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Sep
28

Gran’s Auto Theft!

Well, the swelling has gone down but I am still walking like Douglas Bader with a hint of Charlie Chaplin thrown in. If you didn’t read last week’s article, you will have no idea what I am talking about and to be honest with you, I think it is probably best left that way.

It has been an interesting week hobbling round Devon with two smashed up knees and in all honesty, I suddenly realised how disabled unfriendly a lot of places are. But that is another story for another column.

Ratboy, the son and heir, announced he was ‘goin awt’ at midnight one night last week. Apparently he went to the local supermarket which was selling something called Gran’s Auto Theft. Dressed in reverse facing baseball cap, trousers so tight that they would show off excessive wind and a T
Shirt which I thought was his girlfriend’s blouse, he slipped into the night, with the stereo of the Fiat setting off car alarms as he drove down the street. Then, Devon’s own ‘Brother in the Hood homie,’ slipped back fifteen minutes later as he had forgotten his wallet.  Since the purchase of Gran’s Auto Theft, which I believe to be a computer game, there have been several rumblings from the bedroom, rapid gun fire and a ghostly
shape on the veranda, which according to passers by, was Ratboy. He emerged on Thursday and that was the only appearance in a 36 hour period and I swear that when he opened the door, it resembled the uncovering of the tomb of Tutankhamun. Air rushed in and the stale fug of centuries seeped out. In order to cut down the time from being away from the game, he has taken to drinking straight from the toilet bowl and shouting down orders for pizza, the thinnest thing which can be shoved under the door, excluding his girlfriend. I have no idea when the game finishes but just like the cricket season, it seems to go on for days, have little point and no one can really claim a victory. I remember getting that tennis game, which came in black and white, plugged into the tele and was the dog’s doo dah’s of computer toys. Mind you, do remember ‘clackers’, two solid balls of plastic on string which you smashed together with increasing rhythm until one or both shattered. It should have been marketed under the name
‘My First Little Head Injury’. Still it got me used to the smell of casualty, something that over the past months has been in my nostrils on a regular basis.

Did pop over to Torquay to see a friend of mine in the Agatha Christie play and was delighted to be approached by an usherette selling
quarter bottles of wine.

‘Take a bottle of wine in?’ she enquired.

‘That bad a production, is it?’

‘Not so much a ‘who dunnit’ but a who cares!’ she replied.

I took the wine.

Yours

Fitz