…before the nephews, nieces, charities and the Revenue can get their claws on it (there should be something left for all but the last). Today we’ve treated ourselves to a new mower (made in Austria) for roughly the amount I paid for a used Renault 16 in 1978. This one doesn’t need petrol, nor a rope starter, and will adapt its speed, they say, to suit my faltering progress. The battery (made in Poland) is charging (charger made in Vietnam) as I write, and I shall give myself a driving lesson later. Jane sold us our petrol mower for a snip when she moved about ten years ago, so it doesn't owe us a lot. The steel deck had started to rot, and it didn’t make much of a job of cutting the grass the other day. Like me, sound in wind, but not in limb.
We bought the new one today from a specialist shop in town, rather than on line, so for the same as we would have paid on line, it came registered for warranty, unpacked, assembled and loaded into the car following a driving lesson. And the shop will get shot of the packaging. And they will come and collect the old one next week for disposal. The battery charged quickly, and the mower has done an excellent job, using less than half the charge.
Meanwhile, as for online purchases, the castor cups arrived this morning, so, thanks to Martyn’s help, the new bed is rather less mobile. The bedside cabinets, however, promised for today, are not yet with the courier. Celia’s birthday card, posted first class on Tuesday at the village Post Office, got there in a mere three days. Shit: I could have walked it there faster in a hundredth of the time, even with my rotten knees. Everyone is blaming the shortage of HGV drivers: and what is to blame for that, pray do tell?
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