Be fun to share.
The day before yesterday (Friday evening) after a long day of work I got in my borrowed car. Borrowed? But Bossy Wife did you not recently have purchased a beauty of a white Broom Stick ? I hear you thinking.
No, it was not totaled, because it is a fact that women are better drivers than men, but that aside. The white Flash is on a drip and is currently operated on an ingrown tow-bar and his intestines are hanging out on the floor of the workshop and that makes it passing cyclists a bit tricky, okay?
Well, now this is cleared up can I now continue with my story? Great.
Where was I? Oh yeah, well I drove away from the parking lot and went on the short ride home. To leave Winschoten there are some options, but somehow there is always a roundabout involved. It is quite possible there are small back roads where this is not the case, but not in my case so imagine my surprise when I got there? What did I find at the roundabout?
Wrong there was no Miss Universe election and I was not named the new Miss Universe, although that of course had been quite possible (ahem).
Also there weren’t just landed aliens looking for the world leader.
No, dear reader, I’ll spare you (and us) your silly suggestions since this is a toughy to guess.
An alcohol trap. Yes really! A check on road users who may not be in the least, partially or totally shitfaced driving their vehicle.
I was happy to belong to the first category and had not had a drop of alcohol. Besides being it a matter of principle to me, I was not driving intoxicated, for the simple reason I:
a) work somewhere where there is no Friday afternoon or evening drink
b) have not had any alcoholic drinks for almost a year or so
c) cannot afford my cocaine addiction otherwise
d) have just gambled away our total drinking budget
e) dunno, why don’t you think of something smart, but I had no drop in
Anyhow, I was, just like my predecessor halted and such a one stripe crimefighter, speaks loudly to me with the words and I am not making this up dear reader: “so, Missy, on your way to terminate some moles tonight?”
Well, I thought then, should we not better trade places, that I have you undergo a good check on the use of alcohol or other mind-altering substances which do not necessarily contain ethanol.
Anyway the copper repeated loudly again asking “so, my little Lady goes to fight some moles, right?”
I could restrain myself, but it was on the tip of my tongue to say, “well why don’t you make it a good habit to take your medicine for schizophrenia, buddy, before you mingle with other people” and then it dawned on me, I was driving a borrowed car …
No, that is not equal in the Netherlands to the fine occupation of mole terminator, only perhaps in the case where you would use the borrowed car to hunt moles with, although it escapes me how one should bring this in practice, but anyway I digress …
I drove not in just any borrowed car. This was the “business slut” of the garage where I had offered my white Ghost in good faith in order to have a useful accessory as a tow-bar. Yes, little did I know that such an operation could take several days to complete. The garage owner was kind enough to give me a stale smelling vehicle, which had served every John and to which I so disrespectfully referred to as: “the slut”. Not at least because she, just like many woman with questionable taste and or moral, was covered with tattoos, in this case stickers.
It was the sticker on the door on the driver’s side that had drawn the attention of the young police officer. There it was, clearly legible:
Moles Pest Control
(I have omitted the company name for privacy reasons)