I settle down to get things done.

Despite my recent general state of non-workingness, I still have odd bits and pieces floating around that I absolutely totally really really must get on with and finish. My vantage point at the PC in my new private secret office lair looks out across the garden; the Industrious Builders beaver away before me.

I like the Industrious Builders. Requested to sort out the drainage and build some walls and level some ground and generally Make Things Nice, they have turned up and sorted out the drainage, built some walls, levelled some ground and Made Things Nice.

I am sure there must be a catch somewhere, as in my recent experience builders do not behave like this. But in the meantime things are hunky dory and the LTLP returns home each night and smiles broadly and does not shout at me, unlike when we had the Methodical Builder who will burn in hell with forks in his eyes. Big forks, that I have previously dipped in lemon juice.

Something is amiss.

The elder Industrious Builder is leaping up and down and waving at me in some agitation, like a nuclear Michael Flatley signalling a four. I can’t make out the point of his shouts through the double glazing, so I leave Spider Solitaire and wander outside to ascertain the cause of his distress. I hope that I have not hung the washing in front of his cement mixer again.

“…the fuck at that!!!” he roars.

My eyes follow the direction of his gestures. On the road at the end of the drive, a full fifteen yards from where it had previously been sitting doing nobody any harm, lies the mangled and squashed remains of my car.

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