Victoria Hawkins' week: Definitely daft

The score on the Hawkins' Personal Richter Scale of Doo Lallyness is now about forty-fifteen. Me? I'm definitely winning but then I'm just turning into a mad old cow while the husband person - despite his eight years head start in age - is coming but a mere close second.

The score on the Hawkins' Personal Richter Scale of Doo Lallyness is now about forty-fifteen. Me? I'm definitely winning but then I'm just turning into a mad old cow while the husband person - despite his eight years head start in age - is coming but a mere close second.

So who was the twit who decided, last week on holiday, to put the key to the French house on the key fob that came with the hire car? And, digressing slightly here, have you ever driven a car without a proper key? This was a new one on us, the motor didn't actually have any keyholes, and all you got was an oblong plastic gizmo that acts remotely, so as long as it's with you inside the car all you have to do is press a button on the dashboard to fire it up. Again something, obviously, that we would have worked out a little bit faster if only our combined Franglais wasn't quite so pathetic, which meant the digitally displayed instructions on how to drive the ruddy thing didn't mean a bean. Fortunately though I recalled that for 'freins' read 'brakes' and we seemed to get on OK after that.

Only, of course, when we dropped the vehicle back at the airport hire car place at the end of the week, Mr H managed to post both the remote AND the house keys into the locked box outside the office, which wasn't going to open until about 25 minutes after we took off. Worse, he did it literally a milli-second after I uttered the immortal words 'don't forget to take the house key off' and remained somewhat thin of the lips and rather strangely silent all 800-odd miles back to Suffolk.

Oh, but since I've excelled myself. I've managed to bounce a cheque to the builder - having used the joint household account which had zilch money in it rather than the fat one that I'd actually transferred the funds into. Then this morning, having kicked about at home for at least a quarter of an hour rather than turn up too early, I turned up a whole 20 minutes late to see the nurse at my annual blood pressure clinic appointment. Um, yes it was a bit high too, though she managed to talk my diastolic, or was it the systolic, down to something approaching normal before I left.


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The lesson this week: I must try and remember that 20-to isn't anything like the same time as 20-past and I must try and get Mr H to refrain from putting keys on fobs that they simply don't belong on.

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