Wednesday, September 22, 2004
Give someone a inch and they'll take a bloody mile. Atleast that how it seems with my old banger, and I'm not talking in the sense of actual distance travelled.
I've had a suspicion for ages that whenever I take this dusty lump of dented metal down to the garage for some fixing up, it gets all happy with the lavish oil replenishing attention and starts demanding more.
Only last week, after taking the thing down to have it's legally required checkup at the cost of 270 euros, I was telling a friend that I didn't like taking it to have any work done because random unrelated things always go wrong afterwards.
Sure enough, true to form, I started the beginning of this week with the bugger playing dead at the lights. Bastard!, I thought, whilst braving all the glares of honking road-ragers to jump out and ask a gang of drunken strangers to push me to the side of the congested traffic.
Solution? New battery. Another 50 euros thank you very much.
Not having had enough attention, last night I noticed that the temperature guage was going into orbit whilst I was whipping along the circular. Oh, the ignominy of pulling your English plated car over to the side of the road and opening up the bonnet! Bastard!, I thought again.
Luckily this time it was just some water that it wanted, for which I suppose you could accuse me of gross negligence. Except that I filled the fecker up last week. Thirsty, huh?
All seemed well this morning, but God knows what could happen tonight. I'm gonna start calling the thing Herbie.
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