Training stuff

In my rant about the whole car fiasco yesterday, I neglected to post some of the highlights from my week away.

First: Seeing all the guys on the course again, and having the time to catch up each others' news and lives a bit. Very nice, I hope we stay in touch. Well, at least the guys in my group, who are all completely great.

And yes, they have the address of my blog so I daren't be rude about them.

Other stuff: The drumming thing. I mentioned this in brief, but it deserves a bit more explanation. On the course programme for Thursday evening it said ominously "Drumming with Umbanda". I googled Umbanda. I found their website. I looked at what I found in blank dismay.

You can do the same... http://www.umbanda.co.uk/

I have never considered myself the kind of person who does percussion for fun. Or for anything, really. The last time I used any kind of formal percussion instrument was at primary school, where I think I was an unskilled and unenthusiastic triangle player.

I play guitar, I make jokes about drummers.

Q: What do you call a guy who hangs out with a group of musicians?

A: A drummer.

See?

And being British and therefore hugely repressed, I was dreading the whole thing.

However. Come the evening in question, we had successfully completed a huge complicated team exercise which had left everyone in a pretty good mood, and there was the promise of free booze and a barbecue after the drumming, so things were looking up.

It was being held in The Fernery (and isn't that a great name?) so we trooped in there, spotted the booze and all latched on like drowning men onto a barrel. Amazingly, after a few glasses of wine, the vast assortment of drums, shaky things, clangy things, whacky things and scrapy things all looked less daunting.

It was hilarious. Being a bit pissed helped, obviously, but the guys running the session were brilliant, and everyone joined in.

And as a footnote to that, while we were all sitting having our barbecue afterwards, we could hear another group doing their drumming session. They sounded shit. We mocked them at length amongst ourselves, even finding out from our course tutor who they were. Turned out they were a group of Germans from some Big German Company.

A little later, a couple of chaps wandered into our field of vision, both looking in some indefinable way, well, German. One of our group (a sweet, mild-mannered lady) bellowed at them:

"Hey! Are you from Big German Company?"

They stopped, looking rather startled and replied politely "Why yes, we are."

"You're CRAP!" she shouted.

There may have been a degree of pointing as well.

The rest of us dissolved in laughter, whilst trying to explain to the bemused polite German chaps that she was referring to their drumming efforts, not to the whole German nation. Well, we assume that's what she meant.

Heh. Glorious.

Glass II - The Revenge

I got up really early today, in a state of mild anticipation.

Not because I was pleased to be home (although I am), not because I was looking forward to a day of leisure in gorgeous sunny Wiltshire (although I was). No, I was heading off to the glamorous metropolis that is Frome (look on a map, American readers) to get a new windscreen for my car.

They had told me that I needed to be there for 8.30, so I was up and out of the house by 8am. Which after my mammoth 3 hour flog down the motorway systems of Southern and Western England on Friday afternoon, I did not feel like doing. There was a degree of grumbling.

Anyhoo, I got to the glass place at about 8.45 after a diverting jaunt around Frome town centre. I swear, that place is like a maze. You have to visit every corner of the bloody town before you can leave.

Try it one day. Go to Frome and try and drive from one side to the other, say from the College to the big Asda (or as it is hilariously known in the WithaY household, Chavda) and see what happens. You'll be doing laps before you know it.

But I digress.

I parked up, went into reception, smiling hopefully and was greeted by a lovely affable young man. He knew all about my appointment, and things seemed to be going remarkably well. Until...

"Is that your car there?" he said, pointing at the only car parked outside the entire place.

"The one with the huge crack in the windscreen? Yes, that's mine."

"Oh." Pause. "Oh dear." Pause. "Is that the new type of windscreen for that model?"

I refrained from replying "I don't fucking know! I'm not a fucking windscreen specialist, like I assumed you were!" No, instead I was very calm and polite.

"Why yes, I believe it is. The insurance company confirmed that when I booked my car in (eleven days ago you slow slow SLOW glass replacement firm)." I didn't say the bit in brackets. That was in my head.

So, the long and the short of it was that they had managed to get the wrong windscreen in, despite me having confirmed with the insurance company AND the glass place over the phone that my car is the model with the NEW windscreen.

I am now having them come to my house on Tuesday to fit the new windscreen. Unless it's raining, in which case they won't.

This could go on indefinitely.

Oh yeah, the chap also went to some lengths to assure me how completely safe the windscreen in, but ruined it a bit by commenting "Of course, the crack will continue to creep down the screen." Fucking great.

As my morning was shot to bits, I went to the supermarket, got a huge pile of glorious summer fruit, some fresh croissants and the Saturday Telegraph and came home again.

The course was good. I was tired by Friday, well, we all were, but it was really worth while.

We had an evening session with a drumming group on Thursday night which I had been very wary of. In the end it was hilarious. The cooler full of beer and wine we were all scarfing back might have helped. Boy, do some of our group not have rhythm. It was an experience.

Jim called round this afternoon to pick up a few bits and bobs, it was nice to see him. And Mr WithaY is back from his diving trip later tonight after a week away. So hurrah!