Aggravating blokes*

 

Another racing-downhill day, with your feet trying urgently to get ahead of the rest of you, and ploughing-the-sward-with-your-face looms dangerously.**  This included the frelling phone ringing tonight as I was trying to get out the door again, but this time I eyed it in deepest distrust and said, you’re the painter again, aren’t you?, and answered it in my best dulcet tones. ***  Yes.  It was the painter.  The painter who (according to him) the builder told that I wanted to get going . . . wi