It’s as though Mr Perkins wants to join us in retirement. Whenever we cross one metaphoric bridge, he tends to create another metaphoric chasm for us to negotiate, so really none of us were expecting miracles this morning, let alone things going like absolute clockwork.
We were barely game to look at one another as each nut came loose without trouble, and the injector came apart and went back together without the need for a visit to the specialist. There was a slight hiccup on reassembly, but nothing a bit of undoing and redoing wouldn’t fix, and before one could say “Would you like another cup of tea Bill?” our Mr P burst once again into song.
We are only too aware that one swallow doth not a summer make, neither doth a few minutes of idle running give Mr Perkins a lot of time to unleash his bag of tricks on us, but we remain hopeful. So hopeful that we spent the rest of the day happily bringing the washing up to date, and cleaning things, yes, cleaning things, or giving them a first lick and a promise at least.
Tomorrow, we may just mosey off through those distant fields into the wild blue (but often grey) yonder. That will test his mettle (and perhaps given his recent behaviour, his metal as well.)