Crime wave

Finally make it to Arbutus (building supply shop) to buy some dark green marine paint for the bench. Oh, guess what? They don’t have any dark green marine paint. They have yellow. Hmm, no, not really. They have orange. ’Nuff said. They have black. While I am very fond of black, as my wardrobe will attest, I’m somehow thinking painting something that sits in the sun and which I plan to sit on black is not a good idea. Bollocks. Ask at desk if they have any dark green marine paint hidden away. No, of course they don’t. It will take a week to get some in, leaving me with the choice of waiting to paint the bench or making a trip to Nanaimo to buy a can of paint. As much as I want to get the bench painted before Pat leaves for two weeks on Sunday (I’ve promised him a cold one, sitting on the painted bench before we go), he agrees that a trip to Nanaimo is too much. Bugger. I really want to get that bench painted.

Instead of a cold one on the newly painted bench, we go for a cold one and a game of pool to the pub. (There is decent ale to be had here – just a shame that it is served so bloody cold.) Pat astonishes me by presenting me with my very own pool cue. Turns out he had two pool cues he’d completely forgotten about which he’d stumbled across looking for something else in the loft. My very own pool cue. Wow. The first shot I take with it, I manage to pot the eight ball in my break. Rather a quick win for Pat. I miss the second shot I take with it and pot the cue ball instead, Hmm. This does not bode well. Fortunately things improve so I stop wondering whether my pool cue is cursed and accept the long acknowledged fact that I’m a crappy player.

Our game is interrupted with the news that some fat bastard from Alberta has managed to crash his bloody SUV into the front of Pat’s beloved Mustang convertible in the parking lot. The passenger side front end has been crushed right up to the tire, so the car cannot be driven. Not sure if the fat Albertan would have owned up to this (SUV, of course, relatively unscathed), if the pub manager hadn’t witnessed the accident. Pat is gutted. Not only is his baby all smashed up, but now he’s not going to be able to go on vacation in a Mustang convertible with his lady friend Helene. The RCMP are called away from investigating the local crime wave to fill out an accident report. (And where, I wonder, were the RCMP when my garden shed was being stripped of its contents?) The towtruck arrives and fortunately the driver is able to pull the front end far enough away from the tire to drive the car. (Oddly enough, as we’d pulled into the car park I had jokingly said to Pat, “Watch out for that SUV beside you. It’s from Alberta.”) So now Pat’s going to have to make an unscheduled and unwanted trip to Nanaimo to get the process of repairing the Mustang started and sort out a loaner for his trip. He’s holding out for another convertible. I’m not holding my breath. I’m also not asking him to pick me up a can of dark green marine paint while he’s there. Just a wee bit too cheeky, methinks.

Will the frigging birthdays never end? I cannot believe how many people I know have had birthdays in the past week. Becky, Salma, Jess, Theresa, Lucy and (I’ve just remembered) my cousin Lauren, whose birthday I forgot.

Well, in the absence of dark green marine paint and thus any Gabriola garden related photos to include, I shall mark Rory’s birthday by adding one of him working on his own garden rehabilitation project.