Search Amazon.com for Creating a dream
Thurs.16.03.06 We returned to Marlebone with the specific idea of moving the car but after we had managed to drag the vehicle from the garage and haul it onto the VW it broke down. Typically, the fault was a simple flat battery. Jo was summoned to affect a rescue but, unfortunately, she thought the rendezvous was at David’s farm instead of my lock-up, thus causing an unbearable delay. I began to realise at this point that Chris is quite able of displaying a concoction of personalities; constantly suspicious, intensely private, often bordering on paranoia: he was feeling totally exposed as we found ourselves stranded in this council run courtyard where we were the subject of prying eyes potentially always intent on complaining on the phone to anyone and everyone who was interested. Chris began to turn multiple shades of red caused by the present anxiety but fortunately, Jo finally arrived with the Rover so we were able to kick start the transporter. Chris silently cursed suspecting that was still being ‘watched’, twitching net curtains giving the curious observers away. Because the VW had never let him down before he claimed that it was probably down to me for trying to start the fucking wreck before the hot plugs had switched off. Chris turned purple; call the paramedics. Another friend had heard the calls for help arriving in the courtyard creating even more congestion, confusion as the cameras flashed. Dave Brown pitched up to help even though not required, but like a good friend, he was there just to help if needed. Chris didn’t appreciate the gesture presuming he was attracting too much attention around the flats, blocking the car park, the noise from his diesel engine waking up the dead. I did sense that Chris definitely had an unhealthy edginess about people ‘watching’ him, a bit like big brother, or maybe it was simply the spectre of the taxman.
Minor setback aside, we finally arrived at David’s farm, parked up by the barn, gave the motley collection of faded lumpy paint, twisted, warped rusting chassis a serious looking over to begin the initial investigation. It was freezing cold with a strong wind blowing over the fields but we did attempt to remove some bolts in an attempt to re-align the rear wing, which if possible would prove that we would be able to re-jig the rest of the panels so that the car could actually be built straight certainly not ‘crab like’ as she had moved before. Sparks flew from the blunt, stumpy tiny angle grinder but together with a great deal of bish, bosh bashing we managed to remove 4 bolts. We were undoubtedly well tooled up. After feeling faint with the cold as well as the natural light fading fast, Chris proposed that the cars’ body may be warped so it may be pointless preceding any further. Fuck me; all this banter in the pub about uniqueness of 001, the anniversary of ‘Beaujolais run’ could all suddenly be down the pan. Have we had a proper reality check? C’est la vie or as we say in England, fuck me stiff. Tomorrow is another day.
Thurs.16.03.06 We returned to Marlebone with the specific idea of moving the car but after we had managed to drag the vehicle from the garage and haul it onto the VW it broke down. Typically, the fault was a simple flat battery. Jo was summoned to affect a rescue but, unfortunately, she thought the rendezvous was at David’s farm instead of my lock-up, thus causing an unbearable delay. I began to realise at this point that Chris is quite able of displaying a concoction of personalities; constantly suspicious, intensely private, often bordering on paranoia: he was feeling totally exposed as we found ourselves stranded in this council run courtyard where we were the subject of prying eyes potentially always intent on complaining on the phone to anyone and everyone who was interested. Chris began to turn multiple shades of red caused by the present anxiety but fortunately, Jo finally arrived with the Rover so we were able to kick start the transporter. Chris silently cursed suspecting that was still being ‘watched’, twitching net curtains giving the curious observers away. Because the VW had never let him down before he claimed that it was probably down to me for trying to start the fucking wreck before the hot plugs had switched off. Chris turned purple; call the paramedics. Another friend had heard the calls for help arriving in the courtyard creating even more congestion, confusion as the cameras flashed. Dave Brown pitched up to help even though not required, but like a good friend, he was there just to help if needed. Chris didn’t appreciate the gesture presuming he was attracting too much attention around the flats, blocking the car park, the noise from his diesel engine waking up the dead. I did sense that Chris definitely had an unhealthy edginess about people ‘watching’ him, a bit like big brother, or maybe it was simply the spectre of the taxman.
Minor setback aside, we finally arrived at David’s farm, parked up by the barn, gave the motley collection of faded lumpy paint, twisted, warped rusting chassis a serious looking over to begin the initial investigation. It was freezing cold with a strong wind blowing over the fields but we did attempt to remove some bolts in an attempt to re-align the rear wing, which if possible would prove that we would be able to re-jig the rest of the panels so that the car could actually be built straight certainly not ‘crab like’ as she had moved before. Sparks flew from the blunt, stumpy tiny angle grinder but together with a great deal of bish, bosh bashing we managed to remove 4 bolts. We were undoubtedly well tooled up. After feeling faint with the cold as well as the natural light fading fast, Chris proposed that the cars’ body may be warped so it may be pointless preceding any further. Fuck me; all this banter in the pub about uniqueness of 001, the anniversary of ‘Beaujolais run’ could all suddenly be down the pan. Have we had a proper reality check? C’est la vie or as we say in England, fuck me stiff. Tomorrow is another day.
No comments:
Post a Comment