When I was but fifteen years of age my father gave unto me... a truck. This truck had some minor problem that the last mechanic had assured us he would set right.
The truck was delivered to the mechanic for said minor repair.
Fast forward three years. The truck still sat in a field of weeds behind the mechanics. But now my father and I were pretty insistent that the damn thing finally be fixed or his butt was going to be seeing the inside of a courtroom.
The vehicle was fixed, only the innards had rusted out beyond any hope of repair... unbeknownst to me. The vehicle died within a year, without hope of rescusitation.
Fast forward fifteen years. The front of my piano was been removed for some minor repair that the technician has assured us he will set right.
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And Mr. Man still hasn't forked over the cover for my piano!
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