And so, Thursday was pretty much a normal day in the house, mooching around, doing stuff in the garden and reading. I was sitting on the sofa with Sulu on my lap, and the phone rang.
This was an event in itself; one of the cats is usually the best conversation I can hope for during working hours. There was one day last week when I invited the relief postman in for a cup of tea just because the four walls were talking about Big Brother and nothing else.
So, the phone rings; the female voice is she speaking to Mr Jelltex; not my real name. Yes, she is. Am I still looking for work?
Yeeeeees, I drawl, thinking there was a but coming.
How soon can you start?
Er, whenever you want, really.
Do you have any problems with working in Nigeria?
I was honest; I said it wouldn't be my first choice, but if that's where the work is, what the hell?
OK, I hear myself say.
And what would be the day rate you would be looking for?
Now, this is the hardest question to answer; do you be reasonable and say something just above minimum wage, or say something so outrageous to price yourself out of ever working in the industry? I waffle and say something non-committal.
She says send us your documents and we'll go from there she says.
So, I go from unemployed bum to potential jet-setting oil finder again in 30 seconds. I crack open the last bottle of whisky and put on Train in Vain and dance around the living room.
I call Jools, Mum and Tony and then have another whisky and put on the whole of the best of the Clash and dance some more.
Friday was to be an exciting day; getting important documents scanned and sent off for the job; signing on, heading to Canterbury to collect my mended digital camera, and doing shopping.
Having the car just one day a week means that day is a relief and a bit of freedom. I choose not to drive the other days, and let Jools have the car; and if I need to be in Dover I can walk, and do.
Signing on was a breeze, especially before she can ask what have I done to look for work, I can tell her I have been offered work in Africa. I walk out and wander down the High Street, buy a birthday card for Jools' niece who has her 18th this week, and head off up the M2 to Canterbury to pick up the camera.
It was all fixed and ready to collect; just the pain of having to brave the traffic around what is a mediaeval city with 21st traffic. Timing is everything, and I get through the centre of the city and out into the modern retail park. I test the camera, and it works. And head off in the other direction to the city to the countryside and the village butcher to collect steaks for dinner as well as lovely flavoursome sausages and burgers to keep us going for a few weeks.
Like everyone, the butchers now has a page on Facebook, and they are all jovial as the worst of the recession seems to be over and business is good once more. It's always good to be greeted like an old friend, and regale them with my thoughts on their white hot chilli burger I bought last time. In my view the chilli limit had been reached; no more chillies needed.
And then back home to unpack everything, and settle down to listen to the Mayo and Kermode film review show on radio 5, even if it does begin at midday because some rich tanned guys are playing tennis in SW19.
We decided to watch Andy Murray play; we had avoided Wimbledon for nearly two weeks, and Murray had done very well. It was the semi-final, and we thought he was good enough for us to watch and not effect the game. We were wrong.
He played well, but it wasn't enough.
I cooked the steak; we had wine, and all was right with the world.
And then there was a knock at the door; we had a flat tyre. Don't panic, I am man and I can do this. I look in the boot and everything I need is there. I will spare you the detail of the VW jack which is really, really useless. we borrow one from the people next door.
I undo the nuts, jack the car up, remove the nuts and pull on the wheel.
Nothing.
I yank it harder.
Nothing.
The wine wasn't helping. I look behind the wheel at the brake discs to see if there were more bolts holding the wheel on.
No.
It began to get dark and we called it a night. I felt like the wheel had defeated me. I slept poorly and dreamt of how to get the bugger off.
In the morning I tug on it some more, attack it with a hammer. It does not budge.
In desperation I resort to the internet, a VW mechanic wanted £24 for his advice. Bugger that. I googled some more and it said the alloy wheel had cold welded oit to the axle and it needed to be wiggled. I kicked it, and bit by bit it loosened, and with a cry of triumph I carry the wheel down the drive to show Jools I wasn't so useless after all. I had defeated the evil of the alloy wheel and we could go and get it fixed and do something.
One of the banes of modern life is being out when the parcel guy comes round and you're not in. Or in the shower. Or the garden. And so we have to make a trip to Ashford to the depot which is in the middle of a retail park. The card had a map showing the location of the depot, but not how to get on the retain park or where in the town the park might be.
But, we did find it, and with several forms of identification we picked up the Guitar Hero gift pack, quite clearly what the modern 18 year old wants for her birthday.
The rest of the day was quiet; we did not feel well and thought the safest option was to go home and so know where the nearest toilet was. I'll draw a veil over that.
Sunday, we didn't feel much better, but well enough for me to think that what would make me feel better was a bacon sandwich in the cliff top cafe in the village. I like to think I was right; we sat outside on the picnic bench looking at the haze to where we believed France to be. We know it was there, it's too big to be stolen. Ferries criss-crossed the channel, we watched and munched away.
In the afternoon we sat down and watched the men's final, and that did drag on rather. I mean, it was good, but one can have too much of a good thing. Our friends came round for dinner and the tennis was still going on. We ate once the tennis had finished and then went out to the cliffs once more. The sun was setting, the sky all pinks and purples. France was there after all, we took pictures, took in the atmosphere, and went back home, thus missing the moon rising in front of us. And there it was looking in the windows of the house, mocking us not realising it was a full moon and would have been spectacular.
So it goes, so it goes.
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