Blimey, Friday don’t half come round quick!

This week’s WTF? is directed at myself and is purely my fault.

At the time of Significant Other’s death, amongst lots of other things, I was left with two cars, three vans and four motorbikes. I’m now down to two cars, one van and two motorbikes.

Sigh.

The cars – the Beastie and the Workhorse - both get used, although I tend to heavily favour the Beastie. While I was in Australia the Beastie’s MOT ran out and on my return I decided to leave it on the drive for a while and use the Workhorse.

Now that decision has firmly bitten me on the bum.

Occasionally Bro-in-law borrows the Workhorse, as it has a towbar which he can tow his boat with. Yesterday, he came and took the Workhorse as he and his family are going to Cornwall for a holiday.

“No problem,” said I “Have a great time!”

Off he drove, leaving me with his car to use, until I get the Beastie sorted, which I now intend to do asap.

Why?

His car is a fucking Micra.

Tailgate That!

I’m tired today. Very tired (if I put that as my status on Facebook, I can tell myself to sod off to bed). Which means there will be some more bellyaching taking place in this post.

The reason for my tiredness is that I drove down to Tiverton in Devon yesterday and after being there for about twenty minutes, drove straight back. A round trip of over five hundred miles.

Why?

My brother-in-law bought a car from eBay and that’s where he had to pick it up from. I volunteered to be his chauffeur (wait, I have lady bits, so did that make me his: chauffess? chauffeuress? chauffress? Ach, whatever). Next time he can get the bloody train.

What’s worse, he bought a Micra as he wants a cheaper-to-run alternative than his current car for his forty mile journey to work.

I begged him not to buy it, citing that; 1. he’s not an old lady; 2. it would change his driving habits and not for the better; and 3. it might be cheaper to run, but it’s a Micra.

He ignored me.

Nice to know he values my opinion.

On the way down there, I didn’t quite make it a white knuckle ride in The Beastie. Weeelll, maybe just a little bit. For a few seconds. Okay, maybe a minute. Or two. Definitely no longer than three minutes tops.

Whaaaat? I was in the outside lane on the M4, behind other cars, overtaking at a respectable 75ishmph and some twat decided he wanted to try and hitch a lift on The Beastie’s bumper.

Looking in the rear view mirror revealed no blue flashing lights, either from a marked or unmarked car. It was a plain and simple dickhead, whose arse must have been on fire, and who obviously needed to get to the next junction to find water.

One thing I cannot abide, is being tailgated while I’m overtaking.

I don’t sit in the outside lane for the hell of it, unlike some. I make full use of the lanes in the manner they’re designed for.

While I’m overtaking, and I’m being tailgated, where the feck do they expect me to go? Seriously?

Do they want me to surf the central reservation?

What about if I, and the drivers of the cars I’m overtaking (plus any passengers), collectively hold our breath in, making the vehicles taller, but narrower, enabling twathead drivers the space to get by? Would that work?

Or perhaps they expect me to flip the car sideways onto two wheels so they can get past.

I looked for the button in The Beastie that would leave the wheels on the road but raise the car enough for the tailgater to drive underneath me, Wacky Races style, but strangely enough, found the manufacturers had forgotten to install it.

Bummer.

As the road ahead of me cleared, but the traffic in the middle lane didn’t, the tailgater inched closer to count the flies on my number plate.

His in-car dowsing-nav was no doubt indicating water to save his arse could be found somewhere ahead. (“Keep left. In fifty yards take the exit. Take the exit. At the roundabout, take the third exit. Take the third exit. Keep left. Keep left. In eighty yards you have reached your destination. You have reached your destination. At the field, dig deep. Dig deep. You have found water. Or sheep wee.”)

With relish, I mentally flipped him the middle finger and put my foot down. Hah! Tailgate that!! (Even though it then made it appear as though I was the one whose arse was on fire…)

Bro-In-Law, who had been talking, went strangely quiet, and out of the corner of my eye I could see his foot pressing the brake-pedal-that’s-not-there in the passenger footwell.

Bet he wished he got the train.

I took pity on him after a while, but not before checking the dickhead was nowhere to be seen.

For the most part, I kept my driving-like-a-bat-out-of-hell urges under control, and we got to Tiverton in one piece. Although I think Bro-In-Law now has one or two extra grey hairs. And a bit of a tic.

To my disgust, Bro-In-Law paid the money for the Micra and it was decided he would lead on the drive home.

The Micra weaved its own special brand of magic on him and he drove at an average speed of approximately 60mph. On near empty motorways (look, I know it’s not the German Autobahn, but c’mon – 60 feckin’ mph? The Beastie was bored witless and I was banging my head on the steering wheel trying to stay awake). Although, I do have to say, I never realised Micras could achieve 60mph. I was sort of, reluctantly, impressed. Perhaps it’s a souped up one.

However, as a consequence of Bro-In-Law suffering from Micra Syndrome, I didn’t get to bed until 3am this morning – got home about 2am but I need to unwind after driving long distances - and didn’t get to sleep until about 4am, only to be woken by the phone ringing at 9am.

Was not happy.

My phone will be unplugged shortly, and tonight I will sleep the sleep of the well and truly knackered.

And dream of Micras on the Autobahn.

[shudder]

The Beastie Is Back!

I wrote in a previous post about The Beastie being a little under the weather and taking it to the garage to get it sorted.

It became a little more involved than that – not only is it a petrol Beastie, it also runs on LPG. Running on either fuel, it was misfiring, which ballsed up the emissions, thus causing it to fail its MOT.

So.

When I went to pick it up at the end of its day at the garage, I was told it wasn’t well (no shit, Sherlock). They hadn’t fixed it because they didn’t know why it was poorly (a day? They had it a WHOLE day and all they could tell me was it doesn’t work properly? Feck me, I should be a mechanic).

With huge effort on my part, I just about managed to bite back the retort that seeing as it’s a Beastie, perhaps they should have let an experienced mechanic look at it, instead of the Boy Mechanic, who’s only just out of nappies, and who possibly wouldn’t recognise a Snap-on spline drive if it came up and bit him on the bum (seriously, I should be a mechanic).

They recommended I take it to the Beastie Main Dealer, where it could be plugged into the mother ship to diagnose its problem.

I limped home in The Beastie, with an old lady in a Micra driving so close behind me, I thought she was trying to get into the boot – imagine that, being tail-gated by a Micra! Whatever next? Being overtaken by one?? Not in this lifetime mate.

After whinging to consulting with my brother-in-law, we came to the conclusion that taking it to a Beastie Main Dealer and letting them get their greedy, supercilious mitts on it, would be tantamount to taking out a second mortgage.

Not only would they diagnose the problem in exchange for an exorbitant amount of money, they’d also ‘find’ a million and one other things wrong with it in order to line their pockets.

He managed to find a small garage fairly locally, who had a mother ship clone, and who was willing to diagnose it for the cost of the small change in my purse (okay, maybe that’s a slight understatement, but you get the point I’m trying to make).

The Beastie and I hobbled over there, being looked at in disgust by other drivers like I was a Sunday Driver – I considered winding the window down and shouting, “NO, I’M NOT, IT USUALLY DRIVES LIKE SHIT OFF A SHOVEL AND YOU WOULDN’T NORMALLY SEE ME FOR DUST. IT’S NOT WELL. HONEST!”

Or I could get a bumper sticker saying, “My other car’s a Micra"

(as opposed to:

which has been suggested once or twice…).

The bonnet was lifted on The Beastie, contact was made with the mother ship clone and the problem was revealed – a faulty air flow sensor, which measures the volume of air passing through it to the intake manifold. Because it was faulty, the information being sent to the engine control unit - which controls fuel injection - was bollocksed (technical term of course), hence the misfire.

(Forget all that guff I typed earlier about ‘I should be a mechanic’, I seem to have morphed into one – perhaps I ought to stick a spanner behind my ear, keep a socket set in my handbag and get a few topless calendars put up in the house.)

The part was ordered, fitted, The Beastie was serviced and got an MOT. All this took place over a few days – Beastie Main Dealer sulks when they don’t get the work, and is notoriously slow in delivering parts to independent garages.

After parting with half the cost of a spiral staircase (yes, it sold), I drove home.

Note I typed drove. Not limped, hobbled or crawled. Drove.

I decided to take the long way home.

When I put my foot down, I think I achieved something close to Mach 1.

The Beastie is back on form.

Oh yes.

Lock up yer Micras.

I Have A Theory

Before I get started, I have something I have to get off my chest first.

Ohmyflippinggosh!

I have a new follower – one I’m not related to, or one that I don’t know personally.

How exciting!

I know there are people out there who aren't bloggers who read this, but a genuine willing-to-follow-me-who-doesn't-already-know-me-follower - wow.

Welcome and pleased to meet you, Is the Wiz – may the reading of my posts not traumatize you.

Not too much anyway.

The Beastie is a little unwell. When I put my foot down, it doesn’t so much go like shite off a shovel, more like snail with a hangover up a gentle slope. I discovered this when attempting to show off overtake an old lady driving a Micra. Old ladies drive Micras verrry slooowly - round here they do anyway. Not just on a Sunday either.

I always used to think Sunday Drivers were a myth. But they’re not - the flat-capped, leather driving-glove wearing male, motoring along at a reckless speed of 24mph with hands in the ten-to-two position on the steering wheel, in his spotlessly clean, highly polished, garage kept Ford Fusion, being tail-gated by a tractor pulling a trailer loaded with hay bales on the dual carriageway - can be regularly spotted. Hmph.

After painfully crawling past the old lady in my wannabe Micra, I eventually got home and phoned the local garage to book The Beastie in for a going over.

(Speaking of old ladies, my birthday is approaching – I live alone, I’ve got cats, I’m already mad - all I need to do now is trade The Beastie in for a Micra, start stinking of piss and I’m all set - old ladydom, here I come!)

A couple of days later I drove to the garage at 9am sharp as requested, walked into Reception and was greeted by a young lad, who (whoa, wait a minute. Wtf? Since when did I start saying ‘young lad’?!) looked about twelve years old. Turned out he was one of the mechanics.

The Boy Mechanic took The Beastie’s details and key, then asked me for a contact number. To be on the safe side and to ensure I could be contacted, I gave him home number, mobile number, fax number, email addresses (two of) and an emergency number. Just kidding. I didn’t really give him an emergency number.

Boy Mechanic then asked for my name.

Me: Bub
(I’d like to point out here in case you were wondering, 'Bub' is not the given name on my birth certificate. Just sayin’)

BM: B… er, B… erm, I don’t know how to spell that.
(Eh? My name, although not particularly common in this country to the best of my knowledge, really, really, really isn’t difficult to spell.)

Me: B – U – B
(I wondered if my name were Chantelle or Tiffany (Tiffnee) he would have had any problem with spelling.)

BM: Thanks luv.

Now I don’t know about you, but I find it a bit disconcerting to be called ‘luv’ by someone who’s not developed enough growth hormones yet to start shaving, and who probably hasn't even grown underarm hair. Perhaps it’s just the way I see it and it doesn't bother anyone else. Hey ho.

I hope he’s better at mechanics than spelling.

After saying a fond hasta la vista to The Beastie, and a bog standard ‘bye’ to the semi-illiterate Boy Mechanic, I inserted my earphones, pressed play on my iPod and began my forty-five minute walk home.

Forty-five minutes sounds a long time, but it’s preferable to waiting for the ‘one every fifteen minutes’ bus service. Every fifteen minutes my arse. Youngest Daughter waited an hour and a half for one once.

It’s actually quite a pleasant walk – listening to bird song, or not in my case, as I had the iPod on, but you know what I mean. I could have listened to the birds, I chose not to though. On this occasion I preferred to try and deafen myself instead.

(Note to self: When listening to your iPod, just because you have music blaring out into your ears, doesn’t mean you should shout “MORNING” at the man pushing a buggy with his grandson in it. Saying it in a normal voice will be fine – you will be heard, and you won’t frighten any more toddlers.)

Wait.

(Another note to self: Just because you have Lily Allen’s The Fear blaring out into your ears and you know all the words, does not automatically mean you can sing. You can’t sing. You can only sing when drunk and in the company of other drunk people - they won’t give a toss what you sound like. Sober people who are out walking their dogs will.)

Wait.

Oi! Glastonbury Grafter (you brave soldier), see above! Please note I don’t just listen to Michael Bublé and big band stuff. But I’d also like to add that I don’t swoon over Lily Allen. I like her bangin’ choons. That’s it.

I walked past green fields, passed under the branches of leafy trees, nodded hello to riders atop their horses, watched out for rats (which I’m assured are there by my friend, Wise One, who does the walk most mornings), saw a fox darting across the road and generally thought how jolly darn lovely and pleasant it all was, tra-la-la, when I stopped in my tracks, ever so slightly gobsmacked.

I whipped my camera out of my handbag (carrying a small camera is something instilled in me by Significant Other – an avid photographer) because this is what I saw:

The road has a speed limit of 40mph, which drivers generally stick to.

Apart from this one apparently.

It’s not a Micra, so I think it’s fairly safe to say no old ladies were harmed in the making of this accident.

And it’s not a Ford Fusion, so it can’t have been a Sunday Driver either.

Unless...

          hold on...

                     let me think...

                                       gimme a minute...

                                                               ok...

                                                                    I think I have it...


It was a Sunday Driver taking the old lady out for a spin in a borrowed car.

Because it wasn’t actually a Sunday, his shiny Ford Fusion wasn’t allowed out of the garage. He couldn’t drive her Micra, because as everyone knows, they only have two gears - slow and slower.

Hence the borrowed car.

He then drove at a wilful and irresponsible speed of [gasp] 27mph, blatantly staying under the speed limit, and lost it on a straight bit of road because in a moment of hot-headed rashness, didn't have his hands in the ten-to-two position, thus ending up in the ditch.

That’s my theory anyway.