By: Blonde Two
On Tuesday we Blondes didn’t quite have enough room on Blonde One’s minibus for all of our Duke of Edinburgh youngsters and their associated kit. To solve the problem I drove Mr B2’s truck up to Princetown where it lived happily for three days while we Blonded around on the minibus.
Blonde One’s confidence in the minibus must have rubbed off on me a bit because as I drove back down off the moor (Dartmoor was looking fine and dandy) on Thursday, I found myself wondering if I could get over my driving nervousness and have a bash (maybe not quite the right word) at taking a bus test myself.
This lasted until I reached my destination (a pub meal with some colleagues). On a driving high, I drove the truck straight into the smallest part of the car park and promptly got it wedged between a brick wall and two cars. There only one thing worse than that, “oh-bugger-how-do-I-get-out-of-this” moment, and that is a whole load of blokes sitting watching your embarrassment.
We Blondes have mentioned many times before how essential a good mascara is to a Blonde’s safety kit and this was an excellent example of why. Knowing that I was pub bound, I had lavishly applied said emergency mascara before leaving Dartmoor. It was just as well that I had because, in my predicament, I could only think of two possible courses of action; the first was to send up the Blonde Signal and call out Dartmoor Rescue (I think they would just have laughed at me so I didn’t risk it). The second was to put the emergency mascara into action and bat my eyelids at the laughing bloke who looked the most like he could drive a truck.
I must have picked the right one because he stopped laughing, gave me lots of blokey “left-hand-down”, “right-hand-down” instructions and between us we manoeuvred the truck into a parking space. Quite an audience had gathered by the time we had finished and I was grateful to be able to claim sunburn as the reason that my face was so red. The bloke was rewarded for his rescue skills with a bit more eyelid batting and a pint and I refused to leave the pub until the car park was much, much more empty.
Maybe I was a bit hasty about that minibus test!
I suspect some fraudulence here. You say “a whole load of blokes”, I say a group of graduates from the London School of Gentlemanliness. Are you sure this guy you mascara-ed to death didn’t slip off his Armani jacket and invite you to walk over it? It is safe to say that your predicament would have had a very different ending had it happened in Luddendenfoot.
Of course I’m not allowing for another possibility. That this rescue had nothing to do with mascara but rather the switching on of the 10 MW Blonde-mitter before which all male flesh and all artefacts are powerless. But then given that facility how could you possibly have got into this fix in the first place? A millisecond blast would have removed not only the obstreperous vehicles but the wall as well. And don’t tell me you’re into conservation. Goddesses don’t do wheelie-bins.
Not an Armani jacket in sight, rather a Blonde who was quick enough to spot the word “haulage” on a polo shirt before selecting her knight without armour (or amor)!