A series of unfortunate events

So, in my first real footy-watching exercise as a Melbourne new chum, I sat down with beer and chips to watch the Tigers v Bulldogs game yesterday afternoon with Miss Jen Jen. Her Team v My Team – where my team managed a pretty convincing imitation of a collapsing house of cards in the final quarter, after having maintained a respectable to slim lead through most of the game.

“It’s like they just lost their momentum and haven’t been able to find the confidence to pull it back,” I wailed – knowing little, but confident I could turn out commentary at least as useful as the official commentators. (“Well, all it needs is for one player, any player, to have a really exceptional quarter and the game could be anyone’s” – thanks for that Eddie, any suggestions as to which player, on which team? No?)

“At least you know what it feels like being a Richmond supporter now,” she grumbled, before bursting into the Tigers song. “You should learn your team’s song,” she added. “Not that you’ll ever get to sing it.”

Harrumph. True, but harrumph nonetheless.

Anyway, one of many good reasons to be at Miss Jen Jen’s pad was that the Gentleman Academic was repainting the bathroom in preparation for the upcoming auction that will evict me from my dream rental.

“It’s OK to have baths,” he said on my way out. “But I think steam from a shower will blister the paint at the moment. You might want to have a shower at Jen’s.”

These words were still in my head this morning when I rose early to take my car to the mechanic’s. My room, for reasons passing understanding, has a basin and taps. So I dutifully got up and shaved and sponged in my own basin thinking, It’s just one day.

While eating breakfast the Gentleman Academic called out: “Oh, it’ll be OK to have a shower this morning.”

Thanks for that.

Unfortunately, I was already suit clad and running late to drop off my car for a service prior to the upcoming Canberra road trip. No shower for me. Time to hit the road.

At 7.45 am you don’t expect tailgaters in Northcote on High Street. Not only was I slowing down to a virtual crawl a block from my mechanic’s garage (as I couldn’t remember where it was), I had my indicator on for most of that distance.

Admittedly, I did see the entrance a little late, but braked in plenty of time to make a smooth turn up the ramp.

So why did the breaks on the car behind me squeal, dammit?

What part of crawling along the curb with the indicator on is not sufficient warning?

Anyway, the number 86 freak-shuttle, runs right past the mechanic’s and, I discovered, runs very quickly if you get on it before 8 am. This fact, in its way, also proved to be a minor misfortune this morning.

In a wonderful surprise present a Very Kind Soul gave me Lemony Snickett’s “A Series of Unfortunate Events: The Bad Beginning” last week – and I just wanted to read more of it before getting to work!

At least my morning can’t possibly be as bad as the Baudelaire children’s …