Actually, that's not true - there's not a fresh ingredient within half a mile. Nor a cafe, really, and certainly no boutiques. It's nothing like Beverly Hills. Let's just say it's a "melting pot". A melting pot with a lot of gays in it.
As I walked towards our car with the purposeful intention of driving to buy a range of specific ingredients that I had written down, I was disappointed to notice that one of the tyres on our car appeared to be flat.
Once a very respectable piece of German engineering, our poor Audi is becoming a bit of an ageing trusty steed, slowly falling to pieces in a very costly fashion - this flat being the latest in a range of electrical and mechanical ailments. And it's a small point, I know, but I don't feel that the comments that my husband makes within earshot of the car necessarily help its self-esteem. Like a Christmas tree on 6th January, this once-loved vehicle is now frequently scorned and its journey to the knackers yard well charted.
I stood there for what must have been 5 minutes, car keys in hand, staring at the tyre as if something monumental had happened. As far as my world was concerned, it had. A flat tyre. On our car. First I get made redundant and now, one and a half years later, this. "What next?!", I screamed silently.
I looked around the square for help. Perhaps an elderly woman might be able to assist me. Look over there ... that man's wearing a suit. He must have a job in a non-finance related industry and therefore be useful and able to change a wheel. Those children from next door walking to school ... their combined strength must be sufficient to lift an Audi A3, surely?
I took a few deep breaths and considered the more realistic options:
1 - Phone my dad and ask him what to do - too embarrassing and too re-affirming of the stereotype.
2 - Call the AA - but do they come out for flats? Embarrassing much?
3 - Drive to a garage - but I felt as if that might create sparks and anyway, I don't know where the garage is.
4 - Pump the tyre up with a foot pump - except we don't have one.
5 - ... um ...
6 - ... dunno ...
7 - ... erm ... change the tyre myself?
 |
| Vanderpump |
.JPG "The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills") |
| No pump |
The square where we live allows for no real privacy. I knew that if I was going to change this flat then I would have to do it quickly and efficiently in order to prove how handy I was and to avoid almost public ridicule. Since I had made the mulled wine at the Residents Christmas Carol evening, my stock was well up and I couldn't let that be marred by any sort of humiliation.
Perhaps this operation could be done under the cover of darkness? Perhaps a disguise of some sort could be worn? A balaclava, perhaps? This would have been an option had it not been for the fact that the car was currently parked outside the house of a cabinet minister. Something instinctive in me suggested this was not the right course of action unless I wanted to be shot and the car destroyed in a controlled explosion.
No, there was only one thing for it. I would have to change this tyre MYSELF, in broad daylight. I went back inside the house and paced around for a few moments, considering whether a cigarette and a bottle of lager might help. I felt like I was about to do something heroic. Was I really going to do this? Jack the car up and all that manly stuff? Yes I was - I'm a MAN.
Only moments later, I was sitting in the passenger seat, perusing the user manual. I had been hoping that the steps would be something like:
1 - Take old wheel off
2 - Put new wheel on
Not so.
There were, in fact, pages and pages of steps involved, including wheel nut cover removal, safety locks and safety bolts, weird pin things with finger hooks, jack points, jack sills, hub cap removal, a plethora of safety warnings - not to mention diagrams of different types of hub caps, wheels and wheel nut styles that were irrelevant to this project but distracting nevertheless.
As I flicked backwards and forwards through instructions and diagrams, sweaty fingers sticking to pages, I mentored myself under my breath, "Come on Dave - you can DO this". I smiled as one of our neighbours walked past. "Morning!", I shrilled cheerily, cringing at the thought of one of them engaging me on the subject.
Oh sod it, just call the AA. Job done.
