Fifty minutes

This morning I dropped Julia at work and, fifty minutes later, was back at home.

In the garden I listened to the faulty strimmer and revealed a basic difference between the sexes, before taking some more flower photos.

Julia has many talents. She could probably, if her ambition lay in that direction, do a better job of running the country than Theresa May. I, on the other hand, have to plan in advance just to get my socks on. However, when called upon to diagnose the problem with the strimmer in the Mencap garden, I was able to spot the problem straight away.

I’m not an expert on strimmers but I could spot that the high-pitched grinding sound was a bad sign.

To be fair, Julia, who is completely deaf to the sound of mechanical agony, doesn’t need to know this as she has me for all that technical stuff.

I, in turn, use a mower shop for repairs as my efforts usually end up with a puzzled look and a tin of leftover bits.

Most of the rest of the journey home involved traffic and queues. One hold up was caused by an ambulance parked across the road as the crew treated a man lying on the road. I took some photos as we waited because  I had the camera handy.

I could see his feet moving so I didn’t feel too intrusive. Anyway, there were a lot of people hanging round so I wasn’t the only voyeur. As I drove past, I noted he was wearing a helmet and a bicycle was propped up against a tree. That is the price of reducing traffic and pollution.

I’m happy to report that he seemed quite lively, and hope he wasn’t badly hurt.

There is a question, though, about the ethics of taking pictures of accidents. There’s a long tradition of postcards showing various disasters including train crashes, mining disasters and fires, but does that make it right?

Is the picture journalism, local history or just intrusive?

It took me back 40 years to a Sunday lunchtime (the accident, not the photography) when the driver of a red Austin Maxi overtook me on my Vespa 200 (yes, I had a scooter at one time) and pulled over before passing me properly. Result – me in gutter with the knee injury that still bothers me today.

Accident on Woodborough Road , Nottingham

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It’s amazing what you can pack into less than an hour.

 

27 thoughts on “Fifty minutes

  1. Clare Pooley

    Regarding mechanical repairs (or any other repairs, come to that) I do not attempt them. I have no idea how anything works despite having it all explained to me on numerous occasions. My husband is much better at mechanics though a tad ham-fisted.

    Liked by 2 people

    Reply
    1. jodierichelle

      That’s funny, Clare – I have always said I have no business even DRIVING a car, because I know so little about the thing. I avoid getting gas because I always pop open the trunk instead of that little gas door thing. So embarrassing. And getting the oil changed is a disaster – they always fool you with these trick questions – “its silver and it’s parked on the side lot.” is what I say, as I hand them the key. Then they grill me & want make, model, year, I can’t even remember the list of nonsense they ask me. And always I fail.

      Liked by 2 people

      Reply
      1. quercuscommunity Post author

        You don’t need to know how it works to drive it. I have a body but I haven’t a clue how it works.
        As for the car question, that’s why modern keys are so good – push the button and the car flashes its lights – problem solved.

        Liked by 1 person

      2. Clare Pooley

        Haha! I can never remember my registration number! I have to ask them to wait while I go out to look at the car. But then, I can never remember my telephone number either 😮

        Liked by 2 people

  2. Laurie Graves

    That was indeed a packed fifty minutes. Chilling to read about the bike rider, but I was so glad to learn that he was all right.

    Liked by 1 person

    Reply
      1. Laurie Graves

        You are so right. I follow his blog, and I am in awe of all that he and Mrs. Tootlepedal accomplish. A power couple!

        Liked by 1 person

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