Chickentown and Clutches

Into Reggie and the phone leads me to Evidently Chickentown.

Monst calls me. Chickentown calls me. Monst is upset as I fling a blogging gig Tracy's way and apparently ignore her down the phone. Scab a tenner off the poor unfortunate Nicola because I haven't a bean on me and the wallet is at home. I'm told it's down to fog in Brizzle, and the arm flapping ain't happening. I arrive marginally early following a stressed up drive. Fog has lifted by curtain up. I return towards the Mersey, scab a free parking situation as the machine refuses to eat the money borrowed from Nicola (makes it easy to give it back mind!) and get to the Rocket and conduct an experiment in non-laxative, laxative impact as I break down at the Rocket. Not a good spot to be in, with a huge artic right behind you (I'd say up the jacksie but despite the fact I'm often called to vocalise with it, it ain't that big - honest!). Call the RAC. They come, looks like my clutch is going, 'Ooh! Er...Missus'. Dysfuntional in the afternoon as a result. Ring garages an relieved that the some demanded is not as bad as I imagine!