When I’m glum or in a strop, I tend to relocate to a place that makes me feel better. Like the pub. This year however, I decided to be a Big Fat Bastard™ as I attempted to ease my mood with a Big Mac and Fries, which I always insist on ordering as ‘chips’, because a) I’m not in America and b) I am turning into my father. Anyway, as I approached the Drive Through (as opposed to Drive THRU) because again, a) I am not in America and b) I am turning into my father), I realised that the queue was that long, you would have been forgiven for thinking that Ghandi was leading it. My mood darkened and my self pity levels rocketed. Then, just as a coherent idea of painless suicide / immense melodrama formed in my bonce, I realised that there was a KFC down the road that would happily help me clog my arteries whilst relieving me of a fiver. When I got there, the queue was non-existent, so I’d ordered, paid, and was back on the road, inhaling gobfuls of salty chips before you can say, ‘I think I’m having a heart attack.’
Therein the good fortune ended. Several minutes later, I was waiting impatiently at a roundabout, cramming more and more fistfuls of chips into my gob whilst wrestling with the paper coating of a drinking straw. Next thing you know, I was first in the queue to go. Roundabouts have always served as my Achilles Heel when it comes to driving: I don’t quite understand them. I mean, they seem to work, which is good, but to me they represent confusion and terror. I know that the basic concept of giving way to the right underpins it all, but if you’ve ever driven in the London area, then you’ll be aware that around these parts, it’s more of a free for all. I sat at the front of the queue, steering wheel in one hand, handful of chips to comfort me in the other when, BANG! I’d been bummed. And not in a good way. My first thought, rather disgracefully, I suppose, wasn’t that someone had just driven straight into the back of me, but that my Royal Tower Zinger Flinger Ringer Dinger Romper Stomper Chomper Oompah Loompah Stick It Up Yer Jumper burger (or whatever it was called), had been mercilessly thrown from the passenger seat to the floor, thus deeming it inedible. On top of that, what was left of my chips (ie. three of them, including one that was black at one end, which I had elected to discard on health and safety grounds) had been also thrown floorwards. Bleak... I felt bleak.
This is what happened next: extremely apologetic woman who had driven into me flung herself at my mercy, telling me that she was sorry but her satnav had broken and she was map reading rather than looking where she was going. Turns out she was trying to find her way to Kwikfit in order to get her brakes mended as they – SURPRISE – weren’t working very well. I kid you not. I was quite calm about the situation. We exchanged details. She kept saying sorry. I was mentally kicking myself for not having gone to the pub. I stood about wondering what to do. I telephoned my insurance people who were lovely and very helpful (Direct Line, if you’re wondering. I would recommend them.) My car was eventually taken away as she’d had her backside smashed in and looked like the automobile equivalent of one of those female monkeys on heat.
That was over a month ago and whilst my car had her prolapsed bum thingy fixed (forgive me, I’m not mechanically minded), a persisting engine fault means that I’m still without a car. Nissan have proved themselves to be as much use as a one armed trapeze artist with an itchy arse. I got my breakdown cover person to look at it and he gave me a report, with fault codes and meanings. I then presented this to Nissan, who charged me sixty pounds for diagnostics, which meant that they took three days to simply repeat back to me the information that I had already provided them with. And what did they diagnose? They weren’t entirely sure. They suspect she has a ‘stretched timing chain’ which means nothing to me. But in order to make sure, they want to charge me another £210 (plus VAT) to be CERTAIN. If their suspicions are correct, they want another £1200 (plus VAT) to repair the car. All in all, I’m looking at a bill of £1611.00. A quick look on Autotrader and it seems as though if my car was up and running, I’d probably get around £1600 for it. What to do? I dunno. I’d have to spend a similar amount of money on another car if I was to buy something else, so I’m at a loss.
One thing is certain though, my current means of transport (ie. bus/peasant wagon) cannot be sustained for much longer. Don’t get me wrong, my distaste for the bus isn’t rooted in snobbery (I mean, hello, I drive a Nissan Micra). It’s just that for someone with acute OCD/melodrama tendencies and a propensity towards flashbacks of horror bus journeys in days gone by, I fear for my physical and mental well being if I have to continue on the bus for much longer…AAAAAGHHHHHHH!
That is all.
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