My car needs a new clutch
My washing machine is broken beyond repair
My hoover's revolutionary Powered Head has inexplicably lost its power and I now have to hoover a dog-haired carpet with an upholstery brush..
Who sniggered? I heard someone snigger there! I demand that you all assume a solemn expression, this is important, as you will soon discover when you try to sit down and disappear in a cloud of dog-fluff...
the Big Car needs taxing and new tyres (also MOT and something called a 'timing belt', but since I don't know what that is I shall just nod and smile whenever it is mentioned)
I owe the Council Tax people, on top of everything else I am paying them, a mysterious £50. I don't know what it's for, I just got a letter telling me I owed it. So I rang them up, and they don't seem to know what it's for either, but they were able to assure me that, oh yes, I quite definitely owed it to them. For... you know... reasons.
Tax returns. No, nothing specific regarding those tax returns just... they exist, and I have to do them. That's quite enough for someone who lives in World of Chaos (it's like World of Leather but it moves around more) since it involves piling up bits of paper.
|This is what my brain looks like from the inside.|
|What it should be like. Apparently.|
So if you see me during the next few weeks, just pat me kindly on the shoulder or, for those who wisely don't want to get that close, just hold out some chocolate. On the end of a stick. Probably, to be safe, a very long stick...
Oh look. Now someone's detonated the bourbons...