DING!

If I'm not mistaken, that was the doorbell. There I was, snoozing happily under my nice warm duvet, and someone has to go and spoil it by ringing the doorbell. It might be important, you never know, though a part of was wondering whether someone had broken my car again. I've reached the point where I don't care too much.

Okay, let's find out what's going on. It dawned on me that doing so meant getting out of bed. This had better be good. Switch the hallway light on so the visitor knows I'm about to emerge from the grim darkness that is my home. Put some trousers on. Right, I'm prepared, let's see what they want.

As it turned out a bouncy council employee with a remarkable resemblance to Bill Oddie wanted to let me know that they were cleaning up the area. Washing the walls, getting rid of grafitti, repainting the wooden fence along the Old College site, and so forth. Sorry for the inconvenience mate.

It was nice of him to tell me that, but why did he bother? They don't usually... Aha. Here it comes, a sort of preganant silence as he thought how to phrase it properly. This has got to be about my car.

"Is that your car back there?" He asked.

The white one? Yes it is.

"You... Wouldn't be thinking of seling it would you?"

Ho ho ho. The man has no idea of the grief he's going to get if he does purchase my shabby automotive companion. Apparently his wife wants a nice little sports car and the man called on the off chance I might be willing to part with it. He and one of the mechanics had been chatting about it, and I thought I heard the door closing earlier. Well I managed to convince him he was buying a white elephant, and a costly one at that.

That's the trouble with nice little sports cars. They really are substitute girlfriends in every respect except they don't bulge for several months then drop brand new chassis out the boot. Mine is old, disabled, unloved and uncared for, getting a little rusty around the edges, and no longer as sexy as she was. But you can't help feeling an attachment for the old girl.

No Longer As It Was

I was walking back from a visit to the Job Centre this morning and as usual, the Wyvern Theatre loomed up on the nearby skyline. It isn't what you'd call a striking building, being constructed of the same muddy brown brick as the commercial outlets on the left, and the multi-story car park on the right. You might call it a bit dowdy.

Councillors must have thought so too. Recently they gave the building a makeover. A wrap-around turquoise panel mounting rows of neon lights for instance. I thought how utterly cheap and nasty it looks now. The blue panel is stained like an old tee-shirt, and those vertical lights are just horrendous.

The Americans are often criticised for their neon glitz in urban centres, but if the Wyvern Theatre is anything to go by, Las Vegas is positively well turned out.