Testing times in practically Woodlands

“Bugger it, I’m going home early today” I declare to the office at large, which in fact is rather vacant due to the majority of its normal occupants having already decided to go home early. It was a Friday after all, I justified (this time in my head in case anyone walked in), and I had had a vaguely productive week so a 4 o’clock finish wasn’t completely undeserved.

Walking home it seemed as if the whole of the city, including the miserable weather that had infected the skies for the past few days, had also decided to bunk off for an early finish. The sun was high and everyone on the streets was cheery and friendly, as if tripping on an unexpected November day’s photosynthesis; even Cambridge St had lost its background radiation of barely hidden menace. As I neared my flat there were kids playing football on the street, pausing to run to the side of the road every time some traffic came along. It was like I’d been transported back to a simpler, possibly even imaginary, time.

My cheery mood and I headed inside to get some food. I had a couple of hours to kill before I was due to meet some friends for that evening’s entertainment, and I had been loaned the film Magnolia recently so I figured that I’d make a start on watching that.

I settled in on the couch and in no time was engrossed in the film’s idiosyncratic storyline. I’d reached the part where the policeman has been called out to a disturbance at a black woman’s house (the woman not the house, it’s not racist to say that is it?). In case you haven’t seen it: the woman gets very agitated and is adamant that there is no-one else in the house, but then abruptly there is a loud noise from the back room. All tense and alert the policeman works his way round doorways and down corridors with his gun at the ready, very much in the manner much that the policemen always perform such an exercise in films (possibly even real life as well, who knows?). It’s well edited though, so I was, if not quite on the edge of my seat, at least leaning halfway forward as I waited to find out what was there.

Then all of a sudden, I hear this massive crash from my living room window and the room is rapidly filled with flying glass! After the initial shock that must have taken years off my life, I completely froze for what seemed like minutes but in fact was probably only a few seconds. During this time it was as if there were 2 people arguing in my head. There was irrational me, made extra hyper by the tension in the film, and was screaming “Hit the deck! Hit the deck! You’re being shot at!” Then there was a more sensible side which was more like “Hold on, it’s highly unlikely that anyone is shooting at you. I really don’t think you have a high enough profile in academia to warrant a hired assassin, or at least not a fee large enough to cover the cost of their ammunition” “This is no time for logic! Hit the deck! Get a hat on a stick to draw their fire!”

As a compromise, and once my limbs would move, I crept slowly along the couch until I was within range of the very bottom corner of the window. Now I’ll admit that there was a bit of a quiver in my legs when finally I worked up the courage to peek out, only to see the group of kids that had been playing outside high tailing it down the road and round the corner, football in hand.

Little bastards. I damn near shat myself when the glass started flying.

Hell Freezing Over

I have a mantra that I try and say to myself a few times every morning. In fact I have a few of them, but most are for trivial things like reminding me to put deodorant on. This particular one however, is important, and it goes as follows-

“Don’t buy anymore French cars”.

I was thinking about its importance at around 4pm a few days ago, as I stood - freezing my extremities off – outside of a corrugated shack on an industrial estate somewhere near East Kilbride, a position and a discomfort I’d been maintaining since around 10 that morning.

The reason for this suffering ultimately belonged to a dodgy alternator on my oh-so-predictably Citroën Saxo (with all of its 30,000 miles on the clock), which had started playing up the previous evening. Initial costings to get the part replaced suggested £250(!) of my hard earned pounds would be required, but by putting my highly developed research skills to work (read: ability to type something into Google) I found a place that would do the job for less than a third of that price. Winner!

(Aside: When the car first broke down, and after I had exhausted my admittedly limited knowledge of the its workings (the fan belt looked ok), a rather helpful AA man came out to diagnose the problem and while there he showed me that by using a tire key to whack the alternator, I could make it work for 20 minutes or so before it conked out again. A genuine mechanical miracle! Unfortunately though, I had no plans to take any young ladies for a drive last night; but just think how cool I would have looked as I demonstrated my acute level of mechanical mastery! An opportunity lost I fear.)

Upon reaching the location however, it became clear that this was no Kwik-Fit. I had imagined that I would have to spend an hour or so in a cosy little waiting room, all three bar fires and old copies of Top Gear magazine, perhaps even a well used but serviceable coffee machine! Not so much. I should have maybe taken the hint when I first looked at the line of shivering customers ahead of me in the queue, all standing outside what looked like a dodgy garden shed. Cars were being worked on in the middle of the road, another missed hint.

The day passed by, along with any semblance of feeling that remained in my toes and fingers. The cost-benefit analysis that I’d been carrying out in my head had already shown that by 1pm I’d have gladly paid the extra £150 to avoid this hell; all that was keeping me here was a raw and burning stubbornness that the car wouldn’t beat me again. And the fact that the buggers had taken out the broken alternator at lunchtime so that they could recondition it and put it back in (so that’s how the can do it so cheap!). As the light faded, I wondered if this would how it all ended for me, squaring up to the naked might of nature, cursing the poor insulating properties of Converse trainers. Some six hours after my turning up, the methodical mechanic in his big woolly hat and overcoat wandered over to my car, re-connected the newly cleaned up alternator (a job which, infuriatingly, turned out to only take five minutes) and nodded breezily at me.

I handed over my £70 with barely functioning fingers. “Sorry about the wait mate” the methodical mechanic chuckled cheerfully. “No worries! Thanks very much!” I replied, my chapped and blue lips cracking painfully as I returned his smile.

Don’t buy anymore French cars.