Currently waiting for a bus home. The car failed its MOT and it got a bit complicated with the pickup times, so while they swizzle the corroded flip-valve and replace the broken candelabra-shaft clip… I’m bussing it home.
It’s a new place, this. Between you and me I’m not sure they know what they’re doing. The receptionist rang me to say it was “ready for collection” but also… “Come over and we’ll have a chat about it” - a sentence that never really ends well in any context. Then the mechanic took a phone call while going through the list of things he thought would kill me if I drove my car on the motorway any time soon.
So they’ve still got it, and to all intents and purposes they’re making it safe to drive according to the legal mÃnimums specified by the Ministry of Transport, despite it being essentially a rusty undercarriage with a set of wheels and a CD player. I think its time with me might be coming to the end of a good five years together.
“So yeah,” she said, “Should all be done by 3pm. I’ll give you a call to let you know.”
I can’t hang around the village for hours, so with a curious little chuckle of bemusement I said thanks, swung my backpack over my shoulder and headed for the bus stop.
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