Pony and trap

My car has been the bane of my existence from the moment I picked it up from Edinburgh Airport. No, I fib, even before I collected it, this hire car was a major issue. In short, due to the extreme weather I decided at great expense to hire a 4WD that proved to be a pathetic excuse for a 4WD – it slid all over the road and, even greater ignominy, had to be towed out of our back lane by Gordon’s 4WD.

Shortly after Christmas, I was invited to Dawn’s for lunch. The previous day I had resorted to sliding down the road on my backside and was (a) not keen to walk up again (b) not keen to drive on the ice in my useless vehicle (c) not keen to cancel and let down Dawn.

‘Don’t you worry!” she says, when I telephone to explain my dilemma. “You drive up to the ski lodge and I will arrange for Jimmy to pick you up from there. What sort of car is it?”

“Um, a Ford somethingorother,” I say vaguely.

“Oh, I see,” says Dawn, understanding that women tend not to notice these things. “What colour is it?”

“Um, silver? A sort of dark silver I think.”

“Okay, well I’m sure Jimmy will find you,” she says optimistically.

As mine is the only car on the forecourt of the ski lodge, we have little difficulty locating each other.

“Dawn told me you had a silver car. It’s dark blue,” Jimmy says, as I scramble into his 4WD.

“Ah, yes, sorry about that,” I say, “I couldn’t remember what colour it was when she asked me.”

Jimmy looks at me askance.

“Well, now I know why you’re a friend of Dawn’s,” he says, as he drives expertly up the ice and I try to stifle my envy at the grip of his tyres.

Later, on the way back down the hill, we pass a gnarly old man driving a pony and trap, which oddly does not look the least out of place. Evidently this farmer found a more traditional transport option to be a surefire way of negotiating the conditions.

Now it is thawing, the least I can do is repay some of the kindness of my friends who have ferried me around in the bad conditions. Today, Jeanette and I are meeting Rhoda in Dundee to see the movie, The Black Swan. I offer to drive, even though yesterday my horrid car had slid all over the road to Blairgowrie. Black ice, I suppose, but if I drive slowly and carefully, all will be fine.

Five minutes before we need to set off, I turn on the engine so the car can defrost and warm up. As I jump out I notice, with horror, that the back tyre is down. Well, very flat to be more precise. At least, this explains why its road-hold was even worse than usual yesterday.

I go to tell Jeanette the sad news. We immediately launch into damage control action.

“I’ll call the AA and see if you are covered on my insurance,” she says.

“I’ll go to the antique car restoration garage and see if they can help,” I say, with not much hope. Last year my friend’s car wouldn’t start and the mechanics just stood around, helpless to fix a car controlled by computer rather than crankshaft.

I poke my nose into the garage and see, behind an ancient MG, a mechanic. I tell him my plight and ask if he could possibly change the tyre for the spare for me.

He patiently hears me out.

“You’ll have to ask the boss,” he says, and waves vaguely to the back of the garage.

With his head deep into the bonnet of a Jaguar, I find the boss. I repeat my tale.

“Dave can do it,” he says, referring me back to the mechanic I had just spoken to. “It will only take five minutes.”

I ask how much it will cost.

“Ten pounds?” says the boss, with a hopeful tone to his voice. Daylight robbery, I think, but this is an emergency and we don’t want to be late for the movie.

Fifteen minutes later, Dave has fitted the spare and my deflated tyre is put in the back of Jeanette’s car to drop off at the tyre repairer. I do not want to risk driving to Dundee with no spare, so my good intention of being the designated driver is once again thwarted.

 I hand Dave a £10 note.

“Pop it in here,” he says, pulling open the breast pocket of his jacket. I drop the note in. A receipt is out of the question, I imagine.

At the tyre repairers, Steve tells me I will need a new tyre. It will cost £300. The car has done only 800 miles so I am not best pleased. I become marginally happier when he tells me that Bridgestone have none in stock but he can get another brand for £180. I can pick it up in four days’ time.

We arrive in Dundee just in time for the start of The Black Swan (great music, scary women).

Back at home we don’t have swans, but a pair of ducklings have taken up permanent residence in our garden in the last couple of days, proudly walking up and down the length of the flower bed, preening themselves and practising their ballet moves.