We were on our way to my fortnightly haranguing at the spa pool shop when the radio station volume started playing up.
I looked over at my daughter’s hands on the complicated modern steering wheel, and said she must be touching a knob somewhere. “That’s what she said!” Was her reply, which put us both in fits of giggles. “Ah, that must be the modern equivalent of “as the actress said to the bishop” “, a phrase my daughter had never heard of. It was hard trying to explain it as we were both crying with laughter by now, not a great idea whilst driving. They are both things you say when an inadvertent double entendre comes up in conversation. The older phrase gives off a very British mid century vibe, a Benny Hill type quality.
Perhaps I should explain the spa pool comment. Since the spa pool store I previously used went bust, I’ve been going to the only other one I can find within a reasonable distance. The problem is that the owner is a complete dick, to put it bluntly. I’m used to it by now, but it was interesting to have my daughter accompany me there yesterday and see her take on it, with fresh eyes. Essentially he treats you like a depraved criminal for not ministering to your pool with the care and respect it deserves. Every time I go, he puts my water specimen through his little machine, and it says I have to put hundreds of dollars of chemicals into it. Considering that for years all I put in was chlorine, with no apparent harm, I’m deeply suspicious of the whole set up. There’s no questioning the machine, though. It’s all there in black and white. As he was mansplaining the results, it was apparent to both of us that his knowledge of chemistry was superficial at best. I’m starting to think that it’s time I looked further afield for my spa pool maintenance. It’s bad enough being abused on a fortnightly basis without having to pay for the privilege.