Well isn’t this nice.
My colleague Darryl– married and 43 – and his having the hots for me, has worked out rather nicely. On hearing about the bustation of my two electric windows, and the aneurysm that followed on getting a quote for 12 000 ront for parts and labour, has wittingly taken the challenge upon himself to relieve me of diabolical bankruptcy and post-traumatic stress disorder.
The man found me genuine Volkswagen parts on eBay. For a fraction on the price I was quoted by the Volksie Vuckers.
He rang the workshop in the UK, owned, mind you, by a brethren of Pakistani mechanics. And since yesterday, after meekly handing over credit card details, I am having £150 worth of window paraphernalia shipped to me from a town called Berwick-Upon-Tweed.
I jest you not.
£150 is around R2 100. Including labour, shipping, customs – both my electric windows will cost me around R3 500. My colleague, Darryl, has saved me a whopping R8 500, mental incapitation annihilation, not to mention the saving of embarrassment when it comes to having to open doors to retrieve tickets from machines in public parking lots.
I await with baited breath for said parts – Ichbal assures us they’ll arrive in two weeks. He also couldn’t tell us whether the parts fell off the back of a truck, or whether he thieved them from another Beetle in Berwick-Upon-Tweed.
But if this works out, I definitely owe Darryl a bottle of the classy stuff.
On another note completely: I have been avoiding thinking about this sodding 94.7 km race I’m supposed to be riding on Sunday. Every time I think about it, I mock charge.
Until yesterday, I was going into this thing with nothing but dread. Then I changed that. I decided to drop out. Only for about two and a half seconds, because that would make me a complete loser. Not to mention being reminded of how much of a drop out I am for the rest of my living days by the boyfriend and Moogs. So I have found a happy medium:
On Sunday, I’ll be riding the 54.7. I am doing just over half the race. Correct. At my own pace, I’ll stop for alcoholic bevvies with mates who I have positioned strategically around the province, and then my mum will pick me up somewhere near the Dome in an air-conditioned vehicle.
This way, I don’t opt out completely, I get to enjoy the race, I don’t commit suicide (because doing the whole thing would mean the end of me), and I get to get drunk as I do it. So no comments referring to the former please.
Wish me luck. 54.7 kilometres isn’t anything to sneeze at afterall.