...except when I can't.
After a moderately hard day at work the only thing I wanted to do was sink into the couch and lose myself in the rather excellent Ravenor collection of novels by Dan Abnett. (Available at all good book shops and also some rather dubious ones.) Or maybe watch some of the superb True Blood, Generation Kill or Dollhouse TV shows which are finally airing on terrestrial channels. But no, the shopping had to be done and I was just the man to do it. Or rather I was the only man that was going to do it. I reckoned to get to the shops, buy the essentials, get back, put them away and be on the couch with a book and something single and malty would take about half an hour. Not a large amount of time from my evening off.
So upon entering my car which has sat in the car park without complaint since Saturday, I tried starting it only to hear the noise that all car owners dread. That crunchy, whiny sound non-starting engine sounds that translates from car-speak to English as "This is going to be expensive". So after a couple more attempts (I'm nothing if not persistent) I did what every bloke with no mechanical expertise at all does. Called my breakdown service.
Unfortunately I'd forgot that as a cost-saving measure I'd neglected to tick the box that says HOME START. Ah. The lady was most apologetic and explained that I'd need to be further than a quarter mile away from my house in order to get the breakdown service that I was paying for. For them to come out as things stood would cost a squillion quid before they could even look at the problem. I politely declined the offer and instead decided to jump start the car from our second motor hoping to at least have enough power to get it to the Motor shop where I presumed they would have a battery tester and a new battery to sell me. It was then I discovered EXACTLY what they mean by 'Power' Steering. With no power to the car and it being about the same size and weight as your average Sherman tank, manoeuvring my car was no mean feat. I was certainly glad I didn't have to push it much further than 10 meters or so to the waiting maw of the donor car.
One quick jump later and we were away to our local brand of our national chain of car type stores (Not named here for possible legal implications). I approached the Helpdesk and to my relief it was manned by a gentleman in the prime of his middle ages rather than a scrawny YTS geek who's all neck and no nouse. This gentleman oozed calm experience from every pore. I explained the situation and he nodded sagely.
"It certainly sounds like the battery is failing we'll just test it first. Albert?"
Albert appeared from behind the desk the epitome of adolescent ineptitude with the spots and greasy smell to match. My heart sank as he lollopped his way over to my waiting car and after prodding ineffectually under the bonnet proclaimed that "The machine says you'll need a new battery."
I selected my battery and he started the installation procedure getting as far as removing the old battery and connecting the negative terminal before saying "Urm..."
"Urm...?" I said, the model of politeness.
"Urm.. I've never seen this type of connection before."
He was right, on carefully checking the old battery it appeared a specialised widget has been attached to the positive terminal which the shop did not stock. He struggled with the widget on the old battery for a minute or two before pronouncing it 'hopeless' and it was decided to refit the old battery, jump start the car again and drive it to my local garage for them to ponder over it in the morning.
It was at this point that Albert broke the negative terminal.
He was tightening the clamp and obviously went one twist too far. The whole thing broke away in his hands leaving me with a non-functional non-fitting battery and a functional non-fitting one.
Having dismissed Albert I redialled my breakdown service trying to keep the note of irony out of my voice as I explained I was now further than a quarter mile away from my house and so would like someone to come and look at the car.
It was an hour later that the Breakdown service arrived and as he emerged from his van I breathed a sigh of relief.
The Breakdown man had a beard you could trust. This was a beard that explained in calming dulcet tones that it had seen it all before, nothing could ever ruffle, surprise or vex this man or his beard. In a flash he had the widget removed from the broken battery and attached to the shiny new one and my car was running as fine as ever before.
A nod a wink and he was away to his next job leaving only a working car and a credit card receipt as proof he had ever been there.
So much for a night off, hunh?
