Trying to get a spa pool delivered to our house. The delivery men wanted to use our neighbour’s drive way, and as they were away, I left a note in the letter box. It’s a quiet street, with lots of retired people. I’ve had two phone calls this week, from other people on our road, saying they’re clearing the neighbours letter box, and asking for details about the delivery. I don’t know how much mail they’re expecting that they need two lots of people to clear their letter box (although considering everyone’s age, maybe they were hedging their bets on survival statistics?), but anyway, both lots of people agreed to the delivery so all good. However, when the delivery people arrived, a completely different neighbour just couldn’t resist sticking her oar in. She bustled down the street in her slippers: “Oh no!” She said “ You can’t go in there! They’re away!” Stupid old bat, it’s nothing to do with you – go away. She’s the neighbourhood nosey parker, a stalwart of the neighbourhood watch, she thinks she’s our saviour but actually she’s the worst kind of curtain twitcher who’d rather know who’s sleeping with who (or more likely, who’s putting out the wrong recycling) rather than protect us from burglars. I hope I don’t end up like that. Just give me some chickens and my blog that no one reads, and everyone else can just piss off as far as I’m concerned.
ps. So, the spa pool never got delivered yesterday – the fork lift died in the showroom before it even reached our spa.
Is it a sign of divine intervention? Is God trying to tell the Baby Boomers* that the time for conspicuous consumption is over, we’ve done enough damage to the planet, and we need to get our boots off the necks of oppressed Millenials? Or, could just be bad luck I suppose – hard to say.
(* Gen X in my case ahem)