In a mad moment yesterday afternoon I decided I'd forgo the delights of Westwood Chaos (too many autograph hunters) and get all my Christmas shopping in Boredstares. But after an hour of perusing Victorian bathing costumes and hand-crafted Bulgarian tarambukas, enough was enough.
I was trundling back to the Millionaires' Playground in the old Toyota Priapus when a hideous grinding noise began emanating from the vehicle's nether regions. Fearing it was about to burst into flames, or fry the Eastcliff jacksie with 20,000 volts, or both (you never know with these hybrid things), I pulled into that Murco garage on Hereson Road.
'Better call the AA,' I thought. And sure enough, in less time than it takes to say 'pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis' the chap had arrived. Much scratching of the bonce ensued. 'I've never worked on one of these,' he finally sighed. 'Where's the gearbox?'.
Now call me old-fashioned, but I thought I was paying my sub for him to know that! I AAsk you!