Thatcher and vermin
Today is the day that Margaret Thatcher died. I’ve commented on Twitter that I don’t understand the jubilation for her death, and I mean that.
Whatever she did back in the day, she wielded no power nowadays and death is the only certainty in life, so the ecstasy that some people seem to be in confuses me.
Had she still been running the country into the ground (if that is what the hatred is for, and, to be honest, I’m quite happy in my ignorance here) then I could perhaps understand better. But she wasn’t, so I don’t.
Closer to home, I’ve taken the car in for a service (that’s ‘car’ and not ‘cat’ as my phone seems determined to tell people) It’s two years old and the report came back saying that the front tyres and brake pads were fairly worn, but still well above the legal limit (which is a surprise as my driving is confident to sat the least and I was expecting them all to need replacing), and only one real point of note came up.
It appears as though I have vermin making a nest near the engine. The mere thought of this is enough to make me curl my toes up, and since finding out I have immediately shot an email off to the managing agents of the flats and also followed up on a tweet I had sent to the local council over the weekend moaning that the bins hadn’t been emptied properly for two weeks and pointing out the risk of vermin when you leave black bin bags out for two weeks.
Peugeot have cleared away the nest as best as they can, but now I have no excuse not to hoover out the car which I had successfully avoided doing last week when I was off.
Kip, in his normal characteristic way, had pointed out that the car being untidy was as likely to blame as the bins being out and the massive empty property next door. I respectfully disagree, but there you go.
It’s times like this I wish it had been a cat going in for a service rather than a car.