HIGHLAND FLING

The Martins, father, mother and son, lived opposite. The mother,
Bunty, as she was appropriately named, was a plump, plain, cheerful
woman, whose claim to fame was to have been a prize-winning Highland
dancer in her youth. Now she was dedicated to "passing on her
art"--albeit, for a cost and in her kitchen--to little girls in the
neighborhood, turning them into little Shirley Temple replica's.

Mr. Martin was kind, but boring and probably the most personality-less
man I will ever meet. One time he had been a radio repair man, but
neighbours never would get their (eternally) impaired equipment back.
Then he became a watch repair man, with an impressive monocle--but your
watches would never work again. He always was "sending off to London
for a vital component." Then it was woodwork. Then he decided to coach,
in his spare time, our soccer team. (He lined the boys all up on the
goal line like cocoanuts and took pot-shots at them.)

Mr. Martin was a guard on the Railways but seemed to need to compensate
for his subsequent unfulfillment by hurling himself into all kinds of
technical spheres, where he had no real training. He had a shed, which
he equipped with enormous amounts of tools: chisels, hammers,
screwdrivers, tools for cleaning tools, tools for repairing tools,
tools for sharpening tools.... He spent more time collecting equipment,
to all appearances, than using it.

Finally, he discovered cars and he and his son would painstakingly
polish, clean adjust, lie under, overhaul, lie under, etc....the family
car.

The car must have been bought at supreme sacrifice. So supreme a
sacrifice it was, that, apparently, after the purchase and road tax
installment payments, there was hardly any money left over for petrol
or driving in it.