Today, after two years of quiet pestering, David, the office’s car-guard-cum-cleaner-cum-car-washer finally convinced me to pay him to wash my car. This followed a year of sneering disgust painted on his face upon seeing my decidedly off-white car approach this office, day after filthy day.
My thinking was as follows: I leave this office in two weeks’ time, and the chances are good to great that David won’t demand that I let him wash the car between now and then.
Also, I could no longer see through my windscreen any longer, and was almost driving into pavements and people, as a result. So opaque it was that I almost *wanted* those awful squeegee dudes camped out at the Grayston offramp to do their smearing routine on my windscreen.
David has managed to wash off about two-thirds of the dirt, which I suppose is better than a punch to the guts. And I, dear reader, have contributed to his standard Monday morning hangover.
I wish to leave you with this marvellous story that made me gurgle with laughter: