Beep beep

I'm waiting for a man. A rufty-tufty, macho, man's man type, in a hi-vis jacket, with a big white van and a well-packed toolbox, who's gonna lift me up and carry me off for an urgent seeing-to. Oh, that's enough of the cheap innuendo. The more boring reality is that I'm waiting for a Vehicle Recovery man to get me and our poorly car to the garage where I hope it can be fixed.

I love our little Polo, though, in spite of its refusal to start today. It's 18 years old, which I think equates to about 97 in dog, cat or car years. It's hardly ever let us down, has been backed onto, scraped, scratched and crashed into by Monster Trucks, big-fuck-off 4WDs and a herd of muntjacs, but it just takes it all on the chin door/wing/bumpers. Even though it won't co-operate today, it is the most reliable car we've ever had.

Anyway, a young lad called Kyle came this morning and tried his best to breathe some life into its engine, but it wasn't happening.  He was lovely, though; sweet-natured, polite and conscientious. Now I'm waiting for his colleague with the orange flashing lights. I can't get down to anything, can't go out and do the things I was supposed to, and I can't relax... hence I'm here. For obvious reasons, I've got this song going through my head. Still sounds good!