Woolwich, SE London, is pronounced " wool -itch ". Funny that, to start with, I used to muse to myself.

This garage/Car sales plot mentioned in "Brian" ( see previous) was some set-up. To describe the characters within is to highlight the place. And this Chris, the stressed-out patron, as mentioned, was some fearsome Dunhill chainsmoker.

Never seen without his trademark Dunhill International in hand or to mouth, he strode purposefully abouts the place, checking and assigning his two mechanics, biker Jeff and the other, Polish Jan ( or Yan). Jan Los was from a post-war Polish immigrant family. He'd been working on ( or mostly under ) the same car servicing ramp for 20 years previously, through three owners. The initials JL had been set in the concrete surrounds of the bay just so we all could know he was part of the furniture, he was "here first". Jan had a voice just like a bleating sheep and more, he would oftimes give everyone in the garage a Godly-awful ear-torturing rendition of Charles Aznenvour's " Sheeeeeeep had a face I can't forget " ( I added the p ). The other guys in the garage would invariably pipe up. . ." Shhhut up Jan! ".

One fine Woolwich morning I was given the task of installing a Blaupunkt in Chris the owner's Renault.
" Give it a quick hoover out while you're at it Mike" were his parting words as he handed the keys over.
Ok fine, I thought, til I opened the car door. Unopened 20s packets of Dunhill International were strwen about on all surfaces, seats and dash alike. The headlining fabric, once cream, had been rendered a deep dun. The smell, that familiar nicotine legacy tang, impregnating. . . well everywhere.

Leaving all doors open to vent whilst I commenced the radio install, I had to firstly sweep four Indian red cellophaned packs together with some fine ash away off the seat. During the job I keept glancing abouts the footwells and seats front and rear. More Dunhill boxes! The ash tray brimmed to overflow with aggressively bent stubs, it was so crammed the tray was hell to extricate when it came to the hoover.

Job and a half that - I broke into a fine sweat, interrupted only by one walk back to the office.
" What shall I do with the packs of Dunhill"
" Ahhh, just leave 'em" said Chris nonchalently, looking back down at his paperwork.

Didn't like to ask why and all that - I'd learnt by then not to even mildly question any garage owner, if I wanted to keep the contract. So I asked the good goaty bearded biker Jeff, that authority on this garage personnel.
" Oh he goes on cross-channel day trips to buy them by the hundreds & scatters the unopened packets around the car (in the boot too), just in case.
" In case of what" I asked
" In case he runs out " said Jeff. He went silent for a minute as he tightened a wheel nut. " Yeah, looks a bit strange that don't it? . . . .you see he suffered agonies of withdrawal once when he was driving in the countryside and couldn't make it to a shop for hours to stock up. From that day forth he vowed never again to go short of his beloved Dungmounds."

Jesus H. Christ, is it me, do I attract these characters? Or is the whole friggin' world full of crackpots?

There's more. The respray man, Irish Joe, often used to complain about how tight Chris was, how he would take months to settle invoices. Over one teabreak he recounted the time he was passing Chris's house one dark December eve. A light was on and curtains open. Inside, an overalled Chris stood on a pair of battered stepladders, working away at a wall, decorator's wallpaper scraper in hand ( and Dunhill in the other, natch ).
Next day Joe mentioned he'd seen him.
" See you're re-decorating the house Chris "
The reply came back,
" No. . . .moving "

I think that was meant to be a joke but I never did check it out with Jeff.

MSM