Thursday, February 19, 2004

Fackety Fackety Fack! With a bit of good news thrown in as well. Left work early to pick up thewife and Mumsy, who was getting out, from hospital. The motor decided that it would rather struggle along the M77 and come to a halt on the hard shoulder, water temperature light, oil light and just for effect some smoke from the front of the engine. I call the RAC who arrive just as I have finished a series of calls fitting together a logistical nightmare. thewife will be at hospital by now, with her mobile switched off, so I phone the dwellers of harbourside, to phone the ward and let thewife know the situation. They also kindly offer to collect thewife and Mumsy, so that's one problem solved. Not having upgraded my RAC membership, I know that they will only tow me 10 miles and that I will need towing. The RAC man is the same guy who a few months ago sorted my lights and told me at the time that I should upgrade my membership. Of course I didn't bother and here we are now. Stranded but yet to decide where. I mention the possibility of Fenwick, a small village that I have driven through once I think. Its probably more than 10 miles, more like 14, the RAC man is waiting for confirmation that this is okay but decides to just do it while he's waiting for the call back. I make a quick call to the radical postman - no way are you being called Sanquaharman in this blog. Who very kindly offers to tow me back from there, only he has no money so thewife has to nip round to give him some petrol vouchers.

We arrive in Fenwick and I have about a 3 minute freezing cold wait until the radical postman arrives, talk about a plan coming together, and his missus, god bless her, had though fit to send him along with a thermos mug of hot black coffee.

Being towed by the RAC is a piece of piss, you just have to point the thing, however being towed by a transit on a short rope in the dark through country roads, without servo assisted brakes is another matter entirely. The rope broke once, conveniently in a village. Scary stuff, particularly at the last part of the journey, where the radical postman decides to hit the roundabout fast and I'm sure that car is coming my way. We make it. Drop the motor off at my friendly neighbourhood repair man, who will look at it tonight and pronounce it saveable or not as the case may be.

thewife has been looking through the car ads in the local papers and I'm late for a train!
posted by timesnewroman at 7:12 AM  

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