On Sunday, my car had a conniption. It has been troublesome of late. Back in October, I had the heater unit replaced. Then, just before Christmas, the exhaust started to make the most awful noises, and I needed to get it replaced. On Sunday, after driving around happily during the day, I stopped at a local shop for milk for me and some tuna as a treat for the kitties, and the car inexplicably refused to start up again. The breakdown chappie who attended wouldn't believe me when I said that it wasn't the battery. Having ascertained for himself that it wasn't the battery, he proceeded to whack the car engine with a hammer...
The car promptly started up. "It's the starter motor!" was his conclusion. "You need to take it to a garage as soon as possible..."
There not being any garages open at 8pm on a Sunday, I made a note of the advice, and drove home. The next morning, the car started without any problems, and I resolved to get it to a garage at the weekend, as I wouldn't be able to get it there in school hours. Monday evening, on my way home from school, I stopped off at the shops... and then found, once again, that my car wouldn't restart.
A new breakdown chappie arrived, and promptly administered a couple of sharp taps with a hammer somewhere in the bowels of my car engine. It was dark, and I couldn't identify exactly what he was hitting. He also warned me that it wasn't guaranteed to work. I drove home, not daring to stop anywhere else, and arrived home four and a half hours after I left school.
On Tuesday morning, I didn't dare to take my car, and used public transport. Leaving just before 6am ought, I thought, to allow plenty of time to get to school. I arrived with about a minute to spare - a journey time of two and a half hours. Unfortunately, my journey home took even longer, and by the time I had called the breakdown people again to restart the car, driven to the garage, dumped it (by arrangement) on the forecourt, and gotten myself home again, I just had time to heat some hot dogs, swallow them and go to bed.
On Wednesday, I left ten minutes earlier (to catch the first bus) and tried a slightly different route, involving three buses and a tube journey. It took a little less time than the first route, but still involved a journey of just over two hours. After teaching for six solid hours, with a brief break for lunch (I was on break duty in the morning) I was not in the best of moods. My journey home was only two and a half hours, but it was somewhat marred by the fact that, after one bus driver failed to pull up close enough to the kerb, I put my foot in a hole getting off and twisted my knee and ankle.
After a week of this, you can imagine how delighted I am to have my car back again...
