More Exit Ramp Trouble
Weirdly, I seem to be replaying some of the worst bits of my Irish life in some kind of otherworldly, English dimension. Take yesterday. After the children had leapt out of the shrubbery and frightened the Disreputable one to death (no heart attack so no inheritance just yet – I can wait), it turns out he was just on the way to London and offered to take the boys too. Cue itchy credit card and unseemly dash to my favourite shopping centre: the wondrous, monstrous, fantabulous Harlequin. I could hardly believe my luck – just me and the plastic, alone at last.
So I tootled around, enjoying taking my time round the hugest Zara ever, and the wonder of a 70% off sale in Principles amongst other things, before finally calling it a day and heading back to the car park.
So, half way down the corkscrewy exit ramp thing and … go on, you can guess the rest: my car gave a cough, a splutter, and died: ‘nooooooooo’. I tried the ignition again: nothing. I checked the diesel gauge: over quarter of a tank (phew). I rushed back up the ramp to the ticket machine, apologising profusely to the ever-increasing queue of traffic spiralling up the ramp and pushed the button, screeching into the little grille thing for ‘a little help here, please…’ Enter the incredibly nice cavalry in the shape of several centre security guards who cleared the cars back to the barrier and then pushed my car back out of the way (uphill! And it’s a big 4 wheel drive!).
By this time, doubt was starting to form in my mind that the Opel garage in Dublin really had fixed the fuel tank. That sputtering and conking out thing certainly seemed reminiscent of my last running out of diesel disaster, so I explained to Trevor, my nice security guard, about the faulty fuel gauge that had just cost us over €700 to fix (18.5 hours of labour to get the tank off, fix the problem and get it all back on, only to find that the first time I filled it up it stayed stubbornly on empty and I had to turn round and drive straight back again) might not be so fixed after all.
Anyhoo, long story short, the lovely Trevor not only magicked up a diesel can, but also whisked me to the petrol station to fill it and took me back to my car. And guess what, not only did the 5 litres of diesel get the car started, but it also shot the fuel gauge up to half full. Trevor brushed off my grateful, and frankly pitiable, words of thanks (just another day at the office for your average hero) and headed back off on patrol, and I headed straight for the petrol station, and for my phone. Just wait ’til I get my hands on the guy at the Opel garage. Boy he’s gonna get it….
