted at the site of me moping up the keyboard and refused to have anything to do with me and the car search. Apparently, I was embarrasing. Hah! He only knows the half of it.

One manic Saturday, Alix and I had coffee and cake and I invited her to come for a drive with me out to the dealership. Oh Boy. Mistake number 2. BMW know all about customer service, I can tell you. We waltzed in, aiming for nonchalance as these beautiful, expensive driving machines glittered at us (I say 'we' and 'us', read 'I' and 'me', Alix had her eye on the Mini Coopers). We were escorted to a waiting room, given tea and coffee. A very nice man came along, introduced himself and asked our requirements. After he did a computer search and we finished our coffee he took us out to see the most gorgeous car. I fell deeply in love. It was a Series 1, 123d in black. It had more buttons and switches on the dash than the shuttle Endeavour. It was amazing. We took it out for a test drive. OMG! Sex on wheels. At one point I glanced down and I realised I was doing 90 mph and we were just floating along.

Alix dragged me out of the dealership, sobbing. I had to do some research on the insurance. It was just as well I was sitting down at the time. The quote was hideous. I mean, even too hideous for me to even contemplate, even at my most retail therapy blinkerd state. With a heavy heart, I realised I'd fallen for the Bad Boy, I wanted a long-term relationship and this Bad Boy would just be Bad News.

I went along to a local Ford Garage to look at a sporty and completely specked out Fiesta ST. It was black, had heated seats, privacy glass, electric windows, leather seats and was obviously much cheaper price-wise than the Bad Boy. Then I started asking about pesky things, like fuel consumption and to my complete surprise although both cars had 2 litre engines, the Bad Boy was quicker and far more environmentally friends. The dealer, seeing an opportunity and my obvious love for Beemer, showed me his daughter's car which was the step down and therefore a step down in insurance and car tax. I thanked him for his time and hot footed it back to the dealership. I figured I would be better off buying from the proper dealership which could provide all the warranties and bits and pieces necessary.

The brilliant salesman who dealt with us before was unavailble, but I was still treated to coffee and biscuits while they looked for something more...sensible. As they found a car, the brilliant salesman walked in and took over, he showed me round both cars so I could compare like with like. I asked him at one point if he'd pop the hood which he did and to his complete bemusement I asked him if it would be inappropriate if I licked the engine. I made an appointment to test drive both cars, the Bad Boy and his Reliable Cousin two days later, I wanted to take my time making the decision.

I test drove both. Yes, the Reliable Cousin is not as light on his feet than the Bad Boy; but, he was no slow poke either. And of the choice of the range, the Series 118d, gives the best mpg to engine performance. It's got excellent environmental credentials, it's also a damn site safer than the MR2, with crumple zones, 6 air bags and traction control. True, it lacks many of the bells and whistles of the Bad Boy, but let's be honest about this, it's not like I'm going to be spending my time fiddling with them...I'd have to read the manual and I'd sooner eat my own toenails quite frankly. Give me something I can plug and play and I'm a happy bunny.

To cut a very long story short, the Reliable Cousin is now parked outside and when I look out the window, the frost is sparkling in the full-moonlight. I think ours will be a relationship based on trust and respect and as long as the idiots maintain their personal space, it'll be a lasting one.

Happy Thursday

I haven't blogged since last week simply because I wanted to give people the chance to take part in the previous post.

It had nothing to do with my wild weekend with the Viking in the Fens. And absolutely nothing to do with the ghastly bug which inflicted itself upon me Monday and pretty much ruined this week.

However, I decided I would live to fight another day and I'm pretty pleased I did. Being poorly is no fun at all. This evening, I sit here in my jammies and pink, fluffy dressing gown, grinning like an idiot. A few weeks ago, I had to give the MR2 back. It needed to have some work done on it and the tax ran out (long story). So I've been driving The Director's other car - a SAAB. The Saab is incredibly comfortable, solid and rather light on it's feet. Unfortunately, as well as all the bells and whistles you could ever hope for, it is very thirsty. It does bugger all to the gallon and has a huge tank to fill.

This afternoon we finally got my act together and got the MR2 taxed . The Director is once again installed in his beloved Saab, and I am back in the MR2. Woo Hoo!

I realised as I was driving back in the darkness that is a Norfolk night, I am hopelessly in love with the MR2. It is not a comfortable car to drive. It has no power steering, no ABS brakes. It has the minimum of luxury in the interior, in fact, there really isn't much of an interior to have - it's two seats, steering wheel and dash - oh and a handbag hook behind each seat. It's quite a tiring car to drive. But I got in, started her up and grinned during the whole drive. The gear box is positive in it's delivery, and my goodness, when I rev the engine it growls and snarls. It sits on the road fairly steadily, but does have a tendancy to dance round corners if you're not careful. It's fun, with a capital 'F'.

The MR2 hasn't had a thrilled reception from all of my friends. One person suggested MR2 was French for 'shite', another was horrified that I could possibly call myself pagan while driving it. I'm assuming because it's a sports car - an ostentatious show of wealth and a planet destroyer. The fact that it's about 20 years old and goes forever on the smell of an oily rag, is neither here nor there.

What can I say? I just can't help myself. Despite it all, I love it to bits.

Sporty Little Number

A very quick note, I should be showered and dressed by now, but am still drinking coffee and here, ah well.

I've noticed that driving a sports car I seem to have two distinct different reactions from other drivers:

1. Other drivers expect me to drive like a twat. So when I don't, they're pleasantly surprised and smile; should I drive like a twat and shrug my shoulders and go 'oops' and 'sorry'. They're completely fine about it.

2. Other drivers drive like twats. A red sports car to them is like a rag to a bull. They have to undertake me to make sure they're in front. They have to tailgate me at high speed. Aparently, they have to show how big they really are. Funnily enough, BMW drivers don't bother me anymore. It's the teeny tiny Lotus Elises, VWs and Corsas which seem to have a problem with me. Well, as far as I am concerned as long as they don't do something really silly, I'm happy to oblige them. For they truly are a bigger penis.