Fridge of Dreams

Here’s a little moment I’d like to share.

Saturday morning. I get up, go for a run and hit the Sainsbury’s on the way back. I open the freezer door, and the fucking thing comes off in my hand. My great weakness – well, one of many – is that I don’t know how things work. The photocopier in my office might as well contain a Discworld-style imp that scribbles out the documents.

I call the landlady, and she sends her son round. He sorts out the fridge in a matter of moments. He has spent the entire previous night on an engineering job at a railway station – if it were me, I’d barely be able to walk. He’s an engineer by trade, he tells me, and talks expansively about the work. Travels all over the world, does a bit of construction. We have a smoke on the drive and he starts rhapsodising about the house and the area. He lived in the house for two years and loved it, he’s going on about how great it is to live in Manchester. I agree wholeheartedly. 

I wave him off, and it strikes me that there’s a whole world out there, a whole world of work, that I have never known. 


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