Lucky not to be in Jenny - a ninth part of a series.

Ok- hitchhiker.

Last time?

Yesterday.

“Are you going to the village?”

“I’m going near the village. Nearer than where you are now.”

“Cool.”

Brmmm – wobble, wobble. I’m driving Jenny (a van, someone else’s). 

Jenny wobbles.

Or maybe it’s a shake. It’s certainly a bounce.

“How long have you lived near the village?” The hitchhiker bounces.

“Thirty-five years. Do you live in the village?” I bounce.

“Near the Stadium.”

“How long have you lived there?” It seems appropriate to ask. She started it.

“16 years.”

We both bounce.

“Where are you from.”

“England. You?”

“The village.”

“Where were you born?”

“The village.”

Up to now I’ve been looking at the road, the bounces insist upon it. 

Now I risk a quick look at the hitchhiker.

She has a pierced nose. 

An extravagant piercing. 

She doesn’t look old enough to be sixteen let alone pierced, but then again I’m so old everyone looks about eight years old to me.

The last time – before yesterday – that I picked up a hitchhiker…. Hang on…. Ah

I was going to say that that hitchhiker was about eight years old too, but in fact a week ago I picked up another and she was only a whisper younger than I.

I was surprised when she put her bag(large) behind her and sat squashed against it

“You can put it in the back if you like.” I was in a car this time.

“No, it’s good, it helps, I broke a vertebra.”

“Oooh. Ow.” I didn’t know what else to say.

Then I did.

“It’s lucky we’re not in Jenny.”

 

 

 

 

The Potato and Boris Becker. (part 8 of a series)

When did you last write the word potato?

I – obviously- just have. But yourself?

It’s not a word that I write very often – the last time it appeared here on this blog was in the summer over a year ago. Then, it appeared in the title of a post that largely details a day where a potato was a subject of a conversation between myself and Ben.

I SAY the word more often than I write it – only four or so days ago (Sunday) I mentioned it on return from local market. My intention was to make some chips to go with some fish I had bought and I announced it to the family.

“Chips huh?”

“Yep!” I tried to sound excited.

No one was interested.

That evening we had soup.

As a written word – sometimes mashed – potato appears seven other times in this blog’s pages.

In 2020 during the pandemic.

In 2015, apparently it was someone's birthday present.

You have to go back another four years to find it again - in a tale featuring a bar, a lover and a guy called Guy.

Then – five more years to hear someone singing about it.

The potato that is, not a bar, lover and Guy.

In 2010 this blog reported on potatoes and toothpaste in a digestive!

I could go on – a bit – but one can find out all this by using the search function up in the top left corner – where the image of a magnifying glass appears.

Or you could go and cook some. 

Potatoes, not magnifying glasses.

Incidentally, it took over a year for the word to first appear on the blog. 

Perhaps because, even though I like eating them, I have always found it a difficult word to spell so I try my best to avoid it.

In 2009 I linked it with salad, a party and the Tour de France.

And Boris Becker.