We made it to Belmullet.
Between the mayhem of home.
And the lunacy of work.
An oasis of calm.
And gentle rocking.
And vintage carriages (at no extra charge).
The Monaco Grand Prix* as described (and partially relived) by Pepe.
He is not a Hamilton fan.
The big smile was switched off when the topic of the referendum was unearthed by Orla at 7 PM.
Glad it wasn’t me,
* I have absolutely no interest in Formula 1 but this secondary consideration has never deterred Pepe from telling me all there is to know about it (it’s cars, they all try to finish first)
… you must be on your way.
Farewell, old Saab.
I know, I know, we started off on the wrong foot.
But you ended up delivering just over three years of fine motoring.
Ok, fine-ish motoring. You were no Volvo V70.
We never took you on cross-country drives, we kind of knew that cross-city was about as much as we could expect.
But you did it. For three years. And you always started in the morning, without fail.
Your turbo did not fail on that first fateful week. Just the dumping valve (must some sort of automotive speak for car anus).
You were a bit of a petrol guzzler, but I knew it from the start.
You’ve been good to us, but it is now time to part.
Good luck old lady.