I’m not into cars. I know nothing about them – when people ask me what sort of car I’ve got I say, “erm, a red one” – and when they go wrong I’m completely scuppered.
So imagine my delight when my brakes failed at the weekend (on a slow-moving Streatham High Road fortunately rather than the M23) and I spent an hour and a half waiting for breakdown recovery and a further three hours travelling home in the truck. The car’s still in the garage at the end of the road, and is going to cost a bomb to fix. More than the car’s worth, in fact.
So this morning I’m taking the train to what will be literally a wet weekend in Porthcawl to return briefly to faint when presented with the repair bill, and then fly off almost immediately to Toronto with the blood drained from my face and a tangible lightness in the wallet region.
Back from Wales on Monday; more news as it happens.