Today had me in the car for a lot of the day. First down to Frankston for lunch, then back to the city to see to lawyer to sign the will.
The latter part of the day was easy. The lawyer had everything drafted, it was just a matter of getting it signed and witnessed and that was that. Easy. A quick drive out to Hawthorn, albeit at the tail end of school traffic, but it was done and dusted in twenty minutes. I drove home. The car was filled with petrol at the bargain price of $1.22 a litre (It was $1.75 at some places today, so I feel this was a big win) and I came home.
But the drive out to Frankston was eventful in that I waged a pitch battle with Shirley.
Shirley is my car's GPS system. She's the second iteration of Shirley - I had another one that I could move from car to car, but this one has a Shirley built in.
The GPS was named after a friend's mother, a chain smoking, moderate drinking Lancastrian with flat vowels and a thousand kilometre stare which could cut through double glazing. Shirley was a teacher for most of her working life. She has permanent teacher voice.
Shirley is a good name for the car's GPS.
I checked the maps before I left the house. It's easy enough to get to Frankston from my place, but I don't know central Franger. Why would I? It's out of a 20 minute radius. I rarely go there. All I knew that it would be about an hour on the freeway.
Shirley had other ideas.
Shirley wanted me to take the Nepean Highway via Hoddle Street/ Punt Road.
Shirley was having a laugh. According to her, it would take me an hour and twenty that way.
My laptop said take the freeway, I'll be there in 55 minutes.
Her first directions had me heading towards Hoddle Street / Punt Road.
"At the end of the road, turn left onto Johnson Street."
"Piss off, Shirley."
I turn right onto Johnson Street and head towards the Monash.
"Recalculating route." You could hear the disappointment in her voice.
"Turn left onto Bridge Road."
"No, Shirley."
Shirley was having a laugh. As much as I dislike Burnley Street, it's a necessary evil, and out of peak hour, and besides roadworks, you can get through the Swan Street lights in one or two minutes.
"Recalculating route."
I'm sure the real Shirley would not be somebody you would cross if you were in her class. But I was happy to wing it.
"At the roundabout, take the third exit."
"Shirley, you're effing dreaming." I laughed as I made my way thorough the second exit and got onto the Monash. "I need to go to Franger, not Toorak you dozy cow."
"Recalculating route." If Shirley was human, you would swear that steam was coming out of her ears.
This went on all the way to Frankston. She tried to take me down every freeway turn off, to which I told her where to go, to which she responded with a cursory, "Recalculating route." She seemed to be getting more and more upset as the time to destination counter went down.
If I'd followed Shirley's advice, I would have been 20 minutes late for lunch.
Taking the freeway, against Shirley's best efforts to have me go another, longer route, I got there on time.
But Shirley's continual castigation let me ragged. Sometimes, just sometimes, I know better than Shirley. I feel like I have to answer her back - tell her off for being a stupid cow, ponder at her lack of judgement as she tries to get me to take Punt Road - but as most Melbournians can tell you, Punt Road should be avoided at all costs (A bit like the Dequetteville Terrace roundabout in Adelaide, or the Swindon roundabout and anything called Ring Road in England).
Bless her, she does get me places in the end, but I do doubt her judgement sometimes.
I'm just glad the real Shirley never ended up as my mother-in-law. If things had played out differently, it could have happened. The relationship could have been very difficult, especially if I had to tell her to fuck off with the monotonous regularity with which I must do with her namesake.
I never told the real Shirley's son that I named my GPS after his mother. I'd like to think he might see the funny side of it.
Today's Song:
The latter part of the day was easy. The lawyer had everything drafted, it was just a matter of getting it signed and witnessed and that was that. Easy. A quick drive out to Hawthorn, albeit at the tail end of school traffic, but it was done and dusted in twenty minutes. I drove home. The car was filled with petrol at the bargain price of $1.22 a litre (It was $1.75 at some places today, so I feel this was a big win) and I came home.
But the drive out to Frankston was eventful in that I waged a pitch battle with Shirley.
Shirley is my car's GPS system. She's the second iteration of Shirley - I had another one that I could move from car to car, but this one has a Shirley built in.
The GPS was named after a friend's mother, a chain smoking, moderate drinking Lancastrian with flat vowels and a thousand kilometre stare which could cut through double glazing. Shirley was a teacher for most of her working life. She has permanent teacher voice.
Shirley is a good name for the car's GPS.
I checked the maps before I left the house. It's easy enough to get to Frankston from my place, but I don't know central Franger. Why would I? It's out of a 20 minute radius. I rarely go there. All I knew that it would be about an hour on the freeway.
Shirley had other ideas.
Shirley wanted me to take the Nepean Highway via Hoddle Street/ Punt Road.
Shirley was having a laugh. According to her, it would take me an hour and twenty that way.
My laptop said take the freeway, I'll be there in 55 minutes.
Her first directions had me heading towards Hoddle Street / Punt Road.
"At the end of the road, turn left onto Johnson Street."
"Piss off, Shirley."
I turn right onto Johnson Street and head towards the Monash.
"Recalculating route." You could hear the disappointment in her voice.
"Turn left onto Bridge Road."
"No, Shirley."
Shirley was having a laugh. As much as I dislike Burnley Street, it's a necessary evil, and out of peak hour, and besides roadworks, you can get through the Swan Street lights in one or two minutes.
"Recalculating route."
I'm sure the real Shirley would not be somebody you would cross if you were in her class. But I was happy to wing it.
"At the roundabout, take the third exit."
"Shirley, you're effing dreaming." I laughed as I made my way thorough the second exit and got onto the Monash. "I need to go to Franger, not Toorak you dozy cow."
"Recalculating route." If Shirley was human, you would swear that steam was coming out of her ears.
This went on all the way to Frankston. She tried to take me down every freeway turn off, to which I told her where to go, to which she responded with a cursory, "Recalculating route." She seemed to be getting more and more upset as the time to destination counter went down.
If I'd followed Shirley's advice, I would have been 20 minutes late for lunch.
Taking the freeway, against Shirley's best efforts to have me go another, longer route, I got there on time.
But Shirley's continual castigation let me ragged. Sometimes, just sometimes, I know better than Shirley. I feel like I have to answer her back - tell her off for being a stupid cow, ponder at her lack of judgement as she tries to get me to take Punt Road - but as most Melbournians can tell you, Punt Road should be avoided at all costs (A bit like the Dequetteville Terrace roundabout in Adelaide, or the Swindon roundabout and anything called Ring Road in England).
Bless her, she does get me places in the end, but I do doubt her judgement sometimes.
I'm just glad the real Shirley never ended up as my mother-in-law. If things had played out differently, it could have happened. The relationship could have been very difficult, especially if I had to tell her to fuck off with the monotonous regularity with which I must do with her namesake.
I never told the real Shirley's son that I named my GPS after his mother. I'd like to think he might see the funny side of it.
Today's Song:
1 comment:
Whenever I get my hands on a manipulable Shirley, I like to twist her preferences to be in a state of agreement with mine.
You may want to look for a setting similar to "prefer freeway/go boondocks".
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