salvage by pyritefortune

9 Jan

I can’t remember the name of the hotel; Lanscome Place? Landstone? Something like that, up in a godforsaken corner of rural Leicestershire. I was up there for a prize-giving, hosted by the Melton Mowbray and District Wastes Management Committee. It can only have been a year or so after your Grandfather passed away and left me with the yard. I felt horribly two-faced, marching up to the podium to collect his lifetime achievement award while frittering away his lifetime’s work in a growing sea of mis-sorted metalwork. I just didn’t have his knack for seeing a gaunt hunk of metal turn up on the back of a truck and knowing instinctively that a stripdown and new gasket would set it right, or conversely that it was death on wheels but a treasure trove of rare and valuable parts ripe for the scavenging.

He stood out from the rest of the breakfast staff like a sore thumb. He just looked so out of place, shoehorned into a starched shirt and little green polyester waistcoat with gold trim. The others managed to carry it off, but you know what he’s like, always looks like he’s been dragged through a hedge backwards by the time he reaches the front door. That and the fact he managed to knock my tea half way across the table while delivering my toast. I think he was banished by the maître d’ for that, which is how he ended up on reception in the first place.

While I was checking out, there was a commotion outside, and a bang, and the manager sent him out to investigate. When he didn’t return, I assume the manager followed him out to investigate. By the time I made it out with my suitcase the manager was standing on the steps, a look of horror across the shrivelled, joyless little face, muttering in the least credible stage whisper imaginable. He pointed out in no uncertain terms that he couldn’t care less about the state of the spark plugs, but did care very much about the state of John’s uniform, and any hope of keeping the job would involve a reimbursement for the polyester waistcoat with the gold trim.

When the reply began with an indignant riposte about the difference between a spark plug and carburettor, and moved onto the importance of proper tuning on cars that old, I knew I’d found my new yardman. What it took me a few days longer to realise, was that I’d also found my husband. And that, James, is, honestly, how I met your father.

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One Response to “salvage by pyritefortune”

  1. ingridfnl January 12, 2011 at 12:29 am #

    yay! fun and happy switch. i love that this ended up being a story within a story. 🙂

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