Troublesome news on a day of most irritating pronouncements.
On top of playing host to a thick-necked boorish Aussie for a few days and enduring a visit off of my brother’s ill-judged eldest daughter, I have received broken wind of some actual factual imposterisation.
It seems someone on a big boys’ newspaper believes me to be someone I’m actually factually not. A good name has been bismirched and stuff, so lawyers have been summoned and much stamping of feet has taken place.
Now I’m told by Klippings, my bestest wheelman, that following our recent sojourn down to meet up with the Norse worshippers, the trusty old rusty Maxi might have caused its final pile up.
The car that has been with myself and my wife (Mrs Belm) since our oldest of childs, Fennel, was but a smallish creature, is either in need of a radical overhaul or should be dispatched to the scrappers yard forthwith.
This photographic representation was taken on the day we took actual factual deliverage of the Maxi and went out for a bit of fire-raising as a celebration. There’s me unloading stuff whilst Mrs Belm (my wife) hands the accelerant to Fennel:
I am now seeking suggestions for a replacement vehicle and at the behesting of Sammy-Lou, my apprentice, will be looking for a more environmentally friendly form of transportation.
Klippings has already come up with a shortlist of 1 which he maintains actually factually tickles each and every box and he assures myself that despite the name – Hummer – it has nothing to do with music.
He is off to get sales brochure of the vehicle, which he also assures me is ideal for travailing down country lanes and is greener than a lush grassy field of frogs.
Maybe the Hummer will be the silver lineage of the cloudy day I’m harbouring underneath?
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