HIGHLAND FLINGS

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 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.

He had, one time, been a radio repair man, but neighbours never would
get their unrepaired 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 like cocoanuts on the goal line and took
pot-shots at them.

Mr. Martin was kind, but boring and probably the most personality-less
man one could ever meet. Finally, he discovered cars and he and his son
would painstakingly polish, clean adjust, lie under, overhaul, lie
under ....the family car.

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