MOSTLY this week I have been dealing with mechanical faults.
I was joining the M3 when my two-minute-old car refused to get into fifth gear and started to shake. My trusted Car Man told me a mechanical fault was to blame and NOT my erratic driving. However he is not able to fix it until the summer’s end.
Now the car is with specialists who are claiming to be able to fix it before the spring’s end. In the meantime, Mother has loaned me her tiny vehicle because she has undergone foot surgery and is unable to drive.
Her only means of getting from A to B is on a metal-type contraption with tiny wheels and no brake. It resembles a teenager’s scooter but far more dangerous. This, of course, is not stopping her scooting around her house, Prosecco in hand, looking quite jolly.
“Where on earth did you find this?” I enquired.
“Oh, Mr X gave it to me, he’s in a home now and doesn’t need it.”
“No he doesn’t need it because they were banned about 20 years ago.”
“Ooh were they?” She laughed, taking another sip and scooting off to water her roses.
Then there is The Dog, who had a cruciate operation some months ago and, despite feeding him sirloin steak and walking him as instructed for just five minutes on a lead, has gone lame.
Now he needs a second operation and while this doesn’t technically fall under the mechanical fault category, it involves pins, which are indeed metal, so I am.
And for good measure, as I was making him cheering liver biscuits as a treat during his Tramadol haze (prescribed by the vet I hasten to add), acrid black smoke began pouring from my blender, clearly proving unable to cope with the density of my mixture, even though, I had on this occasion, followed the recipe to the letter.
So there’s my week. Car-less, dog-less and very soon to be brass-less.