At work, I have to drive a rather fetching van. Its blue has 2 doors and a stylish van area at the back, complete with hangy bits for van related tools and wood. Its buff.
I hate driving the van. I have to request assistance on letting the hand brake off if someone else has driven it before me, the seat doesn’t go high enough for me to see over the wheel and it smells of van. I think that’s enough said. I have, however, embraced the van in the six months at my job, and am often found poodling around singing along to ‘maaaaagic, one oh five point fouououour” at the top of my voice. So I wasn’t too bothered last week when I was asked to go and take a present to someone, take it to the garage, and put it through the car wash.
Until disaster struck. I got to the petrol station, got out, purchased galaxy (essential driving gear) and got back in. I tried to start the engine and nothing happened. I would like to point out that this was one of the freakishly warm days, so I already felt a little bit like an Eskimo in the Sahara, stuck in the sweaty front cab, so was slightly hot and flustered. I kept trying. It kept not working. Great!
I called my boss, who was very good about the whole thing. He asked if I had put petrol in the diesel engine. Apparently the idiot jungle drums beat fast, and everyone in the world has heard of the unfortunate company car, first day at work, putting petrol in a diesel car incident. Will this haunt me forever?! I assured him I had not put petrol, diesel or otherwise anywhere near the engine. So unless it was allergic to galaxy, we were all good.
I called the RAC to be informed that due to the weather, they would be an hour and someone would call me nearer the time. I have clearly led a very sheltered life, as I was totally unaware that sun had an adverse reaction on the motor vehicle. We live, we learn. I was then called after fifty minutes to be told it was busy and it would be a further hour. Oh what joy! Time to wind the window down. I eyed up my surroundings. I had parked right next to a massive gas canister, so I considered making a phone call and quickly decided against it. I have, after all seen the modern Romeo and Juliet, and Zoolander. (Seriously, watch them and you’ll know what I mean, I do not want to be charred) so I hot footed it into the garage to grab a magazine. The staff eyed me suspiciously. I suppose it's not often you get a girl hanging around for over an hour on a petrol forecourt.
I read the magazine. I plaited my hair into an interesting looking plait. I picked at my face. I went on Facebook. I checked my emails. I had a little walk. I filed my nails and updated my diary. I still had forty minutes for the man to arrive. Yawn....
When the kind faced RAC man finally arrived I did my best to look animated and interested in the problem he described. After all, I had nothing else to do. My interest turned to alarm when I heard him on the phone to the guy back in the office. The conversation went like this... “Right, so you reckon its to do with the fuse? Great mate. You what? Take the fuse out, leave it a minute.... did you say one minute or ten? ... right, one.... put the fuse back in. Cool geez, boss”.
IS THAT IT?? after waiting in the heat for the man to come, this was his expert opinion? Needless to say, it didn’t work and my boss had to come and pick me up while the poor van was towed off to the van hospital. But with advice like that, how was he surprised???