Free The Squashed Man Who Married a Dragon by Anthony Blackie

I up graded my garage, I insulated the floor, walls, roof, then built out of aluminium struts, polystyrene sheets and bubble wrap sheeting; an ‘oxygen tent’ that could be raised and lowered over the car, together with a small greenhouse electric heater on a time clock. I took a lot of stick over how I molly-coddled this car. The ‘oxygen tent’ was quite a novelty in itself, then. Whilst I was preparing the garage, the car was stored in David’s barn, very generous of him, and much appreciated but not the safe secure damp free surroundings it was used to.
    When its new home was ready, I couldn’t drive it out of the barn, down a ramp, too much was at risk. The barn had shrunk; the doorway was now narrower than the car, the doors flapped in the breeze, my nerves of steel jellified.
    There was only one person prepared to take on the task, the fearless one was approached with this challenge; this is the way I have found to get mountains moved, say it can’t be done and your halfway there. She pressed the starter button, the six cylinders of 3. 8 litres burst into life, such a fabulous sound. A couple of blips on the throttle for luck and out she backed. The barn doors opened like the parting of the Red Sea for the Israelites, within two minutes the car was installed in its palatial new home.
    Normally I didn’t let her drive this car, it’s too fast and too expensive. Only in emergencies – when I need help, then it’s different. There were occasions, I don’t know why, but for some reason the Jag won’t start for me, I’ve done everything correctly, I have not flooded the carburettors, I’ve crossed fingers and toes, said silent prayers – and promised it everlasting polishing – but to no avail.
    I would return to the kitchen a dejected and broken man – ‘Would you like me to start it?’ she says. There is no logic to this – no face saving reason at all. ‘Yes’ I whimper ‘if you think you can’. Within minutes the glorious sound of the Jaguar can be heard from the kitchen. How is this possible? It is not supposed to be this way, another chip off my fragile male superior ego. Tears dried ‘Thank you, sweetheart’ and off I go – out to play.
    Competent women are one thing, all knowing and all doing are quite another. Even if she dressed the solution up in a few nice gentle phrases ‘I wonder if we tried this’ or ‘do you think that might help’ but just to jump into the driving seat and be right – is too much to take.
    I’ve been very lucky – the rapid rise in classic car values, particularly E types which rocketed up, was nothing to do with canny forethought on my part, it was pure good fortune, for which I’m very thankful. I also had for a while a Mark II Jaguar saloon, totally original with only 22,000 proven miles on the clock, and an Austin 7 Ulster type replica which was great fun . I have to admit my knowledge and spanner skills wouldn’t fill a match box.

ON THE OTHER HAND
    My wife is not of this world, not in the accepted sense, human to a degree – but certainly not normal. I’ve suspected this since our courting days – when we would go into the Cherry Gardens or a country pub and all she would drink was water, this is embarrassing for a young man ordering a pint and a glass of water – Please! – worse than this she once asked for milk, milk in a pub! That was a warning sign, how did I ignore it? Blinded by love is a sort of excuse.
    Nowadays even a simple harmless question like – what’s for tea? – can cause offence, apart from natural interest what am I going to eat to sustain life – it’s more a general conversation piece, a sort of friendly remark. My mother might have replied ‘the smell of an oily rag’. To Hitler’s sister, often because she’s not yet thought of something for tea, she’ll