Purveyor of Bollocks to the Crowned Heads of Europe
Wednesday, 11 July 2012
A familiar landmark at the end of Bath's prime shopping street. It has been a landmark for quite some time - it can be seen exactly as it is now in some old, 18th century prints. The lion and unicorn have obviously been restored recently - by a pre-school child from the look of the colour choices. I don't mind it though, and maybe they were just sticking to the original?
This afternoon, I am supposed to be collecting the girlies from the airport on their return trip from Ibiza, but yesterday, as I was executing a three-point (six-point, more like, with a transverse engine Volvo estate) turn in a narrow cul-de-sac, the gearbox decided to ignore the reverse option and I was forced to pull a couple of skinny alcoholics out from the nearby pub to push me a few feet backwards where I could re-park.
Because they were both skinny and alcoholic, they did not shift the 1.25 ton car an inch, so I had to recruit labour from further afield. Having pushed the car back the short distance and left it nose-down in a bay, I fulfilled my promise to the pushers that I would buy them a drink, and they insisted on having it there and then, so we went into the nearby pub. This was about 1.30 in the afternoon.
I ended up leaving the pub at 6.30 in the evening, but not before I had been shouted at by a passing acquaintance who accused me of having a drink problem. I told him I had a car problem, but he took no notice.
My time in the pub was not entirely wasted, because I arranged a tow out backwards for today, then an escort (assuming the car will still go forwards) to the mechanic, and I am awaiting a call from the Land Rover right now as I write. He is a lot later than he said he would be. I wonder if he has forgotten.
Shame - I was looking forward to driving down country lanes with a car full of brown, young, squealing girls, but they might have to take a bus.
Initial prognosis: gear box kaput and replacement likely to cost about 6 times more than the car is worth, so I think I will have to have the old girl put down. That's what it feels like - awaiting a call from the vet to ask you to make a choice between spending £2000 on keeping an old and beloved pet alive, or biting the bullet and giving it the bullet.
I am now going to trawl the net in search of a slightly younger model that resides not too far away from here, and I'm not talking about brown young girls in the back of the car.