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Tuesday, March 16, 2004

Days Like These 

We don't have tea stained mugs rolling about on the dashboard. We don't leer at the young women going so charmingly about their business. And we don't wind down our windows to exchange helpful driving tips with fellow motorists. But inspite of these shortcomings, me and Terry are, for one day only, White Van Men. Oh yes we are!
Our rented Transit van chock full of computer related goodies, we are making a sprint for the border, Huddersfield bound. We are on the road, the stars of our own buddie movie, a latter day Bob Hope and Bing Crosby. We sing along to a cassette of Bohemian Rhapsody, and do all the actions, Wayne's World style. Freedom never tasted so good.
We arrive at the customer site, and the van is unloaded with the kind of choreographed precision that would bring tears to the eyes of the most hardened Broadway producer.
With effortless aplomb, the kit is unboxed, plugged in, booted up and revealed in all its natural glory. Before we know it, we are back on the road, our mission accomplished, and the whole factory downs tools and comes to the door to wave us off.
Back at the base, we shift flattened cardboard boxes out of the van and dump it into the recycling bins. I turn my back for a moment, and when I return, Terry is lying on the floor of the van in the foetal position, motionless and silent, dead to the world. He stays like that for what seems to be an age. I get pretty worried.
Upstairs in the brew room, dampened paper towels moulded to his forehead like some kind of medicinal cabbage leaves, Terry tells me that he'd cracked his head while reaching for his jacket in the front compartment. I tell him how I thought he'd done got himself dead, and we all have a good laugh.

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