Yesterday afternoon, a family friend carried out maintenance work on my car’s wheel bearings. He’s a very amiable guy, however I’m not sure why he undertook this work as there was nothing wrong with the wheel bearings. Not to mention he’s a hairdresser with no mechanical skills!
As he’s keen to upskill his engineering skills, and as this tale is partly fictional, I decided that as long as he got my wheel back on and it was fit for purpose after the work, I’d leave him to it.
If he did have issues they’d have to be a phone call to Frank’s Autos on the High Street requesting a house visit……. With all the expense of the festive period, I just hoped if Frank was required he accepted payment in haircuts by my wannabe mechanic friend.
If Frank wouldn’t agree to be recompensed with a new hairstyle, I’d have to think of something else as leverage. I wondered if he’d accept re-imbursement in the form of the joke I wrote earlier in the week. This was a gag about a French woman with magnetic breasts, although it currently needs a bit of tweaking before it can be aired.
When I say it needs tweaking, I really mean it needs a punchline; always a key component to the synergy of a gag. It’s an unorthodox method of constructing a rib-tickling quip, although it’s probably a good indication of why I’ve never made any money from my art.
On reflection though, even if I did create a belting punchline, it’s unlikely Frank would accept a joke as a fair re-imbursement for making my automobile roadworthy again.
So with my bartering hand not being the strongest, I hoped the hairdresser wouldn’t bollocks up the maintenance work on my wheel. If he did the cost would be coming out of his pocket not mine!
My dad (Mally) was sat opposite me as I wrote this narrative. A snippet of information I acquired without the need to raise my gaze from my laptop. He’d kindly saved me from having to move my neck muscles by announcing his distracting presence with the highly audible slurping and chomping of Polo mints.
Well, it was either that or a there was a garbage compactor grinding down this weeks veg peelings in my living room. I suspect it was Mally, though, as the noise was too cacophonous to be a garbage compactor……… Additionally, no one has a garbage compactor in their living room!
At the time, it wasn’t the only rambunctious sound being made. Further din emanated outside from the direction of the engineering work being undertaken on my car. Being inquisitive about the racket source, I put down my laptop, rose from my armchair and walked past my dad towards the front window to investigate.
Outside the hairdressing mechanic was belting the wheel hub he was working on with a hammer. I banged on the window to attract his attention. After he’d turned to look at me, I mouthed “What the hell are you doing?!” He responded with a look of bafflement and a shrug of the shoulders.
I hoped that his worrying shrug and gormless look were indicating “I can’t understand what you’re saying!”, not “I’ve no idea!”
Surely, he couldn’t be stupid enough to just randomly hammer the wheel hub without knowing what he was really doing!……. Could he?! Whatever he meant, he seemed to be wantonly reckless with the hammer.
Witnessing this display of heavy handedness made me bloody glad he doesn’t cut my hair!
I tried to re-assure myself with thoughts that he must know what he’s doing, returned to my armchair and picked up the laptop to re-commence penning this blog.
A couple of minutes later my literary flow was disturbed again by the click of the front door., followed by a cold and disenchanted looking hairdresser strolling into the living room.
He acknowledged both my dad and I, before sheepishly asking “You haven’t got the number for Frank’s Autos on the High Street have you?!”
