"You are a logistical pimple on the Arse of Uselessness!"

I needed to get my car to the Mechanic. His workshop is further away than I'd like to walk home, and I can't figure out the bus timetable so I asked Greg if he would drive down with me when I dropped my car off this morning and then drive me home. He kindly agreed, and said he'd follow me down there.

Sounds like a plan, Stan.

Now, I know my mind compresses data in my brain so sometimes when one road looks like another road in my memory, they just merge into one. I know this with hindsight, but it's not much good knowing it when you are looking for your mechanic's workshop. We drove up, we drove down. Visual clues had me thinking I was in the right place but I just couldn't find the workshop. After several attempts I admitted I'd forgotten where he was, so I pulled over to the curb and phoned him to ask.

Meanwhile, Greg kept driving in his truck looking for the workshop. Up and down. While I was talking to my mechanic, I noticed Greg take a left turn down a street ahead of us and assumed he was turning around. I found out that the mechanic was at 72C so I thanked him and promised to see him in a minute. Then drove to 72C. But I couldn't find it. Greg phoned to see where I was, he said he was outside 72C and that was the mechanic's place. I said I know, I'd just phoned the mechanic and he'd told me the number. I asked greg if he was parked outside and he said he was. Great, I thought, I just need to drive back down this road and I'll see his truck rather than trying to find the workshop number.

So I drove back down the street again, but there was no truck. I pulled over again and dialed his number again, telling him I couldn't see him. He started waffling about driving down Reid Park Road and I cut him off saying I didn't want to know how he got there just where he was. He said he was outside 72C and so I hung up and drove up and down all the 50s, 60s, 70s and 80s again but there was no way he was anywhere.

This time when I phoned, although I had been snipperty before, this time I demanded to know where he was. He said he was outside number 72C and I was fair yelling down my tiny cellphone YOU ARE NOT I AM OUTSIDE NUMBER 72 AND YOU'RE NOT HEREEEEE YOU ARE NOT ANYWHERE!

He then said "You're on Ridge Road"

Now, I know my mechanic is on Kerwin Crescent. Ridge Road is the wrong road to be looking for my mechanic, number 72C or otherwise. I mentioned to Greg, in tones and volume that text fails to convey, my extreme displeasure at him keeping this kernal of information from me and how much frustration it would have saved had he started his original phone conversation with "Michelle, you are on the wrong road."

I was pretty good actually, when I caught up with him and handed my car over to the mechanic. I spoke to Greg in moderate tones, admitting my dimness in the whole affair. I hopped into his truck and he drove me home. But after a few kilometres of silence he said "I can't believe you didn't know you were on the wrong road."

He should have just kept his mouth shut. Lord only knows in all the years we were married he was quite happy never uttering a single word in my direction. Out it came like a carbonated verbal explosion from a shaken up can of Pissed Off. It began with a) you never communicate all the information and b) I don't know how you run a business with such poor communication skills and ended with c) his stunned silence and d) me telling him he was a logistical pimple on the arse of uselessness.

When I got out of the car he looked at me, smiled and said "You look nice."