Current mood:

amused

...with brass monkeys.
Ah-ha! Another tale of daftness and woe (and more WOE) abounds...

A couple of days ago a housemate of mine dashed into the house, up the stairs and set his ker-nuckles to ker-nocking on my fair door... or even my UNfair door. When I hastened to the portal in question he vouchsafed that his car had "broken down" and he thought it was through a lack of petroleum based accelerant. He requested that I drive him to the nearest garage so he could purchase some... and a petroleum carrying can. (Note to self, in future be very wary of assumptions about garage-shop produce)

I assented and soon we were off to the garage. I parked, he dashed, I called my girlfriend to make sure she wasn't on a train from London at that moment that would force me to abandon my young passenger to his fate. She was not. The young man returned. "With what?", you may well ask. Was it with a shiny new petrol can filled with petrol? Nope. Was it an old but serviceable can filled with petrol? Nope. Was it in fact any container that would suffice filled with petrol? Nope. Was it, in fact, a 2 litre plastic milk-bottle that was half filled with water? Give that monkey a Gold Star. To be honest my frank look of disbelief may have caused him to reconsider. He informed me that the garage had no such container and that they suggested the milk-bottle. I suggested we should go home and either: 1) Empty and dry this tiny container, or more likely b) Find something that would actually do the job and not just look good to a panicked person. So, home we came, and search we did, and find we an elderly petrol can? Oh yes and thank the lords. So back we went and petrol we gained and then I asked the question that I should have asked an hour before. "Where did you leave your car?"

At 6:30pm, in rush hour, I found that we had been running around for a half hour while his car was... you've guessed it. Stopped in the middle of the lane on the busiest road between Falmer and our own fair Woodingdean with its hazards on. I jokingly suggested to him that if this were, in fact, the case we should expect to have the Boys in Blue greet us when we turned up. I should have put down a bet. As we crested the hill into the valley where this road runs we say lights. A lot of lights. Of both red and white. A veritable plethora, cornucopia, collection... nightmare of stuck traffic. The centrepiece? The strobing blues of The Law.

With great trepidation (and no small amount of cursing) he clambered from the car and ran down the line of traffic towards his distressed vehicle. I followed at the snail's pace that the queues allowed. Drawing in in front of his car, to see him throwing more petrol over the road than into his car I withstood the glares of the (slowly) passing motorists well enough, I believe. The legal, gentlemen, directed the traffic as best they could while my housemate attempted to start his car. It turns out, that while it was without petrol and with hazards... it ran down the battery. BUDGETH IT WOULD NOTTE! The plan of action was resolved as follows:

1) I would drive down the road to the nearest layby, stop, call my housemate, he would relay the distance and road-side to the Police.
2) They would decide whether it was a job for pushing or towing.
3) In either case they would contrive to assist moving the car (now only effective as the world's first moveable traffic jam) to this layby.
4) My housemate would then not be causing a major traffic incident and would only need to call his breakdown service.

What actually happened.

1) I drove down the road, found the layby, stopped and called my housemate with the information that it was about 300m and up a hill.
2) The Police decided to push the car.
3) I realised that it would be my housemate steering and pushing and one policeman pushing. Not wishing to incite the wrath of the gentleman in question I sprinted back down the roadside through very cold, very wet grass to lend a hand. I knew that hill was going to kill someone if they tried it alone.
4) Arriving cold and wheezing at the car I proceeded to assist with the pushing. Those were the coldest minutes of my life. I have never been that cold. Not even when playing rugby in shorts in the middle of winter with a wind so harsh your skin would burn. Not when climbing waterfalls in North Wales when your fingers and arms had to be moved by sight because you sure as heck couldn't feel them. Not even when taking a barge through a series of 10 locks in a downpour of freezing rain and slush when ones every movement was a symphony of extreme discomfort. I. Was. Cold.
5) With much panting, and straining the Policeman and I man-handled the car halfway up the hill, my housemate was steering from within. We saw a small turning into a field and our considered response was "&£%# the layby, the field will do."
6) With much thanks and an agreement to stay safe, the Police left and the traffic cleared. So now we were left: In a field, with a leaking petrol can, in a small car, with the only ventilation being of the negative temperature variety.
7) It was discovered that his phone had little credit, and less battery. We contrived to contact his parents, his brother and the man on the moon in a hope of finding the RAC number... which was actually in his car manual the entire time...

And after 100 minutes of this saga? I had to leave to pick up my girlfriend. At whose house I got warm, dry and far far less peeved.

Never. Again.