Kerry and I had a night out on the town on Thursday night. We started off by going for a Japanese meal in Leeds, and then headed on over to the City Varieties to see the comedian Rich Hall. I’d bought the tickets for Kerry’s birthday, but she saw through my ruse straight away; correctly identifying that I’d bought them more for me than for her. The only way I could have been more obvious would be if I’d asked her to babysit so I could take Dave.
Still, she got a new phone and a blog, what more does she want.
Rich Hall was good, but not as good as I’d hoped he would be. In the first half he kept stumbling over his material, but in the second he hit his stride a little more and the show took off. His interaction with the audience was top notch, and I preferred his spontaneous meandering to his scripted routines.
While we were waiting for the show to start Kerry got all rebellious and started taking pictures with her camera-phone.
As shocking as that was however, it wasn’t the full extent of our law breaking that evening.
Sitting in the passenger seat of my car on the way home (Kerry drove so I could drink. Happy birthday honey) I suddenly realized that there was something missing from the corner windscreen.
I had no tax disc.
I used to have a tax disc. In fact I remember putting it in quite vividly because it took me half an hour of wrestling to get it into the holder. But now it seemed I was discless.
When we got back home I had a route around the rubble in my footwell but it was still nowhere to be found. There was only one conclusion to jump to: some bugger has pinched it.
The only time I can think this happened is when my car got broken into in July. Which leads me to two conclusions: Firstly I’ve been very lucky to avoid the attention of the police and enthusiastic traffic wardens for the last three months. And secondly; I must have the observational powers of a blind wombat not to have noticed it’s absence before now.
I’ve rung my lease company and arranged for a replacement disc. It doesn’t look like I’m going to have to pay for it either, which I’m pretty happy about. I am, however, going to have to keep the car off the road for a week until It arrives, which is going to be a real pain in the arse.
It has been suggested by some that I drive the car anyway and risk getting spotted by the cops, the rational being I’ve got away with it since July so I’ll probably get away with it for a few more days.
I know better however. My karma doesn’t work like that and as soon as I started my engine I just know I’ll be descended on by half of the West Yorkshire police force on a special training day about how to catch car tax dodgers. The whole thing would end up in a dramatic car chase, culminating in me driving though the front window of Morrisons and embedding my car in the yogurt aisle.
I don’t fancy spending the next twenty years in prison; I’ve heard they don’t even get wireless broadband in there.
So for the next seven days or so I’m without a car. Or at least Kerry is, as I’ve now officially commandeered her vehicle. She’s at work all next week but I don’t have to go in to mine until next Friday. What if I want to catch an afternoon showing at the cinema or something? Or nip to the shop for some more diet coke? I think it’s important I am given the priority in such things. After all, it’s only a hour and a quarter train journey to her office.
Oh yes, I’m the perfect husband. I bet you’re all feeling pretty jealous out there huh?