Hello again my friends,
I have been cruising through the Writer’s World taking stock, looking around, opening doors and meeting old friends and enemies. I am still on the edge, not fully immersed in the vibrant culture and exotic tastes of creativity, but it is enough for now.
I have penned something every day. Sometimes a cohesive story, sometimes just my thoughts or experiences, penned with no home in mind.
Today I will share one such dusty piece with you, I hope it brings a smile and takes you to my world for a few moments.
The air was dusty, the light dim and there was a strong smell of “man stuff”. The bright sunshine was immediately diffused as it flooded in through the entrance, the Spanish being spoken was guttural, throaty and deep-rooted Andalucian.
I was in the local ferreteria – I suppose an ironmonger is the literal translation – which in my modern-day would have been a hardware store and in today’s modern world is a garden centre. You know? The place where men go to play, where they can immerse themselves in man chat and discuss screw sizes, nail lengths and drill bits. The place the two Ronnie’s famously depicted with the hilarious fork handles sketch – http://bit.ly/LJgBjK. Enough said.
I stood, the lone woman, amongst the six men all seemingly being served at once by the two shop assistants, no one even gave me a glance. I am certain my approach had been registered and dismissed from outside. I breathed in the dust and looked around smiling at my thoughts – how inappropriate my handbag was in this workman’s hidey hole.
I was comfortable in the dim, warm atmosphere it invoked feelings of confidence, things got sorted here. I was certain my trip would prove fruitful and I would be able to fix the irrigation system for myself. I could already feel the pride and satisfaction as I imagined phoning my son and crowing later that day.
I fumbled through my bag searching for the thingy that was causing the problem. I had dismantled the errant water jet that refused to cover the needy roses and plants immediately in front of it, instead, insisting on spraying Muttley and I irreverently every time the system came on. I had the offending part in my hand as I approached the counter and announced to the well-worn swarthy man I needed another one. Without so much as a glance at me or my thingy he assuredly turned to his myriad of racks and boxes and returned within seconds wielding a large black shiny thingy twice the size of my proffered example.
I sighed quietly inside my mind, now I understood. Now I knew why my wonderful brother had left me two replacement thingies exactly the same as the one proffered. Clearly he had come here for the replacements and had been sold the wrong thing, just as I was in the process of being.
“No, no,” I say in my very best Spanish, “that is too big, look – see.” I hold up my own thingy as if talking to a backward child.
It never occurred to me to wonder how my engineer brother had managed to repair the whole system with incorrect thingies. I was utterly confident in my conviction that both swarthy earth worn shop assistant and highly capable Mr Fix It brother were wrong
I know, I know. It’s obvious isn’t it? The thingy I had dismantled was a part of the large black shiny thingy I was being offered.
I laughed at myself as I paid the man and silently thanked my caring brother for leaving me with appropriate emergency supplies.
For me, for a lot of things, it’s a man’s world. Some things are simply man jobs.
For me, that’s fine and dandy.