Servicing the car

Barry took his car to be serviced this morning. When he booked it in the Receptionist asked him if he would be leaving it at the garage. It’s difficult to fathom how it might be serviced if he didn’t.

Someone has just phoned from the garage to tell Barry that the turbo seal (??) needs to be replaced. It must be done or expensive damage will ensue. So what was expected to be a relatively inexpensive bill has now doubled.

What fun! Shanks's pony will only take us so far . . .

Winston and the puppy food.

Those of you who have been following the ramblings of this blog for some time will know that Winston Ocicat Cooke has a weight problem and it is this – he wishes to be heavier than we think is good for him and to that end he steals food whenever he can. If I’m slicing ham or cutting cheese, chopping chicken or fiddling with fish, he is there, stretching a delicate paw to snaffle a morsel – or several – for himself. It is no good putting such delicacies in a dish for him – he disdains them and prefers to pilfer.

I’m sure he is suffering a crisis of confidence lately. When Bertie first came to live with us five weeks ago (feels more like five years!) he was considerably smaller than Winston. Winston was quite happy about that since he had the upper paw. Now, though, Bertie is taller and heavier than Winston and I think Winston feels that he is shrinking and that is not really acceptable to him as he’s not yet four years old.

We have frustrated his efforts to nab nibbles from Bertie’s dish by placing the dish in the centre of Bertie’s pen. Bertie eats in his pen otherwise he would starve through the dastardly depredations of the devious older dogs - and Winston. Likewise, they would lose many of their rations to the eager jaws of a puppy who really, really likes their raw meat – heart, chicken, turkey, tripe – yum! He has small helpings of such delightful dainties and they disappear like snow in June into his champing chops – I fear he may become as greedy a gastronome as Winston, a destiny entirely possible for a Labrador, some might even suggest obligatory.

However, back to Winston and the pressing problem of his portliness. He is a very calm cat, a tranquil (ex) tom, a feline unflustered by the goings-on in his world. He doesn’t care for excessive exercise and soon wearies of workouts, choosing to chill on any one of several posing platforms, preferably in the sunshine which occasionally graces these isles. 

Thus, we ration his food carefully – it’s never good to starve a cat – and he enjoys it and we congratulate ourselves that yes, he is looking slimmer, even svelte, and he is displaying more dynamism – travelling from one lap to another and back again must burn a few calories, surely? What we have not grasped is that in the intricate intellect of this handsome fellow a plan is hatching.

Winston enjoys short sojourns in the garage where he plays out the part of heroic mouse-catcher and guardian of the house. (The garage is integral to the house.) He slips out when someone opens the house door and spends many a happy hour patrolling the perimeter, principally where the up-and-over door almost meets the garage floor (and a mighty draught howls through that gap in the winter!) He prowls and growls and terrifies spiders and ants and eventually he taps on the door to order the humans to let him back into the warmth and comfort of home.

As well as housing my car, the garage is a store for many things we can’t or don’t want to have indoors – ladders, workbenches, chainsaw – you get the idea. Also stowed out there are bird seed, bird fat cakes, fish food and Bertie’s puppy food. The lid of the fish food is usually firmly fitted to the bucket. The other day it had been knocked over and Winston was sampling it with great relish. Fish food smells very . . . fishy. Fish are cannibals!

At the weekend the garage door was not secured and Winston escaped into his own private playground. I thought nothing of it, supposing that he was lost in dreams of SuperCatdom but later, realising he had been gone for some time, I opened the door and out jumped Winston – out of the puppy food bin, that is, the lid of which had not been replaced properly. He was sated, gorged, replete – actually, full up and fit to bust.

So, back to square one!

Filling up with fuel can be exciting

One Saturday evening a few years ago after a very busy day I was feeling weary but in the back of my mind was the thought that I had to cook supper and that there wasn't a lot to eat in either the fridge or the freezer. Barry said we could manage but I felt that I must go shopping so eventually pulled myself together and prepared to go out. It was 5:40 p.m., not my favourite time for shopping (actually, I don't really enjoy shopping, so have no favoured time) As I was leaving Barry asked if I could put some fuel in the car as the tank was nearly empty.

I duly pulled into the garage, filled up and was soon on my way again. A little voice in the back of my mind was whispering something to me but I wasn't listening. However, about half a mile along the road I became aware that all was not well! The engine was hunting and surging and with a sudden rush of horrified realisation I knew what the voice had been trying to tell me . . . 'That's the wrong pump, it's wrong, don't do it . . . ' I had filled Barry's diesel-driven car with petrol!

Panicking, cursing myself for my stupidity, remembering all the jokes we had made about 'wrong fuel' and the serious talk we had had about how much damage it could do, I drove carefully back to the garage in this now strangely-behaving, alien vehicle. The young man at the garage was helpful.

'Do you belong to the AA? (Automobile Association) Give them a ring.'

I have a bad habit of leaving the house without all but the bare essentials but this time I had remembered my mobile phone and my wallet with all the plastic cards.

The young woman who took my call was calm and efficient and promised that an AA patrol would be with me within half an hour. If the AA knows that the driver is a lone woman they make a great effort to reach her quickly. When the patrolman arrived, sooner than expected, he explained that the car would be towed to the nearest authorised garage to drain the tank. 'Are you all right with that?'

I nodded dumbly, thankful that something was being done. Then to my horror I realised that I was still going to be in the driving seat. I normally drive two to three car lengths behind the car in front but now I was at the end of a tow bar, far too close for comfort and unable to see beyond the yellow back of the patrol vehicle. Fortunately, I knew where we were going – it was near the refuse tip - so I could gauge how long the journey would take.

It was now getting dark and the industrial estate looked a soulless, forbidding place. The AA man said he would stay with me to allay any fears I might have and to make sure the car would function properly at the end of the procedure. When I asked how long it would take to drain the engine I was told it would be 'within the hour'. I had filled it as full as it could be!

At that time our youngest daughter was still living at home and was going to her friend's house for the night. Knowing that she was expecting me to take her (I'm the chief taxi-driver in the family, a habit born out of Barry's frequent absences from home on business) I phoned her, made up some lie about the shop being much busier than I had expected and declined to talk to her father. One of us panicking was quite enough!

Eventually, the engine was clear of the contaminated fuel and my next bit of anxiety began. I'm a very orderly worrier, fretting afresh at each stage . . . it's the only way I can cope! A gallon of diesel was poured into the tank and the engine turned over. The garage mechanic was holding a rag and doing something that looked decidedly dangerous. The AA man revved, the mechanic ragged, I prayed. Now the car had a tracker, so that if it were stolen it could be . . . tracked! To avoid being tracked – in other words, to communicate that the car was being driven legitimately, one had to apply a card with a large press-stud to the female part on the car. If the tracker were activated a phone call would be made to the owner to check that all was well. Obviously I didn't want Barry alerted to the state of his car. The AA man was starting and stopping the engine, the mechanic was ragging and I was diving forward to 'pop' the press-stud . . . and still it wouldn't start. In my imagination, the car was being returned to the main dealer in the area, the engine was being replaced, the £ signs were mounting up. The AA man said that in his experience, some cars needed more than a gallon of fuel to start pumping or whatever they do (bit sketchy on the technical details . . . and I was panicking!) so he suggested we drive to the nearest garage and pick up some more fuel . . . 'and that should work'. We did and it did and I breathed again and thanked the Lord most fervently.

By now it was quite dark, I had been away from home for about three and a half hours, and any thought of shopping had long since left my mind. I drove home glumly, well into the final stage of worrying, which was what to tell Barry. I had no shopping, couldn't keep Bethan waiting any longer, still had supper to prepare . . . When I reached home, Bethan was ready to go but completely unflustered. I delivered her to her friend's house and returned home. I told Barry what had happened, cooked supper (we did manage, after all) and we went to bed. By the next morning, he was talking to me again. (Whatever happened to the advice to never go to bed on an argument? Well, we hadn't quarrelled – there had just been a stony silence!) I always forget on such occasions that although I've had plenty of time to get used to the event it's a shock for him and he has to go through the various stages of incredulity, irritation and relief.

I always used to check carefully – I am now paranoid about it!! My car uses petrol, Barry's car uses diesel.

Apparently filling up with the wrong fuel is a common occurrence. It's nice to know I'm not the only idiot in the world!

Shadow Shot Sunday # Qu'est-ce-que c'est que ca?

Qu'est-ce que c'est que ca? or - What the blazes is that?

No prizes but I'd love to know your guesses - no holds barred! The background is my garage floor if that helps . . . (can't see that it would . . . )

Thank you to Tracy from 'Hey Harriet' for creating and hosting this meme.

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