Tow hitch featuring 2” receiver

In the olden days – ie prior to last week - whenever Husband went biking he had to drive out to Arabian Ranches to pick up Mark’s trailer, bring it home, load his bike on it, drive to the desert, unload the bike, pose, conduct aerial stunts, hump the bike back onto the trailer, drive home and unload the bike, drop the trailer back to Mark and drive home again.

 

In fairness, just typing that exhausted me, never mind actually doing it. Roughly every three months, Andrew would say: “Hey, I’ve got a great idea! How about I buy a bike trailer?”

 

It was always heart-rending watching the light in his little eyes slowly die as the voice of reason (me, in case you were in doubt) listed the reasons not to: (1) there’s nowhere to keep it; (2) no, it won’t fit in the cupboard under the stairs even if you throw out your vintage collection of Phillips screwdrivers and half of your boxes of Stuff; (3) no you can’t bloody store it in the bloody living room; (4) we’re leaving the country in 12 months/ 9 months/ 6 months anyway; (5) it’s summer so you won’t use it enough to justify the expense; (6) it’s winter so . . . well, I can’t think of any reason relating to winter, but please revert to reason #1 and repeat loop.

 

About four months ago, Andrew discovered a device that could attach onto the back of the Yukon - similar to a side-mounted bike rack but for a motorbike. The only trouble was that it required a rear tow hitch for support and the Yukon didn’t have one.

 

After a couple of weeks wherein Andrew diverted phenomenal amounts of energy towards muttering about what sort of a four wheel drive doesn’t have a rear tow hitch, and what sort of person would buy the sort of four wheel drive that doesn’t have a rear tow hitch, and that’s not to MENTION the fact that it only has two doors, Andrew asked me to call GMC and ask how much a tow hitch with 2” receiver would cost. You might wonder why I was required to call GMC – in fact, I wondered as much myself – but at that stage I would have placed a reverse charge call to Osama Bin Laden if it would only stop the griping for the love of god.

 

GMC said they didn’t have a tow hitch in stock; they could order one, but it would take a couple of months to arrive, cost US$ 450. Andrew converted the griping to thankfully largely silent inner reflection and eventually - I’m not sure why - he decided not to purchase the tow hitch. Perhaps he felt he would miss the conversational outlet afforded by the great trailer debate.

 

Fast forward four months, when Andrew spotted an advert on the Spinneys notice board for a second-hand motorbike carrier.

 

“Let’s go and look at it,” he suggested.

 

I thought he was going to gaze wistfully at it, prod and shake it, maybe smell it for a while, but US$ 260 later Andrew emerged with the motorbike carrier.

 

Of course he couldn’t use it, because we still had no tow hitch. Andrew suffered a delayed reaction, and then one day shortly afterwards, he called me from work:

 

“Niamhie! Niamhie! I need a tow hitch.”

 

“Jesus, not this again.”

 

“Yes but, I need a tow hitch.”

 

“What the hell am I supposed to do about it-”

 

“Glad you asked. Call GMC and tell them you want a tow hitch-”

 

“I CALLED them ages ago, remember? It’ll cost US$ 450 and if it’s not in stock, it’ll take them up to two months to get one-”

 

“Oh no, that’s no good.”

 

“Well, when do you want it?”

 

“Today.”

 

I rolled my eyes so vigorously, I’m sure he heard it down the phone.

 

“And hang on- why am I calling GMC? YOU bloody call GMC!”

 

“No, you have their number.”

 

“Here! I’ll give it to you!”

 

“You have a relationship with Moorthy-”

 

“I bring my car in, he services it! I’m not sleeping with the man-”

 

“Aw Niamhie!” Yes, can you believe it? He took out the wheedle. “Aw! Aw! Aw Niamhie! Come on, you KNOW you’re so good at this sort of thing-”

 

“Phoning? It’s not that difficult, you know. Almost foolproof, even.”

 

Of course, I ended up calling Moorthy, who put me onto John in the workshop. There were no tow hitches in stock. I thought of Andrew’s disappointment, the light dying in his bleak little eyes, the incessant brain-melting bitchin’ 24/7.

 

“Listen, is the item stocked in any of your other workshops?”

 

“I’m afraid not, Madam.”

 

“Ok. What about a second-hand tow hitch? You have any of those lying around?”

 

“No Madam, but I can check.”

 

Andrew didn’t take the news well: “Did you shout at him?”

 

But then John called back and – wonder of wonders – he had found a second-hand tow hitch (probably boosted from some truck out back). He said it would be in the workshop for collection by 11:00am. It was US$ 270, but because we had such a good relationship (no, I’m not sleeping with him, either) he would give me a 35% discount, which would make it US$ 170.

 

Andrew collected and installed the tow hitch the same day. I am glad to report that meaning has returned to his life - and peace to mine

Sometimes I wake up grumpy, sometimes I let him sleep

Now that summer is well and truly entrenched, Husband has taken to getting up at 05:00hrs to go desert biking.

 

Last Saturday, he returned from biking just after I got back from the beach. When I came out of the shower, he was collapsed across the bed infusing the duvet with his signature scent: a delicate blend of petrol fumes and sweat.

 

“Let me have a little doze,” came his voice out of the fug. “Then I won’t be grumpy.”

 

I took myself downstairs and was busy emailing My Agent, when Andrew goose-stepped down the stairs.

 

“I had a nap, but I’m STILL GRUMPY!”

 

“Well, stoppit!” I ordered sharply. This conduct was in wilful violation of the Terms & Conditions of our marriage, Section 3 Paragraph 1a: Any ‘Partner’ who chooses voluntarily without coercion or ulterior motive other than pursuit of Hobby to ride a ‘Motorbike’ for unspecified or specified length of time in any period that could reasonably and otherwise be devoted to the ‘Other Partner’ is prohibited from grumpiness or behaviour that could be reasonably and otherwise described as irritable, snappy, petulant, cantankerous, crusty or tetchy until the next bedtime subsequent to the activity described above (please see Appendix II for permissible exceptions) and furthermore shall immediately cease and desist from displays of such behaviour.

 

Andrew head butted the sofa and remained flung there muttering something about rhubarb.

 

“I’m HUNGRY,” he announced.

 

I brought him a cracker.

 

“Thanks.” There was a long pause while he nibbled on his cracker, then: “See how nice I was there?”

My Agent

I’m so excited about going to Ireland at the end of this month, I got around to booking flights last week. We’re both looking forward to the break – Husband will join me for a couple of months mid-August. That’s if his passport turns up - oh, don’t even get me STARTED.

 

One date is fixed: I need to be in London on 1/8 to meet My Agent. Sorry, did I forget to mention? After submitting the full manuscript on request, My Agent said he would love to represent me because My Agent thinks Smart/Casual is very funny. My Agent said he’d take me for lunch in Piccadilly. My Agent said not to get too excited, because My Agent cannot guarantee publication, so I’ll just leave it at: Woohoo! Waaah!

 

But seriously though – oh, hold it, I feel another woohoo coming on. WOOHOO! WOOHOO! Sorry, I didn’t realise there were two. You’re right: that was over the top.

 

Mixed with the excitement is a not insubstantial amount of pure terror. Before submitting, I was aware that Smart/Casual had a number of flaws: choppiness in the first third of the book mainly deriving from not having half a clue what I was at when I first started it; one-dimensional characters; not enough variation in tone; charges of OTT humour from my tendency to take a joke too far and then turn around and bring it all the way back again.

 

Instead of offering me a squillion-figure publishing deal, My Agent asked me to address these problems before sending it off to publishing houses.

 

I had always assumed interest from an industry insider would give my self-confidence a great licking, but the effect has been the opposite. (Although if you figure out what the opposite of a great licking is, I would be grateful if you could let me know, thanks.) For about four days I was all over the place, before I levelled out in a flat spin. I still indulge in a lot of quivering and the occasional histrionic. These tend to be all-singing, breakdancing, booty shaking spectaculars, so I save them for when Andrew is around.

 

For a while I considered simply deleting the first third of Smart/Casual - it was a close thing. I spent the last couple of weeks renovating it in between full-scale panic attacks.

 

I know there is no guarantee of a publisher agreeing to take on Smart/Casual, but someone in the industry believes in it enough to put it out there and I am just so proud of my book!

Signs of co-dependency

Being vaguely middle-aged and definitely married, we don’t venture out much any more – apart from down to the wheelie bin at the end of the garage.

 

In the last few weeks we have had a few big events (I mean relative to putting out the rubbish).

 

On 20 June it was our anniversary and Andrew took me to the Ritz Carlton for dinner. We had gone to this restaurant the previous year and there were rose petals strewn across the table; we had great fun sticking them up each other’s noses and blowing them into peoples’ wineglasses. So you can appreciate my disappointment when we were shown to our table and there were no petals.

 

“Where the frig are the rose petals?” I hissed. “Did you not tell them it was our anniversary?”

 

“Yes!”

 

“Did you ask them for rose petals?”

 

“No, but I didn’t ask for them last year – they just put them there.”

 

“Hmph.”

 

We were shown to our table by a waiter.

 

“My name is Henry and I’ll be waiting on you this evening,” he said, before providing a summary of his resume including hobbies and interests, political views and medical history.

 

After showing us recent bank statements, he moved onto the menu: “. . . here we have deep fried coconut encrusted prawns, which are prawns with a crust of coconut plunged into boiling fat; and the mushroom risotto is Arborio rice cooked with mushrooms and a little Parmigiano . . .”

 

Henry hovered anxiously, checking our wine glasses every thirty seconds and realigning Andrew’s steak knife whenever he jogged it with his elbow. He was terribly needy and displaying signs of co-dependency.

 

When our food arrived, Henry demonstrated what Job Satisfaction is all about: “. . . Madam, this is a white plate manufactured out of bone china, and here we have vegetable terrine, garnished with parsley – those are the green bits on the top, Madam – and here we have the polenta cake with leek, and this is potato au fondant . . .”

 

I felt like saying: “So, it’s what I ordered from the menu, then? Bonus. By the way, I can identify food, you know. I often EAT THE STUFF.”

 

But I couldn’t get a word in edgeways: “. . . and you can use a knife and fork – these implements here - the knife’s the one with the serrated edge - be careful, Madam, it’s quite sharp – or a spoon . . .

 

By the end of the evening, I had talked to Henry more than I had Andrew.

 

I was quite worn out with all this upmarket attention, so for my birthday Andrew caved under the pressure and brought me to see Die Hard 4: Live Free and Die Harder. I know I should make an effort with the high-maintenance so that Andrew will appreciate me more. I’m thinking of getting annual pedicures and I could take a lover, but the only guy I know is John down the GMC Workshop . . . well, I can always put the word around.

 

Anyway, what a movie. Bruce Willis is The Man. Around about the time he was balancing on the wing of a F-35 Lightening II fighter jet in a tail spin, I was convinced it couldn’t get any better (although if he’d been sucked into one of the jet engines and blown out the other side alive – THAT would have been way cool), but then when the baddie has him around the neck with the gun pressed against Bruce’s shoulder and Bruce shoots him through his own shoulder – awesome. Oh give me a break – if you haven’t seen it by now you weren’t about to.

 

It was one of the best nights I’ve had for ages – probably because Andrew and I were not required to talk to each other. It’s not that we don’t communicate, but we’d got through the daily quotient of words:

 

“How was your day, dear?”

 

“Meh. Yours?”

 

“Meh squared.”

 

<silence>

 

On the rare occasions we did talk, Andrew agreed with everything I said, so in many ways it was the perfect evening.

 

Last weekend we went to Dubai Offshore Sailing Club for Mark’s 40^th birthday. It was outside. After about half an hour, I camped in front of an outdoor A/C and defended my position with a broken bottle. I’m claiming heat sickness was the cause; I hadn’t had enough gin to explain it away with drunkenness.

 

The food arrived and I tore myself off the A/C. We were at a table when Andrew, evidently bored with the company, stuck his finger in an electric socket running up the side of a support beam.

 

Bless him, he didn’t make a sound, but leapt about two feet in the air and then sat there looking vaguely surprised, his eyes swivelling left and right.

 

“Did you get a shock?” asked Sharon - as if the wisps of smoke curling off his cranium weren’t a giveaway.

 

“Ah, a bit.”

 

“What were you doing sticking your finger in an electric socket?” I asked.

 

“Er, it looked like there was a loose wire-“

 

“And?”

 

“There was, yes.”

 

I’m only pleased we don’t come across falling pianos that often, because there’s a fair likelihood my husband would hurl himself under them. As it is, we should really get our last will and testament sorted out.

 

By about 10:30 Andrew had a headache, possibly heat induced – we weren’t sure whether from the elements or the element – so we went home

Gym bunny

For a long time, I hadn’t the energy to heave myself off to the gym: the effort of programming the running machine was enough to wipe me out for the rest of the day. About three weeks ago, a persuasive layer of lard in the posterior region talked me into paying a visit.

 

Since I hadn’t been for a while, I took it easy. In other words, I worked out at 99.9% maximum heart rate instead of 100%.

 

Staggering into the car park after enough reps to make up for the previous three months, I was not in the mood for cycling home. What form of rogue pre-gym energy had induced me to take the bike in this heat? I considered calling Andrew to ask him to collect me - but then I realised how much more guilty I could make him feel if I cycled home myself.

 

Now, as I wobbled out of the car park, a jogger passed me in the same direction. It was obviously a challenge. I considered it a rather feeble challenge since he was only jogging, while I was equipped with a top of the range mountain bike and reflector jacket with go faster stripes. I was confident of triumphing in a battle of wills - or speed, for that matter.

 

However, I had been cycling a good minute when I realised Running Man was pulling away. I speeded up, but the bastard must have been operating on a different gravity system. Pretty soon I was pedalling flat out, top speed, sweat exploding off me. I was gaining on Running Man inch by painful, sweaty inch. Finally, legs going like pistons, I nudged past him.

 

We came to a roundabout and Running Man totally cheated, weaving in and out between cars. My bicycle is not that manoeuvrable – or maybe I haven’t totally figured out how to operate it yet (I’m a while off cycling across ceilings and balancing it on artichoke hearts and doing somersaults over railings and suchlike).

 

By the time I got off the roundabout, Running Man was at least six cacti and a desert rose ahead of me. He thought he had me; I could sense it like a fresh dog turd on his mouldy trainer.

 

Well, I wasn’t having that at all. I got up on the pedals and kicked them into a blur. My legs were on fire, thighs screaming. Metaphorically, please. Again, I gained on him, we drew level; we were neck and neck, charging down the pavement, the foliage flattened in our wake.

 

I turned my head to see the whites of his eyes and tried to work up the energy for a victory cackle, but I didn’t have the puff. We shared a slo-mo moment of psychic understanding. I tried to knobble him with a lethal sweat slick – hey, he cheated at the roundabout - and then Running Man speeded up AGAIN.

 

Up ahead, the entrance to Springs 2 loomed; all I had to do was maintain my advantage until I reached it. I could feel Running Man’s breath blistering the back of my neck. As I swept around the bend to Springs 2, left knee scraping off the ground, I nearly wept with relief.

 

I would have given a victory salute, but I still need at least two hands on the bike or I end up in a pot plant. I turned around to stick my tongue out at him, and saw that Running Man had turned into Springs 2 as well!

 

I was getting to the point where I was going to have to run the bugger over, when I managed to shake him off with a feint left. Then I really did weep with relief.

 

It was at least another week before I could feel my legs again

Blood and guts, although not so much

Andrew: “Did you hear about Danny’s accident today?”

 

Me: “Today? When? I had lunch with him earlier.”

 

Andrew: “Yeah, no, it’s only just happened. He nearly lost a finger!”

 

Me: “What? Really? What happened?”

 

Andrew: “Well there was something wrong with his A/C unit, so he poked a finger in to see that there was nothing blocking the vent, and the fan blade sliced off his finger.”

 

Me: “His whole finger?”

 

Andrew: “Well, not his whole finger. Part of it.”

 

Me: “I see. And the first thing he does is call to tell you about it?”

 

Andrew: “Have some compassion, woman! It’s hanging on by a thread. Blood everywhere. Gushing, he said.”

 

Me: “Jesus. Is he in hospital?”

 

Andrew: “Oh. No. He put a plaster on it.”

 

The following day I called in to Topbiz to check Danny hadn’t bled to death in the night, and he showed me his finger. The nail was a bit black, but otherwise it looked all right. It was certainly in one piece, with no segments missing

Fitness plan – or more accurately fitness anarchy

Two weeks ago – when we were still relatively healthy – Andrew and I drew up a fitness schedule. Actually, it was more a loose agreement to attend the gym three times a week: on Saturday, Monday and Wednesday.

 

We only made it to the gym once and the energy required to get Andrew there was a workout in itself. It was as if the very mention of going exhausted him beyond measure:

 

“Andrew. Andrew! You still alive? Good. Ready to go to the gym?”

 

“The gym.”

 

“Yes. You going to get changed?”

 

“I’ll just take a little nap first.” (Falling asleep on the sofa.)

 

Later: “Come on, stop procrastinating. Go and get ready.”

 

“GROAN!”

 

He disappeared upstairs and five minutes later, upon hearing no movement or sound from above, I went up to find Andrew prostrate across the bed:

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“Thought I’d rest a moment.”

 

“Well, STOPPIT! Come ON!”

 

I prod him into – well, action is too strong a noun. Or it could be a verb; I’m never quite sure.

 

When we got to the gym, Andrew spent ten minutes give or take – more give, to be honest – half-heartedly trying to touch his toes, which was undoubtedly comical although I am still unconvinced of its efficacy. Then he mounted the treadmill and strolled nowhere for ten minutes; then managed a five minute spurt of jogging.

 

I was so engrossed in my workout that I ripped the handle off the cross trainer. Andrew’s treadmill was never in danger of unwitting vandalism.

 

Then Andrew materialised beside me like a hungry Undead and stood around kicking the cross trainer.

 

“So, how much longer d’you think you’ll be?”

 

“About fifteen to – huff! – twenty minutes?”

 

“That long?”

 

“Yes!”

 

“Fifteen minutes, you said?”

 

He sat on the cycling machine next to me and fiddled around with the settings and his phone and his HRM. When he finally located the pedals, he found they were good foot rests.

 

Then he was back at the cross trainer.

 

“You done yet?”

 

“Oh for heaven’s sake, yes! Come on, let’s go.”

 

I tell you, I was in agony the day after.

 

Andrew wasn’t