You bloody idiots...

Poor Michel.

Responding to the anguished calls of his friends, who also happen to be parents of his godson, he drops everything to come rushing round and be of assistance.

Poor Michel.

Not only does he realize within three seconds of arriving that it is not an emergency, he also realizes his friends are complete and utter morons.

Let me rewind. (And because I have missed posting my blips for two weeks, this will be the abridged, Reader's-Digest version.)

Michel has been trying to lure us into the world of the cell phone. Hitherto, we have resisted. But now, with Ottawacker Jr. at school and injuring himself in ever-more-inventive ways (falling off monkey bars, running into a tree, trying to tackle the pommel horse), we began to see the value of perhaps actually using a cell phone. Or at least having one to look at and be reached on if emergency strikes.

So, Michel gave us an old one of his. 

Refuse nothing but blows, as I was always taught, and so for the past 3 months we have looked at it and contemplated actually turning it on. Then we moved to the action phase. And tried to turn it on. And failed. 

This is when we called Michel. Following a 20-minute telephone tutorial, he said he'd pop round and take a look. Which he did tonight. He took the phone, switched it on, and to our astonishment, found it worked perfectly. We'd been pressing the wrong button. 

Well, when I say we...

So, I rewarded him with a whisky, Tui rewarded him with a visit, and the poor exhausted bureaucrat had a little doze in the chair. Such are the wild nights we spend in the Casa Ottawacker.

Poor Michel