Potholes and Percussionists

I feel I have now reached an age where it is acceptable to complain. Not about everything, not yet, that, I figure, is somewhere after sixty. But just a bit, about some things. Whilst I think there is some danger that I may be invited to contribute to 'Grumpy Old Women', I'm going to take a punt and go for it anyway.

My car suspension has gone. My last car's suspension went. The car before that's suspension went. When I say 'went', I mean that springs have broken, and it now sounds as if I've been in a hit and run with Evelyn Glennie and she is stuck somewhere under my near side wheel arch.

These epic misadventures are not due to cattle grids, or speed bumps (though there are plenty of those in this county) or even the odd gristly pedestrian. Nope, none of the above. The state of the roads in this county is diabolical. There are craters so wide I feel like I could whisper in one side and hear an echo on the other like the gallery in St Paul's Cathedral. On one occasion I very nearly formed a temporary mudguard on a city bus by attempting to avoid a crevice the size of my vehicle.

As a result, my VW Golf had two new springs, my Rover (sorry) had four and I fear my current car, Wurthers to his friends, is also going to need two. I'm approaching a £2000 total for work done purely on suspension so far. I could have purchased a shiny new MacBook for that.

I have heard that people in other counties have taken to spray painting their own yellow circles around their local potholes, to trick the road gangs into filling them in. I actually wrote a letter to a person of importance in the pothole department. I even sent photographs, after risking life and limb walking to busy stretches of road to snap the moon craters. They didn't even reply. In my book, that's just rude.

After reading this blog through, I am slightly worried that I might sound a bit like Jeremy Clarkson, or Germy Claxon as he is also known. I'm not sure what to do about that. I normally disagree with him, we only agree on caravans, everything else he says is rubbish. I may have to go and get therapy, so whilst I book my first session, I bid you goodnight, and I will return when I have some other ramblings to bore you with.

Thank you if you read this. You're clearly as mad as a badger.